Rabbi Sholom Ahron Ehrenfeld

A Moment to Reframe

In Jewish thought, there is a central axiom of, “Ein od milvado—There is nothing besides Hashem.” Wherever a Jew finds himself, whether in Siberia, in prison or in comfort, it is all Hashem. Circumstances are but a facade, and our work is to pierce the veil of creation and encounter the Creator behind it.

There is a well-known Chassidic story of a chassid who lived his life constantly affirming this principle. He had an only child, and tragically, that child passed away. When the chassid heard the news, he continued repeating the phrase ein od milvado, dancing and singing through the funeral and burial. Yet when he returned home and the house fell silent, the full weight of reality descended upon him, and he completely broke down.

This reflects a profound dynamic in serving Hashem; that of moving between mochin d’gadlus and mochin d’katnus. Mochin d’gadlus is an elevated consciousness, a transcendent perception of reality. As the Chazon Ish writes, suffering has the power to force a person el toch tocho, inward into the deepest core of his life, stripping away externals and facades. But mochin d’katnus is the return to ordinary consciousness, where loss is experienced in its raw, human form. In that space, a child has died and the pain is overwhelming.

In the Sefer Korban Nesanel on Parshas Vayigash, the author records a story he heard from elderly Jews of Poland who were passing through Syria on their way to Eretz Yisroel. It is an account said to date back several centuries.

There was an elderly rav who had been childless for many years. In his later years, he remarried and was blessed with a single son, an only child. The boy was a prodigy, a brilliant scholar who grew into an exceptional talmid chacham. Eventually, he became engaged to a young woman from a distant town. Travel in those days was arduous, and the rav was too frail to attend the wedding. The rebbetzin and several of the rav’s students journeyed instead.

During the Shabbos of Sheva Berachos, the chassan was honored to deliver a Torah discourse. But in a tragic and unimaginable moment, a massive crystal chandelier above him collapsed, killing him instantly.

The rebbetzin turned to the students in despair. “We have lost our only child. If I return home and tell my husband, I will lose him as well. He cannot survive such news.” One of the students said, “I know how to tell the rav the news, and I believe he will live.”

When they returned, the rebbetzin waited outside. The student entered alone, his face downcast. The rav opened the door and asked, “Tell me, how was the wedding?” The student was silent. “Please,” the rav urged, “tell me what happened.”

“Rebbe,” the student replied, “it is too terrible. I cannot say it.” The rav insisted. “I command you. As your rav, you must tell me.” The student hesitated, and then began. “On the way to the wedding, we passed a town with a magnificent monastery, its gardens and architecture unlike anything we had ever seen. The chassan was overwhelmed by its beauty and he begged us to stop. He felt an inexplicable, overpowering urge to enter and explore this religion.

“We tried to stop him,” the student continued. “We reminded him that he was a chassan, a great scholar, destined to become a rav. But he insisted. He exited the wagon, ascended the steps, and knocked on the door. A priest opened.”

The rav cried out in anguish, collapsing, “My Yankeleh became a Christian? Better he should die a strange death and still have a share in Olam Haba!” The students rushed to revive him. Once he regained consciousness, the student said quickly, “No, Rebbe, no. He did not convert. He died suddenly and tragically. The chandelier fell upon him during his drasha on Shabbos.”

The rav exhaled. “Baruch Hashem. At least my son is in Olam Haba. Clearly, he was sent into this world for a brief mission and to complete a tikkun from a previous gilgul. He accomplished what he needed. He is now in Gan Eden.”

The Korban Nesanel explains the psychology at work. When a person believes the absolute worst has occurred, the soul contracts and a person cannot contain the pain. But when a person is stretched to contemplate something even more catastrophic, and then discovers that reality is less severe than that imagined horror, he can regain stability and strength.

This is not always a solution, but sometimes it is. A person can say, “At least we live in a country where Jews have rights and where we are not starving.” If we compare our lives to those of Jews two or three hundred years ago, we could list hundreds, perhaps thousands, of ways in which our lives are easier and more blessed. This stretching of the mind allows a person to say, “Baruch Hashem, at least I have this and that.”

One of the great sages explains that the purpose of the daily morning blessings is not for Hashem’s sake, nor merely for recognition, but to make us happier. When we say pokeach ivrim, we acknowledge the gift of sight, something denied to many who live trapped within darkness and limitation. When we say rokah ha’aretz al hamayim, we marvel that the oceans are restrained and the earth is solid beneath our feet. When we say zokeif kefufim, we thank Hashem that most people are spared paralysis, strokes, and degenerative illness.

Those who suffer illness find their own sources of chizuk. But there are always pathways to strength. Any method that fosters positivity is worthwhile, because when thoughts are elevated, the inner experience follows.

Reb Nachman of Breslov taught that even external actions, such as music and dancing, have the power to lift a person. Anything that improves one’s emotional state improves the person himself. And even if joy must be accessed through a “trick,” it is still precious.

Because when the mood rises, the soul can breathe again.

Rabbi Shraga Kallus

The Pink Pearls

There was once a young girl whose father gave her a small amount of spending money. With great excitement, she used it to buy a necklace of pink pearls. They were not real pearls, but to her they were precious. She admired them constantly and felt proud and happy wearing them.

One evening, her father came into her room, sat beside her on the bed, and gently asked, “My darling daughter, who do you love most in the world?” “You,” she answered without hesitation. “More than anything else?” he asked. “Yes. More than anything.” “Even more than the pearls?” he continued. “Yes,” she said confidently.

The father smiled, extended his hand, and said, “Then give me the pearls.” Her face fell. “The pearls?” she whispered. “Not that.” And so it went, night after night. Each time, the same question, and each time, the same hesitation.

One evening, her father asked, as he had so many times before, “Who do you love most in the world?” She answered, as always, “You.” “Even more than the pearls?” he prodded. But this time, the response was different. With a tear rolling down her cheek, she slowly unclasped the necklace and placed the pink pearls into her father’s hand.

At that moment, her father reached into his own pocket and pulled out a small red velvet box. Inside were genuine, radiant pink pearls that were real and far more precious than the ones she had given up.

“My darling,” he said softly, “when I ask you for something out of love, you will never lose by giving it. You will only gain.”

Hashem asks us to give up the synthetic pleasures of life, the illusions that glitter but do not last. And yet He promises that when we do, we make room for something far greater.

A person never loses by protecting their kedushah, by guarding their neshama. By choosing something of greater value, we open the door for real joy, real depth, and real blessing. And those are gifts that only Hakadosh Baruch Hu can give.

And we can be sure, they are far greater and precious.

Mr. Yaakov Shwekey

The Chofetz Chaim’s Biography

There is a powerful story that my Rosh Kollel, Rabbi Shlomo Diamond, shared.

Rav Elchonon Wasserman hy”d traveled to America in the late 1930s to raise funds for his yeshiva in Baranovich, Poland. On one occasion, he stayed in the home of a wealthy supporter, who was thrilled to present him with a gift. It was a newly published book about his Rebbe, the Chofetz Chaim.

Beaming with pride, the man said, “While I make you some tea, please sit down and read it.” Rabbi Wasserman sat on the couch and opened the book. Less than two minutes later, he rushed into the kitchen holding it in his hands.

“You can burn this with your chametz,” he said sharply, dropping the book. “This is not my Rebbe.” The host was stunned. “What’s wrong? It’s a book about the Chofetz Chaim!”

Rabbi Wasserman explained, “I open these books and they describe greatness as if it were something people are born with. Any child who reads this will think my Rebbe emerged perfect, without struggle. That is false. My Rebbe worked on himself. He worked immensely hard and that is how he grew.”

“Yes,” he continued, “he surely had extraordinary potential, but so do many children. And they must know that greatness is not inherited. It is earned through effort and struggle.”

There are many beautiful seforim written about the greats of yesteryear and today, Rav Diamond mentioned, but we must be careful not to feel diminished by them. Rav Yerucham Levovitz is recorded to have said that a person living today who is holding a sefer in his hands and navigating the challenges of our generation may, in certain respects, be greater than the very tzaddik whose sefer he is learning. If a person stands firm in these nisyonos, he may be reaching the generation of giants.

Such is a message for our time. Never give up hope. Growth is always possible and struggle does not spell failure.

It is greatness itself.

Rabbi Fischel Schachter

Golem Row

I struggled to focus in school as a child. I vividly remember that in third grade, the classroom was divided into three rows. One row was for the strongest students. The middle row was for the average group. And then there was the third row the one no one spoke about officially, but everyone knew what it was called.

The golem row.

That was my row.

It didn’t even bother me all that much. I assumed it was simply a fact of life. Some kids were smart, some were average, and some were… golems.

One day, the fluorescent lights above the golem row went completely dark. I thought it to be natural. After all, it was the golem row. So my rebbe rearranged us. “Everyone under those lights, move over,” he said. And so, I picked myself up and slid into the middle row. I was elated. I thought I had been promoted.

A few minutes later, the electrician fixed the lights. “Okay,” my rebbe said, “everyone go back to your places.” And just like that, I was back.

That night, I mentioned it casually to my father. “I thought I was finally moving out of the golem row,” I said. “Turns out it just needed a quick electrician repair.” My father said nothing.

Two weeks later, he took me out of the school.

I was confused. “Why?” I asked. “There’s a new school opening,” he said. “They need students. This school has plenty.”

It took me years to understand what my father had really done. After all, a golem stays a golem—unless someone intervenes.

Years later, I asked him why he never explained the real reason at the time.

He told me. “The only one who ever gets to decide whether you’re a golem is you. If I tell you you were a victim, that you were labeled, you’ll use that story for the rest of your life. I wasn’t going to let that happen.”

One of the most powerful weapons of the yetzer hara is a single sentence: “You blew it.”

This is exactly what Rav Yisrael Taub of Modzitz, the Divrei Yisroel, underscores in explaining the famous Pasuk recited in Shema.

“V’lo sasuru acharei levavchem—Do not let your heart say, ‘I failed.’ V’acharei eineichem—And do not let what your eyes saw convince you it’s game over.” Rather, “V’asisem es kol mitzvosai—Perform the mitzvos.” You can still act. You can still choose. And the moment you decide to choose, everything changes.

I once went to Luna Park, where they have on exhibit a haunted house. It reminded me of the story I once heard of a boy who walked into one of these houses and grew terrified, like many do. There were ghosts, shadows and eerie music; the whole works. When he finally walked out, he realized he lost his yarmulke inside.

 “Go back in and get it,” he was told by one of the employees. The boy couldn’t imagine doing so.

The man smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ll turn on the lights.” He walked back in and suddenly the ghosts he sees are made of plastic and the shadows are cardboard. The fear instantly dissolved. Nothing was real. Everything was an illusion.

All the ghosts in our lives—the labels, the failures, the fears, the golems we think we are—lose their power the moment the lights go on. No one can say you blew it unless you agree with them. And when you refuse to say it yourself, even the golem row becomes a place of greatness.

So turn on the light… and watch everything change.

Rabbi Don Jarashow

The Prince and the Mud

Rav Aharon of Karlin shares a remarkable mashal that captures with striking precision the strategy of how a Jew is meant to confront the yetzer hara.

There was once a young prince, dressed in garments of the finest silk, adorned with a golden sash and gleaming shoes. He rode in a magnificent carriage—mahogany wood, gold trim, velvet cushions—drawn by strong, elegant horses whose hooves clattered rhythmically along the dusty road. Servants surrounded him, for this was a day of celebration, and the prince was being escorted to festivities in the meadows beyond the city.

As the carriage passed through the outskirts, the prince gazed out and saw rows of crumbling huts—structures of mud and wood and crooked chimneys releasing thin trails of smoke. The people who lived there wore torn, faded clothing. His heart felt heavy with compassion. Yet he thought to himself, “I am a prince. My life is different. I cannot expect everyone to live at my level.”

That thought did not trouble him.

But then his eyes caught something else.

A group of boys his own age were barefoot, laughing uncontrollably, rolling in thick black mud. They were shouting, chasing one another, flinging handfuls of mud with wild joy. It was noisy, chaotic and unrestrained fun, the kind the prince, raised in discipline and dignity, had never known. For a moment, something stirred within him. He felt the pull. “Maybe just for a moment,” he thought. “Maybe I could jump down and join them. Just be a child.”

He looked at his silk garments, the golden sash across his chest, the spotless carriage, the white horses waiting proudly. And in that moment, he understood.

He could not. Not because the mud was forbidden, but because he was a prince.

He watched the boys with curiosity, even longing. Their world was free and messy, full of laughter and impulse. But his life carried something else: responsibility, dignity, purpose, and self-worth. And so he remained seated in the carriage—not out of fear, but out of awareness. He remembered who he was, and what was expected of him.

And that, Rav Aharon of Karline taught, is the essence of resisting temptation.

The battle with the yetzer hara is not always about crushing desire. Often it is about identity. When a person remembers who they are, when they see themselves as royalty, they no longer need to fight the mud. They simply stay in the carriage.

Not because the mud isn’t tempting.

But because they are a prince.