Clean Your Glasses

A young couple moves into a new neighborhood. The next morning while they are eating breakfast, the young woman sees her neighbor hanging the wash outside. "That laundry is not very clean; she doesn't know how to wash correctly. Perhaps she needs better laundry soap." Her husband looks on, remaining silent. Every time her neighbor hangs her wash to dry, the young woman makes the same comments. A month later, the woman is surprised to see a nice clean wash on the line and says to her husband: "Look, she's finally learned how to wash correctly. I wonder who taught her this? " The husband replies, "I got up early this morning and cleaned our windows." And so it is with life... What we see when watching others depends on the clarity of the window through which we look

Miracle On Dan Bus #4

Miracle on Dan Bus #4

ESOR BEN-SOREK 

It was a very hot day in July 1951. I was in Tel Aviv and too hot to walk. I boarded Dan bus #4 on the corner of Ben Yehuda and Gordon streets.

The bus was very crowded and there was no available seat. 

People were chatting, discussing with fervor the day’s news, each one offering a personal description of the political situation, everyone with a different opinion. As is common in Israel, every person holds himself to be the authentic source of “inside” information. This one said “I have a cousin in the police force and he told me……..” Another replied, “that doesn’t make any sense. My neighbor’s son is in the army and he was telling us……” And from the rear of the bus, a passenger shouted “who cares? Nothing will change soon”.

At each bus stop some passengers alighted and new passengers boarded. Now there were a few empty seats and I grabbed one in the middle of the bus.

As we approached another bus stop (I can’t remember which corner), three or four new passengers boarded. One elderly lady stepped up to the coin box next to the driver and deposited a few coins.

Suddenly, looking at the bus driver she gave a loud shriek. “Moishele, Moishele, Moishele mein kind.”

The driver jammed on the brakes, looked at the elderly woman and cried, “Mama, Mama, is it you Mama?”

Both were Holocaust survivors from Poland and each one thought the other one was dead.

Jumping up from his seat, the driver embraced his long-lost and presumed dead mother and both hugged and hugged and both wept bitter tears of joy.

All the passengers clapped hands. Several were weeping from the joy of seeing mother and son re-united. One passenger jumped off the bus and hailed the next approaching bus. He shared the news with the new driver and requested him to notify the Dan bus company to send a relief driver.

None of us left the bus. A relief driver appeared about half-hour later. Passengers sitting in the row behind the driver got up and gave the seats to the mother and son, still clutching one another and weeping with heart-wrenching sobs.

At some point, our original driver and his mother left the bus while all of us clapped hands and the Yiddish-speaking passengers shouted “Mazal tov. Mazal tov. Tzu gezunt. A sach nachas”.

I never knew where they were going. Probably to the driver’s home so his mother could meet his wife and her new grandchild.

All of us were so filled with emotion that it was difficult to contain ourselves. There was not a dry eye among our passengers.

It was a hot July day in 1951. But I will never forget the miracle on Dan bus #4 on that very happy day.



  

LOL

 My first job was working in an Orange Juice factory ,

     but I got canned . I could not concentrate .

2. Then, I worked in the woods as a Lumberjack,

     but just couldn't hack it  - so they gave me the axe.

3. After that, I tried being a Tailor, but wasn't suited for it

    --mainly because it was a sew-sew job, and people liked to hem and haw about the price.

4. Next, I tried working in a Muffler Factory,

    but that was too exhausting.

5. Then, I tried being a Chef - figured it would add a

    little spice to my life, but just didn't have the thyme.

6. Next, I attempted being a Deli Worker,

    but any way I sliced it.... I couldn't cut the mustard.

7. My best job was a Musician, but eventually found

    I wasn't noteworthy.

8. I studied a long time to become a Doctor, but

   didn't have any patience.

9. Next, was a job in a Shoe Factory.

    I tried hard but just didn't fit in.

10. I became a Professional Fisherman,

      but I couldn't live on my net income.

11. Managed to get a good job working for a Pool

      Maintenance Company, but the work was just too

     draining.

12. So then I got a job in a  Workout  Center ,

       but they said I wasn't fit for the job..

13. After many years of trying to find steady work ,

      I finally got a job as a Historian - until I realized

     there was no future in it.

14. My last job was working in Starbucks,

      but had to quit because it was the same old grind.

15 . SO, I TRIED RETIREMENT

AND I FOUND I'M PERFECT FOR THE

JOB ---

Every Last Moment

EVERY LAST MOMENT

This morning, I said Kaddish for my father for the 333rd time

by Anndee Hochman 

March 19, 2016



I said it on our deck, in the early morning, while the coffee maker hissed. I said it in a pocket park on West 56th Street in Manhattan. I said it while standing calf-deep in Atlantic surf, eyeing the gray seam where ocean was soldered to sky.

And this morning, I said Kaddish for my father for the 333rd time.

It's the Jewish custom, when someone very close to you dies, to say the mourners' prayer daily for eleven months, beginning at the burial. Then you stop, cold turkey, and recite the prayer again on the yahrzeit, the one-year anniversary of the death. You're supposed to say Kaddish in a minyan—that is, a group of at least ten Jewish adults—but when I voiced my reluctance to head for the nearest Conservative synagogue with a daily service, my rabbi suggested I could say Kaddish anywhere. "Let the trees be your minyan," she said.

I took her literally. In those first ragged days after my father died, I slipped outdoors each morning to murmur the prayer under the dogwood and lilac branches that arch over our deck. I needed a cheat sheet back then, a handy card from the funeral home that had the Hebrew on one side and a transliteration on the other: Yitgadal ve-yitkadash sh'mei raba …

I couldn't get through the prayer without sobbing.

The lilac buds uncorked into purplish blossoms, the dogwood flowers sprang open, lasted a lovely little while, then flecked the ground like confetti. The next-door neighbor told us she was pregnant. My daughter graduated from middle school, and we celebrated with a sushi lunch. An arborist's crew mixed up their work order and chopped down the dogwood tree; the stump wept sap for days. Every moment ached with my father's absence.

I kept saying Kaddish, a skein of words to steady me as I wobbled through weeks, months. After a while, I didn't need the little card anymore, and I whispered the prayer wherever I happened to be, at whatever time of day I thought about my dad: while braiding challah on a Friday afternoon; while running past cornfields near Canada's Lake St. Clair; while raking leaves and yanking out the wizened tomato vines. Y'hei sh'mei raba m'varakh l'alam u-l'almei almaya.

The birch leaves turned the color of lemon custard, and the Kaddish became my walking prayer, my swimming prayer, my scrubbing-caked-flour-off-the-cutting-board prayer, braided more and more into the weft of each day. Sometimes I forgot to say it until evening; I'd turn out the kitchen lights and stand at the back door, staring into darkness, unable to see where our yard ended and the neighbors' yards began.

I said Kaddish when winter licked frostily under the doors and my daughter bundled herself in my dad's gray cashmere turtleneck. I said it while cross-country skiing down the block after an epic January storm, and the next day, while shoveling crusty snow from the foot of the driveway.

And as winter yielded to a crazy-warm spring, I began to count backward: Twenty-one more days of saying Kaddish. Fifteen. Six. Three. One.

At college graduation, we toss our tassels from right to left, a gesture of finality and commencement. I remember the ultimate moment in my first apartment, giving one last, grateful glance to the 12'x17' room that had been my home for two years, and the metallic ting of the trunk on my red Nissan just before the old couple from Forest Grove drove it out.

But most of the time, last moments become "last" only in hindsight. I had a guitar lesson on a Monday night in February, and eight days later, my teacher dropped dead of heart failure. The night of the lesson I didn't know would be my last, I opened my teacher's unlocked front door, said hey to his dog and bumped my guitar downstairs to the grubby basement studio.

In retrospect, it all quivers with meaning—the Lucy Kaplansky song I was muddling through, with its chorus of, "Ohh ... it's time to go/It's a dirty trick/this growing old"; the way Richard scrounged for a pencil to chart the chords. I'm pretty sure I said goodbye—I hope I said "thank you," too—as I handed him the check.

My father has been gone nearly a year; my guitar teacher, less than two weeks. The lilac is in bud again, and the dogwood sapling the arborist planted to rectify his mistake is stretching its thin arms toward a seamless blue sky. The neighbors had their baby, a boy they call Ellison. This morning, I ran to the Wissahickon woods, two miles from our home, and said Kaddish for the last time amid the tik-tik of a woodpecker, the creek water sighing toward ocean.

In a story by Donald Barthelme, about a grade-school class that suffers a rash of calamities, including the deaths of class pets, parents and fellow students, the kids ask their teacher, "Is death that which gives meaning to life?" The teacher responds, "No, life is that which gives meaning to life."

Any moment could be—no, is—the last of its kind. You'll wash those dishes again in 24 hours, but you'll be a day older, altered minutely or profoundly in a world revised, ever so slightly, by your presence in it. Today is the last day you'll scrub the plate exactly like this, with the sun arrowing through the window so hard it hurts to squint into the morning-soaked back yard, in this kitchen where you once paced with your infant daughter footballed under your arm, where you twisted the cork from the chilled bottle of Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc your father had just carried into the room, where you sat on the tile floor while your partner cooked and played guitar for the sheer joy of it, as your teacher taught you, the only reason to take up music in middle age.

You know you can't live like this, seething and heartbroken and ecstatic and aware, so aware, that every passing second whispers farewell. One day, you'll notice and cherish; another, you'll buzz through and forget. And then something—a sip of wine, a word, a chord, a death—will pierce through and remind you.

When the rabbi suggested I could skirt daily service attendance by calling the trees my minyan, she wasn't telling me to make the prayer more expedient—just more expansive: Life is holy. Grief is everywhere. Love is always.

Oseh shalom bi-m'romav, hu ya'aseh shalom aleinu v'al kol Yisrael, v'al kol Ishmael, v'al kol yoshvei tevel v'imru amen.

 

Teachers

Heartwarming Story

By Rabbi Eisenman

 

Bigger and Holy Group

 

A pilgrimage to Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Hospital is a prerequisite for anyone considering a career which involves Chessed.

On second thought, it is a prerequisite to being a compassionate human being.

 If you are looking for a model of compassionate care and unconditional acceptance of all, spend an hour at “Sloan”.

On Friday morning February 12th with the temperature struggling to reach double digits, I returned to the place where so many people from all over the globe turn their hopes and their prayers.

On this day it did not look like a world class cancer center that it is; rather, it was akin to a third world field hospital.

There were patients on gurneys lining the halls.

 Many of these patients had spent the night in the hallway.

This was because the hospital never turns anyone away.

 They were functioning at 118% capacity as every single bed in the hospital was occupied!

I saw nurses patiently attempting to communicate and calm patients whose mother tongue was Hindi, or Punjabi; the nurses struggled to make themselves understood and to help the patients.

The fellow who I was visiting informed me that he would be staying over Shabbos.

 When I inquired as to what he would be eating, he said there was nothing to worry about as there are Shabbos rooms stocked with supplies, Chulent and Kugel.

He also mentioned that Satmar Bikur Cholim provides individual Shabbos containers including a silver-like Kiddush Becher, a small table cloth and disposable hospital approved candles.

I marveled at the Chesed the Bikur Cholim societies provide to Jews they don’t even know.

On the way out I noticed the Shabbos rooms and could not resist taking a peak to see for myself.

I was awed.

In the refrigerator were individual portions of Gefillte fish with small individual containers of horseradish, mayonnaise, and many other dips.

I was impressed by the care put into making each serving just right.

There were stacks of newspapers in Hebrew, Yiddish and English; all for the taking.

Suddenly I realized I only had one hour on my meter and as anyone in New York knows: never be late for your meter!

As I reached the vehicle I noticed a policeman removing his large ticket issuing device from his back pocket.

As I approached him he said, “I’m sorry; however, your time is up.”

However, before he actually wrote the summons, he eyed me in a strange sort of way.

 He was looking at my beard and studying my face. Suddenly he asked, “Hey, are you one of those guys who work for the “Bigger and Holy Group?”

I had no idea what he was referring to; so I asked him, “What is the Bigger and Holy Group”?

“You know, the group of people who look like you with the beards and hats who visit the sick and distribute food to those in the hospital and their families; they always tell me they are the ‘bigger holy group’”

I slowly said to myself, ‘bigger and holy….. Bigger and holy…? What could he mean? When suddenly like a light bulb I began to hear myself say, “Bigger n’ Holy…. Biggur n’ holim… Bikur Cholim!!!

“You must mean the Bikur Cholim group!” I said.

The officer looked at me and answered, “Yes, that’s what I said, the Bigger and Holy group!”

“No, sorry, I’m not part of the “Bigger and Holy group; however, I’m familiar with their work.”

“So even if you are not an official part of the group you are still “one of them”, isn’t that correct?”

“Yes officer, I know what you mean, I am one of them”

“Well in that case, you can go. No ticket for you today.”

“Officer, I don’t understand. What does the “Bigger and Holy Group” have to do with my not getting a summons?”

The officer explained, “This morning, when it was about 9 degrees, a guy approaches me who looked like you; you know- big guy with a big hat and a big beard? And he says, “Excuse me, it’s very cold today please take this thermos of hot coffee and these Danishes.”

“I said, “You know I’m not Jewish; why are you giving me this food?”

“He says, “All of us, Jew and non-Jew are created in G-d’s image. (See Avos 3:14) It’s freezing outside, you need to stay warm; please take this.”

“If he could do that for me on a cold day like today, I can do a nice thing back to one of his friends; no? After all, we’re all connected.”

I looked at the policeman and thought back to the hospital full of people of all religions and ethnicities and of the equal and compassionate care they all receive, “Yes officer you so right, we are all connected.”

 

C

Great lesson

🌷Viktor Frankl, one of the great psychiatrists of the twentieth century, survived the death camps of Nazi Germany. HiViktor Frankl, one of the great psychiatrists of the twentieth century, survived the death camps of Nazi Germany. His little book, Man’s Search for Meaning, is one of those life-changing books that everyone should read.

Frankl once told the story of a woman who called him in the middle of the night to calmly inform him she was about to commit suicide. Frankl kept her on the phone and talked her through her depression, giving her reason after reason to carry on living. Finally she promised she would not take her life, and she kept her word. 

When they later met, Frankl asked which reason had persuaded her to live?  

"None of them", she told him. 

What then influenced her to go on living, he pressed?  

Her answer was simple, it was Frankl’s willingness to listen to her in the middle of the night. A world in which there was someone ready to listen to another's pain seemed to her a world in which it was worthwhile to live.

Often, it is not the brilliant argument that makes the difference. Sometimes the small act of listening is the greatest gift we can give.s little book, Man’s Search for Meaning, is one of those life-changing books that everyone should read.

My Encounter 2014 Highlight Reel

Purim Farbrengen 5723 - 1963

Windows To The Soul - The Lubavitcher Rebbe

A Child Falls Asleep Near The Rebbe

Ep. 108: Should We Project Different Faces? Importance of Cholov Yisroel...

Shira ft. Horowitz & Chaim Green – Aaron Teitelbaum Production | שירה, ה...

Purim Mix 2016 - Shimi Levy

Happiness Jar

Niggun Tzomah Lcha Nafshi sung @ a Farbrengen with The Lubavitcher Rebbe

From Christian Pastor To Jewish Rabbi (Conversion to Judaism)

From Christian Pastor To Jewish Rabbi (Conversion to Judaism)

The Jewish Orthodox Community of New York

Kids Say the Jewish Things

"Zaidy" by Moshe Yess

The Tablecloth

THE TABLECLOTH

The brand new Rabbi and his wife were newly assigned to their first congregation to reopen a Shul in suburban Brooklyn. They arrived in early February excited about their opportunities. When they saw their Shul, it was very run down and needed much work. They set a goal to have everything done in time to have their first service on Erev Purim. They worked hard, repairing aged pews, plastering walls, painting, etc., and on 8th of the Adar (February 17th) they were ahead of schedule and just about finished. On February 19 a terrible snowstorm hit the area and lasted for two days. On the 21st, the Rabbi went over to the Shul. His heart sank when he saw that the roof had leaked, causing a large area of plaster about 20 feet by 8 feet to fall off the e front wall of the sanctuary just behind the pulpit, beginning about head high. The Rabbi cleaned up the mess on the floor, and not knowing what else to do but postpone the Erev Purim service, headed home.

On the way home, he noticed that a local business was having a flea market type sale for charity, so he stopped in. One of the items was a beautiful, handmade, ivory coloured, crocheted tablecloth with exquisite work, fine colours and a Magen David embroidered right in the centre. It was just the right size to cover the hole in the front wall. He bought it and headed back to the Shul. By this time it had started to snow. An older woman running from the opposite direction was trying to catch the bus. She missed it. The Rabbi invited her to wait in the warm Shul for the next bus 45 minutes later. She sat in a pew and paid no attention to the Rabbi while he got a ladder, hangers, etc., to put up the tablecloth as a wall tapestry. The Rabbi could hardly believe how beautiful it looked and it covered up the entire problem area.

Then the Rabbi noticed the woman walking down the centre aisle. Her face was like a sheet. "Rabbi, "she asked, "where did you get that tablecloth?" The Rabbi explained. The woman asked him to check the lower right corner to see if the initials, EBG were crocheted into it there. They were. These were the initials of the woman, and she had made this tablecloth 35 years before, in Poland. The woman could hardly believe it as the Rabbi told how he had just gotten "The Tablecloth".

The woman explained that before the war she and her husband were well-to-do people in Poland. When the Nazis came, she was forced to leave. Her husband was going to follow her the next week. He was captured, sent to a camp and she never saw her husband or her home again. The Rabbi wanted to give her the tablecloth; but she made the Rabbi keep it for the Shul. The Rabbi insisted on driving her home. That was the least he could do. She lived on the other side of Staten Island and was only in Brooklyn for the day for a housecleaning job.

What a wonderful service they had on Erev Purim. The Shul was almost full. The Service was great. At the end of the service, the Rabbi and his wife greeted everyone at the door and many said that they would return. One older man, whom the Rabbi recognized from the neighborhood continued to sit in one of the pews and stare, and the Rabbi wondered why he wasn't leaving. The man asked him where he got the tablecloth on the front wall because it was identical to one that his wife had made years ago when they lived in Poland before the war and how could there be two tablecloths so much alike? He told the Rabbi how the Nazis came, how he forced his wife to flee for her safety and he was supposed to follow her, but he was arrested and put in a camp. He never saw his wife or his home again all the 35 years between.

The Rabbi asked him if he would allow him to take him for a little ride. They drove to Staten Island and to the same house where the Rabbi had taken the woman three days earlier. He helped the man climb the three flights of stairs to the woman's apartment, knocked on the door and he saw the greatest Erev Purim reunion he could ever imagine.

The above is a true story. “God” does work in mysterious ways!

Take 60 seconds and give this a shot! All you do is simply say the following small prayer for the person who sent this to you:

"Hashem, bless all my friends and family in whatever it is that You know they may be needing this day! May their lives be full of Your peace, prosperity and power as they seek to have a closer relationship with You. Amen."

Now send it on to five other people,
including the one who sent it to you. Within hours five people have prayed for you and you caused a multitude of people to pray for other people. Then, sit back and watch the power of Hashem work in your life.

PS: Five is good, but more is better. But only if you wish. Nothing bad will happen to you if you don't send. GOD BLESS and GZNT.

MURRAY ROSENTHAL
DEERFIELD BEACH FL

The hospital window

http://youtu.be/82d84rn306M

Shidduch Scene

ATTENTION ALL PARENTS AND SINGLES ON THE “SHIDDUCH” SCENE 

By, Toby Lieder

Some practical advise to all the people involved on the “shidduch” scene. Let me share with you what I have discovered from my own professional personal experiences as a shadchan, from interviewing 100s of singles on Skype, and from the 100s of conversations I had with singles and their parents, over the years. Here are some of the reasons, in my opinion only, why today things are so much harder in finding the right “shidduch”. Years ago, when a possible idea of a shidduch was presented, they would ask only a few very important questions about the possible candidate, covering these few subjects: * Yiras Shomayim * Generosity, Kindness * Personality * Home, Family environment * Future? Shlichus, Work Things were so much simpler. If someone qualified, then the parents with an idea would approach the single, and usually the single would agree to the idea, trusting the parents made all the necessary research etc. (This is speaking in general terms, majority of the way, things were done back in the days….) Come take a peak inside the work of a fulltime shadchan. (I do this, not only from 9-5, but through some nights as well, due to the time differences) Today, I have been trying to put together at least, say for example, 50 shidduchim. That means at least 100 interactions with both sides asking lots of questions. That means, Skype interviews for at least 1 hour each one. (By appointment) That means, whatsapp activity (on the spot answers) running most of the day, asking varying questions about each side. That means, Emails to read and answer. I aim to reply within 24 hours most of the time. That means, any time of the day there will be phone calls, messages and what not, to fit in between the action. That means, updating my database daily with new profiles and photos That means that 45 out of the 50 (just an example) which means most of them, will not work out. Most of the suggested ideas just blow away with the wind as a name gets suggested and investigated, and dismissed. That also means, that all your hard work with countless hours keeps going down the drain… From the 50 shidduchim being worked on only 5 will continue to date till about the 5th date and only 3 maybe will get engaged. What motivates me to continue doing it with such a small return success rate? 2 things Firstly, is knowing, even ‘one’ engagement is creating many many generations for the future! How rewarding to know that you have the zchus to be part of such a huge mitzvah Secondly, I have a passion to work with people to help them reach their goals and understand their vision, what’s important to them, and help them go for it! Now lets understand why today, shidduchim are so much harder then before. This is from my experiences only. It is not the facts. Only my observations. 1. We, Parents today are asking too many questions 2. We, Parents today are too judgmental, and not open minded enough to go beyond the borders, the limitations they set so rigidly for their kids. 3. We, Parents are requesting a photo of the possible candidate. Please tell me how many times we were actually deceived by the photo? Years ago nobody dared ask for a photo. If the person qualified, we knew it was up to the singles to see if there was attraction or not when they go out. Don’t we all know, from the good books, that beauty is in the eyes of the beholder? (And not the parents eyes?) (I had a supposedly popular) good frum chassidishe bochur look at a photo of a girl I sent him for a shidduch, by request, and he said, “ Sorry, not for me, I don’t feel anything”!!!!!!!!!! From the photo, he didn’t ‘feel’ anything, so he said “no thank you”. No wonder why! I was shocked! And how many times we, parents look at the photo and say “ no thank you, its not what were looking for she’s a bit too plump” Or he’s not that good looking like she expected….” And we actually forfeit all these good amazing shidduchim presented to them, for ridiculous self-centered reasons, in my opinion. Let the singles go out and find out for themself! They may find favor in the eyes of the possible candidate and not see anything wrong at all, when getting to know the awesome qualities this person possesses. 4. We, Parents are choosing what suits us; the parent’s name is at stake here, not necessarily considering the individual, if they are actually suitable. It’s about everything else surrounding the single. (I’ve heard parents say, “I cant see myself with that family, Or, “they are too nerdy, we need more classier” Or, “ His brother was on drugs so we don’t want to be involved with such people” Or, “ I heard one of the siblings went off the derech, We want to stick to aigeneh” Or, “His family moved around the country too often, something must be wrong.” And I’m not kidding. 5. Mothers! Fathers! Please let it go. If someone basically qualifies, (as in the olden days) the above 5 qualities are investigated, and generally it sounds like a possible candidate, please “LET IT GO” and let your child go out with the possible shidduch presented to them! This may be their bashert! Who knows what your holding back? 6. If the single you are hearing about for your child, somewhat complies to be a possible candidate; has Yiras Shomayim (which you will investigate and find out) and is a kind person, Go For It! 7. Dear parents, I am sorry to say, Maybe, it is us, we are holding back most of the shidduchim from happening. I know because I am there “In It”; I hear it, I see it, I experience it. 8. Parents, Can I advise you something? Maybe we can get ourself a good therapist or Mashpiah, that deals specifically with shidduchim, and is familiar with all this, and talk it out with the therapist/therapist, until we realize how most of the limitations we as parents are putting on our kids shidduchim, are related to “OUR OWN UNRESOLVED issues!”, Only maybe. (Maybe like a second chance to get it right this time!) or (mabe by getting the ‘perfect’ shidduch for our child , we look good) or (mabe there’s somebody ‘better’ that has more fringe benefits then the last one!) I know one thing for sure. I know, if we, as parents “let go”, And allow our kids to go out with someone that generally qualifies, (as in the above 5 qualities) We will definitely have happier kids that will have better chances of meeting more people that may allow them the chances they need to get the right shidduch! BOTTOM LINE Can we all decide together to ban the photo-sharing concept in shidduchim Can we be more accepting of people’s backgrounds? Can we all decide together to let go of our own insecurities, and consider our child’s future to be of paramount importance, top priority! Can we decide to give everyone that basically qualifies, the chance to find out for themselves, without our prior judgments? Can we filter and overlook all the Loshon Horah, and unnecessary slander (that is usually proven to be not true) about possible candidates, that may be blocking a possible shidduch Can we be Melamed Zchus a bit more often, and try and see the good in the person we are looking into. Every person comes with good and not so good. Nobody’s going to be perfect So, lets try n focus on the good qualities, a bit more then the ones that aren’t there! Can we please consider to be open to at least listen with dignity, patience, and respect as a name is being suggested to us? Can we remember to believe in Hashgocha Protis, that everything is from Hashem and Hashem does nothing by accident? Every dot is preplanned. The fact that a name came up to you, is meant to be, for some reason. What would YOU add?

Wow Story

One young man went to apply for a managerial position in a big company. He passed the initial interview, and now would meet the director for the final interview.

The director discovered from his CV that the youth's academic achievements were excellent. He asked, "Did you obtain any scholarships in school?" the youth answered "no."

"Was it your father who paid for your school fees?"

"My father passed away when I was one year old, it was my mother who paid for my school fees.” he replied.

"Where did your mother work?"

"My mother worked as a clothes cleaner.”

The director requested the youth to show his hands. The youth showed a pair of hands that were smooth and perfect.

"Have you ever helped your mother wash the clothes before?"

"Never, my mother always wanted me to study and read more books. Besides, my mother can wash clothes faster than me.

The director said, "I have a request. When you go home today, go and clean your mother's hands, and then see me tomorrow morning.

The youth felt that his chance of landing the job was high. When he went back home, he asked his mother to let him clean her hands. His mother felt strange, happy but with mixed feelings, she showed her hands to her son.

The youth cleaned his mother's hands slowly. A tear fell as he did that. It was the first time he noticed that his mother's hands were so wrinkled, and there were so many bruises in her hands. Some bruises were so painful that his mother winced when he touched it.

This was the first time the youth realized that it was this pair of hands that washed the clothes everyday to enable him to pay the school fees. The bruises on the mother's hands were the price that the mother had to pay for his education, his school activities and his future.

After cleaning his mother's hands, the youth quietly washed all the remaining clothes for his mother.

That night, mother and son talked for a very long time.

Next morning, the youth went to the director's office.

The Director noticed the tears in the youth's eyes, when he asked: "Can you tell me what have you done and learned yesterday in your house?"

The youth answered, "I cleaned my mother's hands, and also finished cleaning all the remaining clothes."

“I know now what appreciation is. Without my mother, I would not be who I am today. By helping my mother, only now do I realize how difficult and tough it is to get something done on your own. And I have come to appreciate the importance and value of helping one’s family.

The director said, "This is what I am looking for in a manager. I want to recruit a person who can appreciate the help of others, a person who knows the sufferings of others to get things done, and a person who would not put money as his only goal in life.”

“You are hired.”

This young person worked very hard, and received the respect of his subordinates. Every employee worked diligently and worked as a team. The company's performance improved tremendously.

You can let your child live in a big house, eat a good meal, learn piano, watch on a big screen TV. But when you are cutting grass, please let them experience it. After a meal, let them wash their plates and bowls together with their brothers and sisters. It is not because you do not have money to hire a maid, but it is because you want to love them in a right way. You want them to understand, no matter how rich their parents are, one day their hair will grow gray, same as the mother of that young person. The most important thing your child can learn is how to appreciate the effort and experience the difficulties of life.  

 

Rebbe visits Gan Yisroel Camp

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eM8rMGsy8i4&sns=em

"Not Shayich"

What an article!!  OMG

http://www.collive.com/show_news.rtx?id=32874&alias=why-am-i-not-shayech

Wall

Be Great

Somebody

Best

Someday

Life

3 things

Parenting

You Never Told Your Mom

Be Happy

Hugs Go A Long Way

Way!!

My Fathers Yortzeit

In honor of my fathers yortzeit, Rabbi Yossi Goldstein
By, Toby lieder (Goldstein)
I immediately thought of my father!
There is so much to say
It would take a whole day
To begin to describe my dad
I'm feeling so sad
Sad that's he's not here
To chat and chuckle and share
He always found the humor in everything
He used to laugh and sing
Especially dance his own dance
One foot in front and a high bounce
My father made us aware of healthy eating
Always reminding us to have an apple before noshing
Positive reinforcement was his second nature
Always a good word to even a stranger
Who remembers?
Friday night after candle-lighting in our home
Machon chana girls and women would come
My father's Tanya lessons would be their weekly inspiration
Together with the smell of my mothers Just baked challahs what a sensation
My father taught me to always say a good to word to anyone
He was friendly to everyone
MY FATHER taught me words like ducks back
(do you know what that means?)
Just like a ducks back is slippery when someone annoys you let it slide right off like a ducks back !
MY FATHER Taught me
Never loose your temper always stay calm and stay cool
That went a long way with me raising 14 kids! I stood by that rule!
MY FATHER taught me
To talk to 'all types ' of people in the same respectable way
In invited them in to our home any given day
MY FATHER taught me
To say amen as many times as we can (he'd say a Brocha loud on purpose for us to say
He explained that angels are created with our amens each day
MY FATHER taught me
Gam Zu ltova this too is for good
He never criticised or said a bad word
Whenever in his presence you felt really good
MY FATHER taught me
About nature,planets,the oceans and the ski
Inspired us with Hashems creations through my fathers eyes
MY FATHER taught us
To have fun and enjoy life to its fullest glory
He loved classicAl music, played the piano and told awesome stories
MY FATHER taught us
To appreciate nostalgia,
old movies from the Rebbe entertained us all
Each moitzay shabbos he'd take out his old movie projector and we'd have a ball!
MY FATHER taught us
To laugh and play and be happy and be a kid
He always had a joke for us ready on his lip
MY FATHER tAught us
The appreciation of the Rebbe
He ingrained in us the love and respect for the Rebbe from early on
Him being a true role model of a real chosid and Yiras shomayim
MY FATHER taught us
Through his stories of tzadikim and lessons for life
We'd live by those lessons today they all all still alive!
MY FATHER taught me
To laugh and find the humor in everything we hear and see
He just knew how to turn sad into happy ,dark into light, incredible was he!
MY FATHER taught me
To be confident
He always said "chin up" shoulders back walk like a king smile to the world the world would smile back!
My father always complimented me on 'anything' he can
He made me feel I can draw I can lead I can be I can have I can do anything I want to
He made me believe I was awesome! Imagine your kids saying that about you! Do you make your kids believe that they are awesome!??
People felt good in his presence
They were drawn to him
He made you feel good
He brought out the good in you
Not just me
But every person he met
Every of the 1300 students he was principal in Bais Yaakov Boro park will tell you they each felt special
From my father I learn to
Treat every person equally
Love life
Laugh a whole lot
Share jokes
Look for the good in people
And a whole lot more
Do you know my dad!???????
Do you have something nice to add?
Please share
Toby Lieder

WHAT A WARM STORY

🌷 What a Warm Story

The phone rang in my New York hotel room. It was 1995, and I was saying Kaddish for my late father, of blessed memory, Joseph Jacobovici. I live in Toronto, but I'm a filmmaker so I move around.

During my eleven months of saying Kaddish, I ended up in various minyans from San Francisco to Halifax. Once, I extended a stopover in Detroit and rushed to the basement of an old synagogue, where I was greeted by nine octogenarians as if I were the Messiah himself. But the phone call in New York was the start of what turned out to be perhaps the most interesting Kaddish experience of them all.

Whenever I had to explain this, people never quite got itI had just finished a documentary film called "The Selling of Innocents." The film won an Emmy, attracting the attention of Oprah Winfrey, the American icon and celebrated TV host. The producer at the other end of the telephone line asked if I could fly to Chicago and appear with my fellow producers on the Oprah show the day after next.

I was taken aback. This was the Oprah show. The big time. Great publicity for the film, and a great promotional opportunity for me and my company.

"I'd love to do it," I said, "but I don't think I can."

"Why not?" the producer asked, her voice betraying her surprise. Nobody says "too busy" to the Oprah show.

"I have a problem," I answered.

The producer's voice, Lisa was her name, became steely-- all business. "What's the problem?" she asked.

"It's complicated."

"Try me," she said.

I began the process of explaining, to a non-Jewish television producer from Chicago, the Jewish ritual of Kaddish.

Whenever I had to explain this, people never quite got it. I would tell them that I need a minyan, and they would drive me to an empty synagogue... It never quite worked out. But this was Oprah.

So I gave it a try.

The rest unfolded like a military operation "I'm Jewish. My father passed away. In our religion it's incumbent upon me, three times a day, to say a certain prayer, a glorification of G‑d's Name, really. It's called Mourner's Kaddish. To do this, I need to be in a 'Jewish quorum.' It's called a minyan... So I can't miss this ritual. If I come to Chicago, I would have to attend morning services prior to being on Oprah."

"No problem," she said. "You need a minyan to say Kaddish. Ten Jewish men. For morning services. I'll arrange it."

"It's not so simple," I said. "You may find a synagogue, but it might not have a minyan in the morning. Or the Jewish community may send you to a synagogue that's open... which wouldn't do the trick for me."

Lisa tried to be patient. "I'll fax your flight information to your hotel. You will be met in Chicago by a limo. The driver will have the minyan information. You will say Kaddish for your father."

The rest unfolded like a military operation. The next day the ticket came. I arrived in Chicago. Then the limo came. The driver took me to a hotel and said, "I'll be here at 6:30 a.m. Your minyan begins at 7 a.m. I'll pick you up at 8 a.m. You'll be at the Oprah show by 8:30 a.m."

The hotel room was beautiful. I slept like a baby. At 6:30 in the morning, I came down and stepped into my limo. There was a newspaper on the seat.

I could get used to this, I thought.

The driver pulled up in front of a downtown office building and told me that there was a Chabad Lubavitch minyan on one of the upper floors.

When I got there, the rabbi looked at me and said, "So you're the guy saying Kaddish. I was warned by the Oprah show that I'd better have a minyan."

We smiled at each other. I was really impressed with Lisa and Oprah. And I felt that my father was surely amused. After prayers, my driver took me to the Oprah show. I was met by Lisa, a black woman in her thirties. She got straight to the point.

"You had a minyan?"

"Yes, thank you," I said.

"Was it proper? Did you say Kaddish?"

"Absolutely. Couldn't be better," I answered.

She looked at me with that look that star surgeons have when they come out of the operating room. Or maybe it's the look that battle commanders have when coming back from a military operation. It's a look that says, "Nothing is too complicated."

I was on Oprah. She was very professional. I had my five minutes of fame. But all I can remember of that day is the Kaddish.

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