Rabbi Dovid Goldwasser

The Siddur of Peace

I once received a call about a young couple in the midst of a painful divorce. Their relationship had deteriorated into constant conflict, and they had reached the point of dividing the gifts they had given each other during their marriage. There was so little trust between them that they could not agree on anyone to oversee the exchange. In the end, they both agreed to come to me.

An arrangement was made: first the wife would come and leave everything in my home, and later the husband would arrive to take what was his and leave what belonged to her.

She came first. A young woman, quiet and withdrawn, carrying a collection of gifts. One by one, she placed them on the table. Soon there was a large pile, a collection of items that once symbolized love and connection, yet now reduced to objects in a transaction. The scene was deeply painful to witness. She said nothing, kept her head down, and left.

I stood there, looking at the pile. I would not touch anything. But there was one item I could not ignore: a siddur he had given her. It was worn, clearly used often, with small tabs marking different places. I hesitated, then picked it up.

As I opened it, I saw handwritten notes beside the tefillos. At the beginning, a personal request that her husband should have a good day. Further along, another note, mentioning him by name, asking that he be successful, that he be blessed with parnassah, that he find happiness. In another section, a tefillah that she should be a good wife, that she should bring him pride, that she should find chein (grace) in his eyes. Page after page, there were these quiet, private expressions of care and devotion.

And then I noticed something else. The ink in many of the notes had run slightly. There were tear stains. I closed the siddur and placed it back on the table.

About an hour and a half later, the husband arrived. He began placing his own items down, preparing to take back what was his. I asked him to sit for a moment.

“There’s one thing I’d like you to look at,” I said. He agreed. I handed him the siddur.

“Take your time,” I told him, as I left the room.

Fifteen minutes later, I returned. He was sitting with his head in his hands, crying. He looked up at me and said, “I had no idea. I never knew she felt this way. I never knew these were her tefillos. I never did anything like this for her.”

I sat with him quietly for a moment. Then I said, “I think you should leave this siddur for her. And I think you should leave all of these gifts. Don’t take a single one. And whatever it takes to rebuild this shalom bayis, whatever it takes to restore what you once had, I would urge you to do it.”

He nodded and left.

Late that night, I received a call from the wife. Her voice was different—hopeful, almost shaken. “I don’t know what happened,” she said, “but my husband came to me and begged me to reconsider. Tomorrow morning, we’re meeting to see if we can try again.”

“Gadol ha’shalom—Great is peace.” Sometimes, all it takes is one moment of truth, one glimpse beneath the surface, to reveal the depth of love that was always there.

Rabbi Yonoson Roodyn

The Space in Between

Reactivity is instinctive; restraint is cultivated. The Ribbono Shel Olam, in His infinite patience, grants a person time for teshuvah rather than responding with immediate judgment. The mitzvah of “V’halachta b’drachav” calls upon us to emulate these Divine attributes (Sotah 14a). In doing so, we do not merely imitate God, but draw closer to Him, internalizing His middos as our own.

What, then, is the meaning of erech apayim referenced in the Mishnah (Avos 6:6)? It is the discipline of being slow to anger. In a world increasingly defined by impulsivity and emotional volatility, anger has become a subtle form of avodah zarah; a surrender to instinct, a loss of inner control that can drive a person to irrational and destructive behavior. The Torah’s response is clear: do not react immediately. Create space.

The greater the distance one can place between stimulus and response, the greater the likelihood of responding with clarity rather than chaos. When something provokes you, when tension rises and agitation builds, the avodah is to pause and resist the instinct to react, allowing the initial surge to subside. In that space, seichel, the faculty of reason, can assert itself over impulse.

Anger, at its core, is self-inflicted harm. One may feel justified, even wronged, but the emotional explosion that follows does far more damage to the self than to the offender. Chazal (Nedarim 22b) teach that anger carries severe spiritual consequences, but even on a human level, its effects are evident: it corrodes relationships, destabilizes homes, and leaves a person living in a state of perpetual agitation.

The goal, therefore, is not necessarily to eliminate anger entirely—at least not at the outset—but to slow it down. A practical starting point is simple: count to ten. Breathe. Allow the physiological surge to settle. In doing so, one enables the transition from instinctive reaction to deliberate response. One begins to choose how to act, rather than being driven by how one feels.

More often than not, anger is followed by regret. What felt justified in the moment reveals itself, in retrospect, as excessive, misplaced, or harmful. Erech apayim is the safeguard against that regret. It is the capacity to respond in a way that is measured, thoughtful, and ultimately constructive.

Chazal (Pesachim 66b) further teach that one who becomes angry forfeits their wisdom. If one seeks to acquire Torah and retain its clarity, then mastery over anger is not optional, but essential. To live with erech apayim is to live with dignity and composure. It is to transform moments of provocation into opportunities for growth, and in doing so, to become a vessel capable of holding blessing.

Rabbi Yehuda Zev Klein

Growing to Be a Gadol

Parshas Kedoshim opens with a sweeping and transformative mandate: “You shall be holy.” It is not a suggestion, nor a poetic ideal, but an obligation placed upon every Jew to live a life infused with sanctity and purpose.

Yet, on this very verse, Chazal present a striking Midrash. Hashem commands, “Kedoshim tihiyu,” and the Midrash comments: one might have thought that you are to be as holy as Me, therefore the Torah concludes, “My holiness transcends yours.” On a simple level, the message seems almost unnecessary. Is it not self-evident that the holiness of the Ribbono Shel Olam is infinitely beyond that of man? Why, then, does the Midrash feel compelled to clarify this?

The answer offered by the Rav Yerucham Levovitz reframes the entire passage with profound psychological and spiritual depth. The Midrash, he explains, is not diminishing man’s capacity; it is elevating it. “You think you could be like Me” is not a rejection, but an invitation. A person might think that Divine holiness is unattainable, reserved solely for the Creator. Therefore, the Torah teaches: “You shall be holy.”You can, in fact, attain a form of G-dliness. How? Talmud Lomar—train yourself to say—“I am holy.

Holiness begins with identity. A person becomes what they repeatedly tell themselves they are. If one internalizes the belief, “I am a ben Torah, I am a person of kedusha, I carry a Divine mission,” then behavior begins to align with that identity. Conversely, if one views himself as ordinary, unremarkable, or disconnected from higher purpose, his actions will reflect that diminished self-concept.

This idea carries profound implications for chinuch and personal growth. When raising children, or even when cultivating one’s own character, there are two fundamentally different approaches. One can focus on deficiencies, constantly highlighting flaws, shortcomings, and areas in need of correction. Or one can build the person up, affirming their inherent greatness, their potential, their neshama. The former may produce compliance; the latter produces transformation.

This is the deeper message of “Kedoshim tihiyu.” The Torah is not merely commanding behavior, but shaping identity. Train a person to say, “I am elevated. I am held to a higher standard. Certain actions are beneath me because they are inconsistent with who I truly am.” That internal language becomes the engine of growth.

The Baba Sali expressed this principle succinctly: if you wish to inspire greatness, remind a person of who they are; not merely what they have done wrong. When a person feels elevated, he aspires upward.

A young boy in Eretz Yisrael once began suffering from severe headaches. Medical tests revealed a growth on his brain. His father, devastated, approached his rosh kollel, who advised him to seek a blessing from Rabbi Chaim Kanievsky zt”l.

The next morning, after davening, they entered Rav Chaim’s modest home. Upon hearing the situation, Rav Chaim asked to speak directly with the child. He looked at him gently and asked, “Yingele, what do you want to be when you grow up?” The boy’s answer stunned everyone present: “I want to be like the Rav.”

Rav Chaim smiled. He then asked for wine from a siyum he had made on all of Torah, and shared it with those present. He instructed the father to return to the hospital for another scan, assuring him that if the results remained unchanged, he would personally cover the cost.

They returned the next day. The scan came back completely clear. The growth had vanished.

When they came back to share the news, Rav Chaim offered a remarkable explanation. “You may think this was a miracle from the wine,” he said, “but the truth is, when I heard that your son aspires to become a gadol ba’Torah, I davened with deep kavanah for his healing. Someone who wants to become a talmid chacham deserves a yeshuah even beyond the natural order.”

Why did that child aspire to such greatness? Because from a young age, he had been taught, “I am holy.” He saw himself as destined for something higher. He believed it. And that belief shaped not only his aspirations, but quite literally his reality.

Speak in the language of greatness. And in doing so, we do not merely aspire to holiness; we begin to embody it.

Rabbi Daniel Coren

Planting a Seed

Let me share a story from over twenty years ago. At the time, I was involved in outreach work, learning how to connect with fellow Jews and inspire greater engagement with Torah. I was on a flight, and after waking up a short while into the journey, I decided to go to the back of the plane to daven. As I walked down the aisle holding my tefillin, I noticed someone who appeared to be Israeli. I thought to myself, “Here is an opportunity.”

I approached him and asked if he would like to put on tefillin. He declined. The interaction felt like a missed opportunity. Nothing came of it, or so I thought.

When we landed in Eretz Yisrael and passed through passport control, I saw him again. Something compelled me to ask, “Can you tell me, what did I do wrong? Why did you say no?”

He responded honestly: “At that moment, I wasn’t interested. But about half an hour later, the person sitting next to me turned to me and asked the same question—if I wanted to put on tefillin. And I thought to myself, this must be a sign. Twice in one flight? Maybe this is something I’m meant to do.” And he put on tefillin.

That moment reframed everything.

Without asking, I would have gone on believing I had failed. Yet in truth, that initial attempt planted the seed. It softened the ground. It made the second encounter meaningful. What appeared insignificant was, in fact, essential.

This is a paradigm for so much of life. A person exerts effort, falls, tries again, and assumes that the effort is wasted because it does not produce immediate, visible success. But growth is rarely linear, and impact is often hidden.

Every attempt counts. Each effort contributes to an unseen accumulation that shapes a person’s inner world. Even when one does not see the results, they are there forming, building and preparing. Sometimes, Hashem grants us a glimpse of that impact, as in this story. More often, He does not. And in those moments, the avodah is emunah, to trust that no sincere effort is ever lost.

If Hashem asks us to try, then the very act of trying is already a form of success.

Rabbi Elchonon Jacobovitz

Chart Your Own Course

Have you ever wondered how an entire nation could march straight into the Yam Suf, fully aware that it meant destruction? How could they not see what was happening?

In 1916, the French scientist Jean-Henri Fabre conducted a fascinating experiment with processionary caterpillars, creatures known for moving in single-file lines, each one following the one directly in front of it. Fabre arranged a group of them along the edge of a circular plate and placed food in the center. Then he set them in motion.

For five days, the caterpillars walked in a continuous circle, each one following the next, never breaking formation. The food remained just inches away—visible, accessible, life-sustaining. Yet not one caterpillar deviated. Eventually, they died of starvation.

How could the Egyptians enter the Yam Suf? The answer is not that they were foolish. It is that they were following.

The soldier in the back assumes the general knows what he is doing. The general assumes the leader knows what he is doing. And at the front? Chazal note something striking. The Pasuk says that, “The horse of Pharaoh entered the sea” (Shemos 15:19). Not Pharaoh, but his horse. The Pirkei D’Rebbi Eliezer (Chapter 42) states that Pharoah’s male horse saw a female horse and ran after it.

People rarely walk into destruction because they consciously choose it. They arrive there by following trends, following crowds, following impulses that originate somewhere far removed from thoughtful awareness. One person follows another, who follows another, until no one is actually thinking. At the front is not clarity, but desire.

If we want to escape that cycle, we must reclaim the ability to stop. To step out of the line. To think. And that begins with a simple but powerful decision: not to follow blindly.

Do not be carried by instinct. Do not be led by the crowd. Choose deliberately. Chart your own course.

Rabbi YY Jacobson

Hope in the Morning

There’s a beautiful insight often attributed to the great Chassidic masters—some even say in the name of Reb Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev—that sheds light on something as simple as a morning coffee.

In Yiddish, coffee is called kaveh. But think about what a coffee actually is. It’s a blend of contrasts. The beans are bitter. The sugar is sweet. The water is hot. The milk is cold. Each element on its own tells a different story.

So too, throughout the course of a day, a person encounters all kinds of experiences. Some moments are sweet and uplifting. Others are bitter, difficult, even painful. Some feel warm, comforting, and alive. Others feel cold, distant, and confusing. Life is not one flavor; it is a mixture.

The greatness of a Jew is the ability to take all of these elements and bring them together. Not to deny the bitterness, not to ignore the cold, but to integrate it all into something whole. Into a kaveh.

And then, over that very mixture, we make a bracha: shehakol nihyeh bidvaro—everything comes into being through His word. The bitter, the sweet, the hot, the cold—it is all part of one unified reality, all flowing from Hashem.

That is also hinted in the word itself: kaveh—to hope, to turn toward Hashem. When a person gathers the pieces of their day, even the conflicting ones, and recognizes that they all come from one Source, that itself becomes an act of connection, of emunah.

I once heard a powerful reflection from someone at the Kotel. He said that on Rosh Chodesh, during Hallel, we say: “Zeh hayom asa Hashem, nagilah venismechah bo—This is the day Hashem has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.”

He realized that this is not just about special days. It is about every single day.

Zeh hayom—this day, exactly as it is. Asa Hashem—Hashem made it this way. Nagilah venismechah bo—find a way to rejoice within it.

Some days begin smoothly; others start off difficult. Some are filled with clarity and success; others feel like a struggle from beginning to end. But each one is crafted with intention.

The avodah is not to wait for the perfect day. It is to recognize the day we have, in all its complexity, and to respond to it with awareness, with gratitude, and with joy.

Like a cup of coffee, life is not meant to be one-dimensional. It is meant to be blended—and then blessed.