I’d known David for a long time. He’d been coming to Chabad for a while, and was a beloved member of our community.
When we celebrated the birth of our daughter, David called to congratulate us, offering his most sincere and joyous Mazal tovs.
“I have a baby gift for you,” he told me. “Can I come over now to show it to you?”
David arrived about twenty minutes later, radiating barely contained emotion. He held a brown folder tightly against his chest, smoothing its cover every so often with unconscious strokes.
“I didn’t have it easy growing up,” he began, once he’d sat at the table with a cup of coffee. “My parents attended a synagogue at one point, but they moved to another part of town and never bothered finding a replacement. So I grew up knowing next to nothing about my Judaism.
“My parents both died when I was a teen, leaving me to patch up the broken pieces of my future. I felt lost and rudderless, so when I saw an ad asking for volunteers in Israel to replace workers who’d been called to serve in the Gulf War, I thought it was the perfect solution to all my problems.
“I joined a kibbutz and soon settled into my new routine. I made friends and was starting to envision a future, when tragedy struck. I was working in the fields with a group of friends, when terrorists opened fire on us. A few friends from my group died, and I was injured badly.
“The next few weeks were devastating. I mourned the loss of my friends and felt stifled by my immobility. I was an athlete who loved running around and being active, and I was going out of my mind confined to a wheelchair that relentlessly taunted me with the reality of my blighted future. When I finally recovered enough to hobble back on my feet, I flew back to America.
“I was extremely depressed and lost. I was coming out of the train station in Chicago one day, engrossed in thought, when a New York Times article caught my eye.”
IllumiNations
David pulled a yellowed newspaper from the brown folder with deferential care. It was dated July 8, 1994, just a few weeks after the Rebbe passed away. It was a full page ad with the catchy title, Turn pain into action; tears into growth. A large picture of the Rebbe beamed up from the page.
“I didn’t know who the Rabbi in the newspaper was, but I was immediately drawn to his kind, compassionate face. Just looking at his picture brought me a measure of comfort. The words on the top of the page seemed written expressly for me, and I bought a copy of the paper on the spot. I hung up the ad on my wall, and every time I looked at it, it brought me a renewed sense of peace and purpose. I slowly began to rebuild my life. Whenever I moved, this newspaper moved along with me, and it was the first thing I hung on the walls of my new home.”
David paused for a moment, breathing deeply and gathering his thoughts.
“At some point, I realized there were some other words written on the side. See? Mah zar’o b’chayim, af hu b’chayim - as his children are alive, he is alive. Now that you’ve had another child, I thought it would be a fitting gift for you. This newspaper is my most treasured item and it changed my life. Now that I know so much about the Rebbe’s work all over the world and I see your family growing, it deserves to be with you - a child of the Rebbe who is keeping the Rebbe’s legacy alive by being here in Alaska, continuing to change the lives of countless Jews.”
I accepted the gift with humble appreciation, and it now occupies a prominent spot in my office.
