It was a typical Motzei Shabbat. I had taken two of my boys to the West Side for a father-son learning program, and now I was rushing back across town to the East Side for dinner with a group of wounded Israeli soldiers visiting on one of our Belev Echad trips.
I didn’t want to be late, so we drove through Central Park, cutting across from west to east. Even though I was in a hurry, I was driving carefully.
But then, the car hit a bad pothole and I heard the unmistakable sound of a tire blowing out.
When you’ve driven in New York for many years, you know that sound immediately. Your stomach drops, your teeth clench. You don’t even need to look. You already know.
There happened to be a small spot right nearby—some kind of service or parking area—so I pulled over, got out of the car, and walked around to survey the damage.
That’s when things got exponentially worse, as I realized it wasn’t just one tire, it was two. And like every other car, mine only comes with one spare. Which meant I was officially stranded in the middle of Central Park on a Saturday night, with two kids in the car and a group of wounded soldiers waiting for me across town.
The first thing I did was close my eyes, take a deep breath, and remind myself that this is obviously part of G-d’s plan. Why? I have no idea! But realizing that was exactly where He wanted me in that moment helped me calm down.
Then I did what thousands of New Yorkers do in a moment of crisis: I called Chaverim.
If you live in one of the Jewish communities around New York—Brooklyn, Monsey, Lakewood, etc.—you know about Chaverim. Volunteers drop everything to help strangers with their car needs: dead batteries, locked cars, flat tires, and more.
The dispatcher said they would try to find someone in the vicinity.
So we waited.
Ten minutes. Twenty minutes. Thirty minutes. Nothing.
Meanwhile, I was trying everything else. I called towing companies. I called repair shops. One guy finally said he could come, but he would have to take the tires with him, fix them overnight, and return the next morning, which didn’t exactly solve my problem.
At that point, I walked with my boys to a nearby park police station. I figured maybe I could leave the car overnight and take an Uber home.
The officer listened politely but said it was not an option. Nor was there anything they could do to help.
We walked back to the car, about 45 minutes into our “adventure” at this point.
And then a miracle! Chaveirim called back, having found a volunteer in Manhattan. A few minutes later he pulled up, and I realized I knew him well! His name was Drew, and he happens to be extremely active in our organization and a true friend.
Out of all the people in Manhattan who could have shown up, it was someone connected to the very mission I was rushing to that evening.
Drew got to work immediately and had the spare on within minutes. The second tire was impossible to fix, but he filled it with air and told me we could drive the short mile home slowly and carefully, and it should be OK. And it was.
I made it to dinner with the soldiers, and it turned out to be a beautiful evening.
The next morning, I walked out to the car and the second tire was completely flat again. I called Chaverim again, and another volunteer arrived—and after looking at the tire he said something surprising. “I think I can fix this.”
And he did. He repaired it right there.
Later I went to a tire shop to replace the other tire, and everything was finally resolved.
But as I drove away, something struck me: The difference between one flat tire and two flat tires feels enormous. One flat tire is an inconvenience, but one we’ve all dealt with. Two flat tires feels more like a crisis.
But something made that crisis feel manageable: people showing up.
Life is full of potholes. We all hit them. Sometimes it’s one, sometimes it’s multiple.
But the Jewish people have built something extraordinary over thousands of years: When someone is stuck, someone shows up.
But that means we need to do our part too—showing up when others need us. That might mean volunteering with organizations like Chaverim and Hatzalah, but it can also mean going to minyan when you’d rather stay in bed, so that everyone else can daven properly or having guests when you’d prefer a quiet Shabbat, so that others can have a Shabbat meal too. It might mean letting a friend crash on your couch when they’re locked out of their apartment, or taking your nieces and nephews for a couple of hours to give your sibling a break.
Because no matter how many tires blow out in the journey of life, we’re never really alone on the road. We can always rely on G-d and our brothers and sisters.