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For the last 10 years, Jack has walked through the doors of our Chabad house once a year: on the High Holidays. That’s it. He’ll smile, shake hands, and then disappear for the next 12 months.

Until he chanced upon my teenage son and a group of his yeshiva friends who set up a small folding table outside our Chabad house every Friday afternoon, offering passersby the opportunity to put on tefillin.

 Jack, he said yes. Although the interaction was brief (he wrapped the tefillin, said Shema, and continued on with his day), something stayed with him.

So he came back the next Friday. And the Friday after that. It became a steady part of his week, anchoring him to something larger than himself.

Then the boys left for Israel to continue their studies and nobody else took over their Friday afternoon tefillin stand. If anyone else missed them, we don’t know, but Jack did. And he kept reaching out. Because once your soul tastes something real, it doesn't forget.

Sometimes I would go out specially, just to put on tefillin with him. Then Jack had an epiphany. “If I can't find the tefillin,” he decided, “then I'll become the one who brings them.” And so, with the help of our assistant rabbi, Rabbi Zalman Lew, Jack acquired his own pair of tefillin.

Now he isn’t limited to once a week or when he chances upon somebody with a pair who offers him the opportunity. Now he can put on tefillin, on his own, every single day, deepening his connection with Hashem.

When we launched our daily minyan this year, I asked Jack if he'd join us on Friday nights. He said yes, and hasn't missed a single one. He also attends Rabbi Lew's weekly Tuesday night Torah class, showing up just as faithfully.

Every Friday night when I see him in shul, I ask the same question: “Did you put on tefillin every day this week?”

And every week, without hesitation, he confirms: “Yes.”

My son and his friends thought they were helping people do a one-off mitzvah. They had no idea they were building a fire that would keep burning long after they were gone.

So often we have no idea of the lasting impact of our actions.

We think we invited someone for a one-off Shabbat meal. We may even forget about the visit entirely. But perhaps that person was so enamored with the experience that they started staying home on Friday nights instead of going out, maybe they started lighting Shabbat candles, or maybe they then invited someone else for Shabbat and kept the chain of inspiration going.

Nor do we see the lasting power of a kind and encouraging word. You never know what compliment will propel someone to overcome the next difficult thing that comes their way. Likewise, it’s easy to brush off a sharp word or sarcastic joke we make at another’s expense. What we don’t see is how that remark stays with them and shapes who they are and how they interact with the world.

Many people are quick to brush off the once-a-year Jews like Jack. But every time Jack came to High Holiday services, he was nourishing his soul and reviving his connection with the Creator. And after 10 years he was ready for the next step, tefillin, which led to becoming a regular at Friday night services … and who knows what’s next?

When it comes down to it, no mitzvah is small and no interaction is minimal. What we see is just the very beginning of what’s to come.

I was on the phone with a member of our Belev Echad team in Israel the other day, discussing the needs of our wounded soldiers, when a second call started coming in.

I glanced at my screen to see who was calling and I froze.

It was the wife of a billionaire, one of the most well-known women in America.

My mind raced and I politely wrapped up my call so I could pick up hers.

“Hi, Uriel,” she said.

Not “rabbi.” Not “Rabbi Vigler.” Just … Uriel. Wow! How did we get to first-name basis so fast? Amazing!

While I’ve never spoken to this woman directly before, we are definitely connected. She has hosted our Belev Echad wounded soldiers multiple times: they’ve sailed on her private yacht, been wined and dined by their private chef, and ridden in her husband’s Rolls-Royce.

I’ve sent her pictures and videos and thanked her multiple times by text, and tried calling her a few times without success.

So, we start chatting. She’s extremely warm and friendly, right off the bat. “This is it; this is how it happens,” I think. In my head, I’m already thinking maybe she is interested in purchasing two new rehabilitation centers for our wounded soldiers.

I’m waiting for it and then it comes: “Uriel, I’m working on a project in Jerusalem. It’s a brand new swimming pool and I’d love for you to donate.”

Well, there’s a plot twist I wasn’t expecting! But I recover quickly.

“Wow, I’m honored you thought of me. I could probably do $360. How’s that?”

Silence.

Not a good silence.

“Uriel … come on. The funds involved here are a lot more than that.”

Now I’m confused.

I say, “Just to clarify … you know who you’re calling, right? This is Rabbi Uriel Vigler. I am the founder of Chabad Israel Center and Belev Echad for wounded IDF soldiers.”

“Oh my G-d! I meant to call a different Uriel!”

Somewhere out there is another Uriel living a very different life. A life where billionaires call asking him for donations. Oh, the irony!

She’s apologizing profusely. I’m laughing. What else can you do?

Then I have an idea. “Listen,” I say, “it’s not a mistake that we ended up on the phone today. It’s Divine providence. We need funds for our wounded soldiers in Israel. Maybe you can support us?”

But she politely declined. “No, I can’t donate right now.”

Later, I tried to see the lesson in our exchange.

For a moment, I thought I’d hit the jackpot. I saw her name on my phone and something inside me jumped. This is it. This is the call. A million dollars is about to come our way. I was already imagining everything we could accomplish. New rehabilitation centers, more soldiers helped, more lives changed.

I went from the highest high to the lowest low, but the truth is, none of it was real to begin with.

This is not a unique experience. We spend years chasing things that feel so real - money, success, comfort, recognition. But they are fleeting. Here today, gone tomorrow.

The only thing that is real and lasting and true is G-dliness. The only things we can truly own are Torah and mitzvot. Everything else can disappear in an instant.

Money, power, position, admiration, success - none of these belong to us. They are on loan.

Everything we have - and everything we don’t have - is exactly what Hashem has chosen for us.

We can’t control any of it. Not the faster line at the grocery store. Not the perfect deal. Not even the million-dollar donation.

The only things we can truly own - the things we can take with us into the World to Come - are the Torah we learn, the mitzvot we do, and the lives we touch. So that’s what we should focus on accumulating. Because when you have that, no one can take it away.

All our kids were home for Pesach, thank G-d, a real treat that doesn’t happen very often. The last time was six months ago!

Having a big family means that with everyone home comes plenty of noise and chaos. But overriding that is a sense of completeness that makes it all worthwhile.

Yom Tov was wonderful. Good food, interesting guests, some fighting, lots of laughter.

Then came Chol Hamoed. And in our family, Chol Hamoed trips always follow a very precise path: Wake up. Go daven. Learn something. Then I say, “Okay, everyone in the car, let’s go!” And everything falls apart.

“Where are we going?” they demand.

I say my classic line: “How about the zoo?” And there is an immediate and unanimous outcry. “Boring! We’ve been there a million times!”

So I turn to ChatGPT for ideas, and it delivers enough suggestions for a three-volume tourist guide. American Dream Mall. Boating. Museums. Hiking. Tourist attractions. Ideas for days.

But for every idea, half the kids are in, half the kids are out, and inevitably someone is personally offended that I even suggested it.

At this point, it’s 2:00 PM, and I pull out my last remaining parenting strategy: “Everyone get in the car, I’m taking you somewhere fun and I’m not telling you where.”

The younger ones come but the older ones look at me like, “Nice try. We’ve seen this trick before.”

But we go, we come back, and it’s fine. Repeat annually.

Trying to avoid a repeat, I came prepared this year. Three days of Chol Hamoed, three days of activities: Ziplining. Horseback riding. Maybe a shooting range.

The first day, I walked in confidently. “Everyone ready? We’re going ziplining.”

Silence.

Then one kid piped up, “I don’t want to go.” Then another and another. “I’m not going.” “Not interested.” “Sounds scary.” “Sounds boring.”

No problem, I thought, I’ll substitute tomorrow’s plan.

“Okay! Backup plan—horseback riding!” I announced.

Same response. “No.” “Nope.” “Absolutely not.”

So I go back to my old reliable option, the zoo, and predictably, am met with a perfect choir of nos.

And now, despite my best efforts and pre-planning, we’re back where we always are: 1:00 PM Chol Hamoed with no consensus and no direction. Ideas are being thrown around rapid fire and being shot down just as quickly.

After going in circles for two hours, one kid says, “Why don’t we just go back to the place we went last year?”

Chelsea Piers, bowling, laser tag. It wasn’t new or exciting, but it elicited the most interest of any suggestion thus far.

So we went. We bowled. We played laser tag—boys vs. girls. (It was very competitive. I will not disclose the results for the sake of shalom bayit.)

Then, later that night, we went to an escape room. Also not new. Also something we did last year. Also amazing.

The next morning, we were back at it. “What are we doing today?” I braced myself for the onslaught. But then one of the kids said, “Why don’t we just go back?” So we did. And the next day as well.

Three days of bowling and laser tag at Chelsea Piers.

We live in a world obsessed with new. New trips. New experiences. New thrills. We think if it’s not new—it’s not exciting or important or valuable.

But these three days taught me something I didn’t expect: Joy doesn’t come from newness, it comes from presence. We did the same things each day, but the experience was different each time.

And I realized there’s an important lesson from my experience. We all agree that it’s important to be constantly growing and learning and increasing in our Jewish observance. But sometimes that translates to the assumption that we need to keep piling on new practices, which quickly becomes overwhelming and hard to sustain.

But there is value in repetition. Instead of committing to davening shacharit, mincha, and maariv every day, and then crashing after a week and dropping it all, commit to one—whichever one you feel you can sustain—for 30 days. Then increase it for another 30 days, and so on, until it becomes ingrained.

Or take a mitzvah you already do, and add more intention and spirituality to it. Say you already pray shacharit every morning, but you’re racing through the words mindlessly with your head already in your first meeting of the day. Instead of piling on more practices or prayers, slow down and focus on the words you’re already saying. It may feel less exciting, but that’s where the real growth and peace of mind happen.

Close friends of ours were celebrating their daughter’s bat mitzvah in Miami this week, so my wife and I hopped on a plane to join their special occasion. 

You might be thinking this was a vacation for us, but it was not. It’s the busiest time of year. Erev Pesach. That means it’s crunch time at home, at school, at work, for us, our kids, and our community. Heading out of town wouldn’t be easy, but we were determined to be there. 

And I’m so glad we went! The simcha was beautiful, the bat mitzvah girl was inspiring, and being able to celebrate with our friends at their important moment felt meaningful and exciting.

We were supposed to fly in and out, staying just the one night, but when I woke up the next morning and looked at my phone, I saw our flight had been cancelled. 

I soon saw the news about the catastrophic crash at La Guardia, where an Air Canada plane collided with a firetruck, killing both pilots and injuring dozens. 

La Guardia was indefinitely shut down. Of course our flight was cancelled! Not to mention the severe TSA disruptions that all the airports are experiencing right now. 

Even our travel agent couldn’t help. 

My initial reaction was panic. We have eight kids at home. Pesach is just around the corner. Our kids need us, our school needs us, our community needs us. We have a million things to do; we can’t just wait around. 

But then I reminded myself of something I’ve said so many times to others: Everything comes from Hashem. This is His plan. For whatever reason, He wants us here now. Not at home. Not at our Chabad center. Here, in Miami. 

It’s easy to remember that He’s in charge when things work out. We love to say, “Look, it’s Divine Providence!” when things line up nicely for us. But the real work is remembering that it’s just as much His intervention and Divine Providence when things don’t go to plan. 

I asked the travel agent to check again for any flights, even if we would have to split up and/or use other airports. 

A few minutes later, he called back. “I found one ticket. 11:22 AM. It leaves from Fort Lauderdale and lands in Newark.”

“Book it,” I said, without hesitation.

Then I grabbed my things and ran. It was already 9:15 AM.

When I got to the airport, it was chaos in every direction. Endless security lines. Frustrated passengers. Everyone was tense and on edge—fliers and staff alike. 

Somehow, holding my breath, I made it through, and arrived at the gate—out of breath, sweating, heart pounding—with five minutes to spare.

As I was trying to catch my breath, someone walked over to me and introduced himself as a fellow Jew. He was heading to Texas from the gate right next to mine. 

We started chatting, and then I (of course!) asked him: “Do you want to put on tefillin?”

He smiled and agreed willingly. 

So there we were, two Jews in the middle of Fort Lauderdale–Hollywood International Airport, surrounded by noise and so much stress. Constant announcements over the loudspeaker, people running, yelling, luggage clattering … and suddenly, it all stopped. 

At that moment, it was like a bubble wrapped itself around us and everything became still and peaceful. We were just two Jews, wrapping tefillin, saying Shema, connected by our very souls to each other and to something infinitely bigger. 

That’s when it dawned on me that maybe this is why my flight was cancelled. 

All the uncertainty, the scrambling, the worry … it was all for this moment. So two Jews could meet, and a Jew headed to Texas could put on tefillin at Fort Lauderdale Airport at exactly 10:47am. 

This time, I got to see the Divine Providence. But even if I hadn’t had that airport encounter, it would have been just as much G-d’s intention for me to miss my original flight and end up going through Fort Lauderdale and Newark. 

Sometimes, the flight you miss is clearly the moment you were meant to catch. And other times, you have no idea why you were meant to miss that moment. But it was a plan designed directly for you, regardless.

On December 29th, a check for $40,000 arrived at our office. It had no message, no phone number, email, or home address—just a name I didn’t recognize: Sam Trove.*

We deposited it and it cleared, so we ruled out any kind of scam. I asked our team members to do some sleuthing. Google the name. Find this person. Thank them properly. But without success. We were incredibly grateful for their generosity, but the mystery lingered. 

Weeks passed, until last week, I was looking at our lists of donors and came across the name in our database. Something clicked and my sleuthing instincts kicked into high gear.

With years of experience hunting down hard-to-find leads, I was able to finally find a phone number for the elusive Sam.

I called him.

“Did you make a donation of $40,000?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

Well, I am calling to thank you! We really appreciate your support! 

“Well,” he replied, “I thought you would have reached out sooner.

“I didn’t have your phone number or email, and a name like Sam Trove is not so easy to Google,” I explained.

I discovered that Sam is 82 years old and lives somewhere in the Midwest.

“How did you even find out about us?” I wanted to know.

Sam explained that he had seen a story about our work on i24 News. He was so inspired and moved by our work for Israel and its soldiers that he decided to write the check without ever having met or spoken with us. This is true giving—no fanfare, no expectations. Just giving humbly, straight from the heart, without pursuing any kind of recognition.

I asked if he had any plans to visit New York, and it turned out that he did! It was his wife’s birthday, and they were coming for a week.

I said: “I want to meet you.”

And they stopped by my office this week! We sat for hours, talking, laughing, sharing stories. At the end, I asked Sam if he wanted to put on tefillin.

“Of course!” he said, with genuine excitement to revisit something he hadn’t done in many, many years.

And as we wrapped the sacred straps, the holiness in the room was palpable. “What we’re doing right now is so powerful,” I told Sam, “it is literally helping the pilots flying over Teheran and our soldiers fighting for Israel!”

Afterwards, I promised to connect him with his local Chabad rabbi, so that he doesn’t have to wait for the occasional trip to NYC.

When we said goodbye and I went back to my office, I thought about the amount of Divine Providence required to bring about our meeting. The fact that he stumbled across our initiatives on i24. The fact that he was inspired and had the means to send such a large check. The fact that we eventually uncovered his identity and were able to reach out and thank him. And the fact that he had a New York trip planned, and we were able to meet face-to-face. What a series of events!

But the truth is, everything that happens in our lives—the big moments and the small ones too—is orchestrated by Divine Providence. Everything happens because that’s what G-d wants and how He planned it. Is it easier to recognize and appreciate when we see His interventions clearly? Of course. But the challenge—and ultimate reward—is learning to view even the mundane and seemingly negative things in the same light.

When we can do that, we know we’re truly ready for Moshiach and the Final Redemption—may it happen imminently.

*Name changed to protect privacy

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.

I thought being pulled over with an unknowingly suspended license was bad a couple of weeks ago, but this week takes the cake. It has been the craziest week imaginable.

We were hosting eight severely wounded IDF soldiers in New Jersey for one of our incredible ten-day retreats. It began with the stress of the snowstorm and not knowing if their flights would be cancelled, but everything got on track, albeit one day late.

These young men deserve the best of the best. They are the most selfless heroes who have given themselves—their body, their minds, their health—for the Jewish people.

We lined up a program packed with inspiration, therapy, exciting activities, and community events.

Friday night, we hosted an unbelievable Shabbat of gratitude. Three hundred people gathered to embrace these hero soldiers—to sing, to cry, to say thank you. The unity in the room was electric. You could actually feel it.

Then came Purim, and across all our Purim parties we hosted 1,500 people and read the Megillah 59 times!

And while all of this was happening here … the war in Israel erupted.

My son is studying in yeshiva there, and on Monday, the dean called me.

“Your son wants permission to leave yeshiva and go to Efrat to make people happy for Purim. We take zero responsibility for him once he leaves the walls of our school. If he leaves, he’ll basically be dodging missiles.”

I think most parents would say “absolutely not!” but I said yes.

Why? Because I believe Israel is the safest place on the planet. Not because there are no rockets (there are too many to count!), but because it is the epicenter of Divine Providence.

Meanwhile, my brother and sister-in-law who live there are texting the family chat every hour throughout the night. 1 a.m., 2 a.m., 3 a.m … you get the picture.

“We can’t sleep.”

“We’re running to the shelter again.”

“This is crazy.”

“We feel like zombies.”

In fact, pretty much everyone in the entire country feels like zombies at this point, because the entire country is on the front lines of a mega war.

When I do Zoom meetings with my team in Israel, ten minutes in and they suddenly say, “Gotta go!” and I hear the distant boom of missiles while they run to the shelter.

And if all that wasn’t crazy enough, on Thursday morning I woke up to the wildest headline yet:

“Chabad is responsible for the Iran war.”

At first, I thought it was a belated Purim joke.

But then I watched the clip and listened as media personality Tucker Carlson seriously accused Chabad of starting the Iran War.

I was outraged. And then I started thinking.

Is Chabad responsible?

Yes. Of course we are. Just not in the way people think.

This war did not begin in 2026. It did not begin with missiles or politics or headlines.

This war began more than 4,000 years ago. It is the ancient struggle between good and evil, holiness and corruption. It’s the age-old battle between a world that recognizes G-d and a world that tries to erase Him.

Our mission is to fuse the two and create a space where G-d feels at home on this physical earth. When we accomplish that, we have won the war and reached our goal: the coming of Moshiach and the building of the Third Holy Temple.

Our mission hasn’t changed in thousands of years. We battle every day! Not with tanks and weapons, but with mitzvot.

When a Jew puts on tefillin in China, he is unleashing spiritual nuclear power into the world.

When a woman lights Shabbat candles in Melbourne, she pushes back darkness.

When a Jew keeps kosher in New York or London, he strengthens the side of holiness.

Every Torah class, every coin given to tzedakah, every Shabbat table filled with guests, every minyan, every pair of tefillin wrapped … are all part of the war effort.

The Talmud describes that before the coming of Moshiach, Esav will defeat Persia. The current events are not random or chaotic. They are orchestrated by G-d. Every piece is moving into place, spurring history towards its Divinely ordained climax.

If being “responsible” for the war means believing that evil will not win …

If it means insisting that goodness will ultimately triumph …

If it means dedicating our lives to Torah, mitzvot, and transforming the world…

… then yes! We accept responsibility.

Because this is so much more than a geopolitical conflict. It is the final chapter of a very old story, and we’ve been waiting millennia for the outcome: Redemption.

May it happen very soon! Amen. 

Total mayhem descended upon New York this week, in the form of one of the city’s largest ever snowstorms. Streets were buried, school was cancelled, and a public emergency was declared.

Thank G-d, my teenage son happened to be home from yeshiva for the weekend. I don’t know what I would have done without him!

Our car was parked outside. Somehow, of all times, I had found a spot right in front of our house. So on Monday, after the snow let up, my son went out and shoveled out the car.

“Great,” I thought, “we’re all set,” glad to have gotten through this blizzard relatively unscathed. I was sure that by Tuesday we’d be driving around like normal.

Alas, how very, very wrong I was.

Overnight, the plows came by, and when I walked outside on Tuesday morning, all the snow from the roadway was pushed directly onto our side of the street, burying our car behind a massive wall of hard, compacted snow.

What had been manageable the day before was now an overwhelming proposition. 

So there we were again—well, really my son was there again—shovel in hand, digging the car out for the second (and much harder!) time.

Then, the blizzard struck again, interfering with a long-planned Belev Echad trip. We had a group of wounded Israeli soldiers scheduled to arrive in New York on Tuesday.

Everything was arranged. We’d been planning for months. The schedule was set, calendars coordinated, hosts lined up … every detail accounted for.

And then, the snowstorm hit.

At first, we weren’t worried. “By Tuesday it’ll be clear,” everyone said. “The flight is landing on Tuesday.”

But the airlines weren’t as sure, and each update contradicted the last.

Canceled.
Not canceled.
Back on.
Canceled again.
Actually, it’s on.
No, it’s off again.

And while it was stressful for us because everyone had been planned and coordinated down to the minute, there was an even bigger issue at hand: These weren’t just regular passengers. These are wounded soldiers, many of whom are living with PTSD, who find sudden change not just inconvenient, but emotionally destabilizing. We needed to accommodate that, too.

Ultimately, everything worked out. My son was able to free our car from the mountain of snow and ice, and our Belev Echad heroes arrived, albeit a day later than planned.

As I dealt with both these incidents, I realized that while I couldn’t control either, what I can control is my perspective.

I can see the snow as a mess, a headache, something that is ruining my schedule and my plans. Or, I can see the joy and beauty in the fluffy, white, perfect-for-making-snowmen-and-having-snowball-fights powder and recognize Hashem’s gift.

Same snow, different perspective.

The reality is, snow will fall whether we like it or not. And plans will change, be delayed and even cancelled, whether or not we approve.

Sometimes Hashem doesn’t clear the road right away. He waits to see if we’ll trust Him while the snow is still on the ground. And maybe that’s the real decision we’re being asked to make.

We can look at the snow and see inconvenience, or we can recognize His blessing.

We can look at uncertainty and see chaos, or we can appreciate the Divine orchestration unfolding in real time.

It’s hard, but rewarding. And when we stretch those muscles and refine those skills, that is what will bring us closer to the Ultimate Redemption, when blizzards will self-resolve and flights won’t be cancelled because of a bit of snow. May it happen imminently!

It was Presidents’ Day, the Monday morning of a long weekend.

With school buses not running, instead of following my usual morning routine, I piled the kids into the car and drove them to Yeshiva Ketana, cutting through the familiar streets of the Upper West Side.

After drop-off, I headed back, determined to make our daily minyan, which had been pushed to 9 a.m. because of the holiday.

But then, flashing lights filled my rearview mirror, a siren blared, and a police officer’s voice blasted through a loudspeaker, ordering me to pull over at 96th and Amsterdam.

I can’t remember the last time I was pulled over. I try to drive very carefully, but I had been sending a voice note to someone on my team in Israel about Purim.

Nothing unusual. Just a regular, busy morning. Or not so regular, as it turned out.

“License and registration, please,” the officer requested.

I handed him my license calmly. This had happened before, albeit not recently.

He returned to his car.

Then he came back.

“Sir, your license is suspended. You are driving with a suspended license, and I need to arrest you.”

“What do you mean suspended?” I asked, completely dumbfounded. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He explained that I had accumulated six points within eighteen months, which triggered a Driver Responsibility Assessment fee - one I had never paid. The notice, he said, had been issued two years earlier.

Two years?! I tried explaining that I had never received any notification or summons. No email. No letter. No warning. Nothing.

Now, a fine I never even knew about had caught up with me, and my chances of making the minyan had slipped away entirely.

There I was, on the Upper West Side, facing the possibility of being taken into custody. My wife was out of town at a conference. All I could think was: Who is going to take care of my kids if I get arrested?

Then the officer said something unexpected: “Today is your lucky day. I won’t arrest you, but only if someone comes to get the car within ten minutes. I have to leave.”

Ten minutes is not a lot of time!

I looked around. I was at 96th and Amsterdam. Who was going to magically appear?

I scrolled through my contacts and called the first person who came to mind: the president of our synagogue, Meir Naftoli. I knew he lived two blocks away. The night before, I had even asked him to come to minyan, but he said he wasn’t planning to, which meant he would (fortunately!) probably still be nearby.

He answered the phone. Still in pajamas. “I’ll be there,” he said.

And somehow, within those exact ten minutes, he arrived.

The officer instructed him to drive. And together, we went straight to minyan.

So, what’s the lesson from my experience?

First of all, everything is recorded. Every mitzvah, every act of kindness, every moment of growth is included in the Heavenly accounting that stands in our favor. If a driving fine can turn my life upside down more than two years down the line, imagine how much power there is in the mitzvot we accumulate. So let’s go out and add more to our records. Do another mitzvah. Come to shul. Give tzedakah. Invite someone for Shabbat.

It also reminded me that it’s important to slow down sometimes. Life is hectic. We’re all busy running from place to place, commitment to commitment, convinced everything depends on our speed and efficiency. I was rushing to drop off my kids to be back in time for minyan, while planning Purim and a host of other things. But I was forced to stop and slow down. And sometimes, that’s the best thing we can do: slow down and do things with intention. Light Shabbat candles without distraction, daven without checking our phones, give someone our full attention. Judaism isn’t meant to be lived at highway speed.

And most of all, the lesson that keeps me on my toes again and again, is the ever-true: We are not in control! At 8:39 a.m., I was on my way to shul. At 8:41 a.m., I thought I might be on my way to jail.

We like to think we’re in charge. We like to think we can control the schedule. But the truth is, G-d and G-d alone is in control. When we remember that—and truly live with it—the chaos of life becomes a lot less frightening.

And needless to say, you probably won’t see me driving for a little while!

 I’m always a deep sleeper. I think it has something to do with raising 8 kids. How else would I ever get any rest?

But on motzei Shabbat, I was in an even deeper sleep than usual.

I also always turn off my cell phone overnight, so when I heard a phone ringing at midnight, I knew something was wrong.

Then I heard the house phone, and the caller ID announced: “Call from: Mammy.”

My worry escalated. My wife would never call me at midnight; she knows I am always asleep at that hour.

It was the weekend of the Kinus Hashluchos—the International Conference of Chabad Women Emissaries, and my wife is one of the organizers. She and a team of incredible women from across the globe somehow pull off the most spectacular, soulful, joyful, tearful convention for thousands of women from around the world, culminating in a gala banquet on Sunday evening, attended by 5000 women.

What does that mean for me? For weeks before the Kinus, I do not have a wife.

I know this. I accept it. I resign my fate

She’s up at ungodly hours on Zoom calls. One morning, I saw her wake up at 5:00 AM after going to sleep at an hour usually reserved for bakers and insomniacs.

“What now?” I asked.

“I have a Zoom planning meeting with Shluchot in Australia. This is the best time for them.”

Of course it is.

Sometimes I wake up at 2:00 AM, see no wife in the room, but I’m not alarmed. I know she’s probably on a Zoom, saving the Jewish world, one meeting at a time.

And then the Kinus ends … and I become a lucky man once again, happy and relieved to have my wife back.

So back to my jarring midnight awakening … it was motzei Shabbat, the night before the banquet. My wife left the house around 7:00 PM for the evening’s program, along with our 8-year-old daughter, who was participating that night. The plan was that she would bring her home afterward.

I put the rest of the kids to bed and went to sleep.

Fast forward to midnight:

I hear the phone ringing in my sleep, and my body goes into flight-or-fight mode, assuming the worst: Accident. Arrest. Jail. Fight with a drunk person. International incident. Hostage situation.

Those instincts don’t come from nowhere. I was brought up in South Africa with barbed wire and panic buttons, alarms and guard dogs. Our house was broken into multiple times and my siblings were held up at gunpoint, so my mind races …

I bolt downstairs, my heart racing. I miss the call.

I call her back immediately.

She answers in the happiest, chirpiest voice imaginable! “Oh, hi! Are you up?”

“ARE YOU OK?!” I ask frantically.

“Of course,” she says.

“Then WHY are you calling me at midnight?!”

“I wanted our 8-year-old daughter to come home now, and I’m going to stay and do last-minute prep with my team in Brooklyn,” she explains.

And while we’re talking, she casually figures out a ride home for our daughter, a way for her to get into the house, and apparently … how to almost give her husband a heart attack!

Then she says goodnight and hangs up.

It is now past midnight. My adrenaline is through the roof. My brain is wide awake. I do not fall back asleep until 3:00 AM.

My wife? She comes home at 6:00 AM. Smiling.

A couple of days later, when my heart rate has returned to normal, I realize there’s a lesson here.

My wife gives hours and hours of her time for the Kinus. All unpaid and virtually unnoticed. I lost one night of sleep, but she loses sleep for weeks and weeks! Not because she has to, not because she’s getting paid, but because she believes in the mission.

My “price” for that? Being woken up in the middle of the night—panicking, sweating, convinced something terrible had happened—only to discover that nothing was wrong at all … I just love someone who is changing the world!

And maybe that’s what love looks like.

Not comfort or convenience, but being willing to lose sleep for someone who is losing sleep for Hashem.

And more than that, it would probably be good for all of us to go out of our comfort zone—losing sleep if necessary—to do mitzvot, help others, and serve Hashem.

Want to stay home because it’s just too cold outside? It’s certainly tempting! But pushing ourselves through the discomfort to get to shul is worth it!

Is it easier to stick to your routine than move your day around to help someone who needs a ride or a visit? Sure. But think about what one day of discomfort will mean to the recipient.

We all face these situations frequently. But by stretching ourselves, giving up our own comfort to do the right thing, we become better, more G-dly people, refining the world one step at a time in preparation for Moshiach.

When I checked my phone on Monday morning, a new notification from WhatsApp popped up, asking me: “Do you want to restore your messages?”

Of course, I selected, “yes,” only to be told, “You do not have enough storage.”

Old story. Or so I thought. After all, who hasn’t been through this? So I did my usual—deleted old pictures, emails, PDFs, videos, GIFs, anything that would free up space.

Then I returned to WhatsApp and pressed, “Restore messages.”

And that’s when my entire world shifted.

Every conversation and every voice note I’ve sent or received over the last 10-15 years was simply gone. Every emotional exchange. Every joke. Every plea for assistance, every message from the soldiers we help, every request from anyone in our community … all gone, deleted, poof.

And WhatsApp is not a peripheral part of my life! I live, breathe, work, and organize my entire life through that app. That morning alone I was engaged in over twenty active conversations!

The important document I’d received the day before, gone. All the messages I hadn’t even opened yet, gone with no way of knowing what they were or who they were from.

I was panicking. Truly panicking. There were so many loose ends in those missing messages; how would I ever recover? I spent the rest of the day in a daze. I felt lost and disoriented.

But by the following morning, I had almost convinced myself that “it is what it is - Hashem has a plan.”

Then I shared my frustration with someone, and he said, “Why don’t you uninstall and reinstall?”

I did.

And suddenly, WhatsApp asked: “Do you want to restore your messages?”

Of course I do!

And it started restoring.

Restoring.
Restoring.
Restoring.

It took a full 36 hours for all my messages to repopulate. And when it was finally done, I realized that most of my messages were back. Everything from November 2025 and earlier was restored.

Some messages were out of order. Some were incomplete. But at least they were there.

But everything from December, January, and February was permanently gone. Three full months of my life missing and unrecoverable.

But then it dawned on me: You can lose every message in your life … you can even lose all your material possessions … but the one thing you can never lose is a mitzvah.

Every mitzvah you do is yours for eternity.

You can never lose a tefillah you davened. You can never lose a Shabbat that you kept. You can never lose a dollar you gave to charity.

Those are backed up, permanently. Imprinted on your soul and uploaded to Heaven.

While I’m very glad to have most of my messages back, I’m even more glad for the reminder about what’s really important. 

My Dear Sara,

I remember the moment you were born as if it were yesterday. In the midst of a snowstorm, exactly twelve years ago, you were simply a gift from G-d—a sacred gift placed into our arms, and planted into our hearts forever. From that first breath, your mother and I have been in awe, watching you grow and shine.

 Witnessing your life unfold has been one of the greatest privileges of my life.

As I look at you, wondering where my baby went, I feel the weight and wonder of time—how it moves, transforms, shapes.

And this week, something incredible happened: In one breathtaking moment, you crossed a threshold. One day you were our little girl, and the next, you stood before us as a young woman. A bat mitzvah. An adult. Responsible, capable, and accountable. 

Something sacred has shifted within you. Your choices are now your own; your values are now yours to formulate and carry.

It’s a big responsibility, but it is not a burden. In fact, it is an honor. 

You are now a woman, connected via an unbroken chain to thousands of women before you—your mother, aunts, sisters, grandmothers—stretching all the way back to our mothers: Sarah, Rivkah, Rachel, and Leah. Women of faith and courage, sacrifice and strength. And now, you stand among them. You carry their strength. Their wisdom. Their prayers. Their dreams.

And I know with absolute certainty that you will carry them forward not just with responsibility, but with joy. You have incredible talent and unique gifts given to you by G-d to make this world a better place, to build a home for G-d, and I know you will succeed! 

At its core, a bat mitzvah is not a party or a dress or a speech.

It is a handoff. 

A holy transfer of responsibility from parent to child; from guiding every step to trusting her steps.

There will be choices ahead, some easy, some hard, and they will be yours. And while I will always be here to guide you, to protect you, to love you, and to stand beside you, I trust you to make the right decisions.

I trust your heart.

I trust your soul.

I trust the woman you are becoming.

May you walk this path with courage and compassion, with faith and kindness, with light and confidence. May your life continue to be a blessing—to yourself, to your family, to your people, and to this world.

With all my love, always,

Your father 

It feels like the whole world has been holding its breath this week.

Will the United States and Israel attack Iran? Will they not? Is it happening tonight, tomorrow, or not at all?

I joined an Israeli WhatsApp group with thousands of people on it—and I need to leave, fast. Every minute brings another “update”: Americans are leaving their base in Qatar. Israel is ready. Iran has closed its airspace. Trump is putting them to sleep—but really, he’s attacking.

The flurry of speculation is relentless.

The reality is, no one knows exactly what’s going on in Iran right now. What began with brave protesters standing up to one of the most brutal regimes on earth quickly spurred a violent crackdown and internet blackouts. One thing, however, is heartbreakingly clear: people are being killed.

And the world is watching, nervously, helplessly, to see what will happen next. 

Israelis, meanwhile, do what Israelis have always done in impossible moments: Memes. Jokes. Sarcasm. Dark humor. Not because they aren’t afraid, but because this is how they’ve learned to cope with fear and uncertainty. 

Emergency services are on standby, hospitals are preparing for the worst, flights are canceled … uncanceled … then canceled again. 

And the headlines spin faster than we can keep up. 

Trump decides to attack. Then not to. Then yes. Then no.

With so much uncertainty, we have to turn to the one thing we know to be true at all times and in all places: 

Hashem is in control.
Not Iran.
Not America.
Not presidents, generals, or armies.
And certainly not us. 

Any control we feel is merely an illusion. And that means that the chaos and fear gripping much of the world right now is actually just the collapse of the illusion of control. 

The only thing that is certain is Hashem.

And when you truly believe that—when you internalize it—you realize something liberating: panic is optional.

That doesn’t mean we should ignore reality or minimize the danger. It means that while the world focuses on “What will happen next?” we ask a different question: “What will I do next?”

And the answer to that is the same as it’s always been: Lay tefillin. Study Torah. Join a daily minyan. Keep Shabbat. Eat kosher. Light Shabbat candles. More kindness. More courage. More faith. 

We do what Jews have always done in moments like this. Bring more light into the world. More kindness. More courage. More faith.

When the world feels dark, our job isn’t to doomscroll and predict what will happen, but simply to illuminate the darkness.

So take a breath, sit back, and trust Hashem. Because amid all the uncertainty, there is one thing we feel confident about: the current turmoil is surely a sign of the imminent coming of Moshiach! May it happen speedily.