By Rabbi Hillel Eisenberg
There was a young boy named Rafi, a child with special needs, who absolutely loved being in shul. He showed up early for davening, stayed late to help put siddurim back on the shelves, and offered assistance wherever he could. Though he couldn’t speak clearly, wasn’t always sure how to hold the siddur, and didn’t know the words, he showed up day in and day out with the consistency and devotion of a soldier. Years ago, before specialized schools were widely available, Rafi had no choice but to attend public school. And so, he made do.
As the winter season approached one year, Rafi’s school announced an upcoming holiday concert. Each student would go on stage in front of the entire school—faculty, students, and parents—and perform a seasonal song. Rafi was thrilled. He came home beaming and asked his parents if they could attend. They looked at their schedules and gently told him they’d be unable to come that day.
Rafi, disappointed but undeterred, went to shul that evening and approached the rav, Rabbi Shapiro.
“Rabbi,” he said with excitement and vulnerability, “my school is having a holiday concert and my parents can’t come. Can you come watch me?”
Rabbi Shapiro, who had a full plate—shiurim to deliver, speeches to prepare—replied, “Rafi, I’ll try. I’ll see what I can do.”
The day of the recital arrived, and Rabbi Shapiro, running late, rushed to the school. As he passed security, the guard looked up and asked, “Are you Rabbi Shapiro?”
Surprised, he replied yes.
“Good,” the guard said, “Rafi’s been asking for you.”
In the front office, the secretary stopped him again. “You’re Rabbi Shapiro? Rafi’s been telling us all week that you’re coming. He’s very excited.”
Rabbi Shapiro walked into a packed auditorium. The room was filled with hundreds of students, teachers, and parents gathered to watch the children perform one by one. Each child stepped up, sang a familiar X-Mas song, and received a round of applause. And then, it was Rafi’s turn.
Rafi couldn’t walk on stage by himself. He was escorted by teachers. He couldn’t sing with clarity. He couldn’t play the guitar he held. But he stood on that stage, strumming as best as he could, and with passion and pride, he sang:
"I had a little dreidel, I made it out of clay. And when it’s dry and ready, oh dreidel I shall play..."
He sang the song with a glowing smile, with joy, and with all the heart he had. When he finished, the room fell silent. No one knew the song. No one quite knew how to respond. And then, from the back of the auditorium, Rabbi Shapiro leapt to his feet and shouted: “Way to go, Rafi! That was amazing! Great job!” He clapped loudly, alone at first, until others joined in.
Now let’s pause and reflect for a moment. Did anyone else in that auditorium grasp the depth of a Jewish soul? Did Rafi fully understand the meaning of the dreidel? Did the audience know that the holiday they were celebrating is, at its core, a rejection of the Jewish people’s chosenness, while the dreidel represents our refusal to abandon who we are? No.
Did anyone there understand Rafi’s inner world—his fears, his pain, his doubts, his disabilities, his challenges? No.
But in Shamayim, in the heavens above, Hashem knew, and the angels understood. They listened to every word Rafi sang. They wept with emotion at his courage. They celebrated his performance, projecting it across the skies of Gan Eden for all the souls to witness.
People often make a painful mistake. They tell themselves: Who am I? I have dyslexia. I come from a broken home. I take fifteen pills a day. I was expelled from six high schools. I can’t sit through a shiur. I can’t focus on tefillah. I haven’t opened a siddur in a decade. I’m nothing.
That is a lie.
Every single soul in Klal Yisrael has a song. And the angels gather around to hear it. They don’t compare your voice to anyone else’s. They cry with you, they cheer with you, and they record your song in the heavenly archives. Because at the end of our lives, Hashem will not ask us how high we climbed up someone else’s mountain. He will only ask: did you climb yours?
He won’t ask how far you got compared to your neighbor, your friend, your rebbe, your sibling. He will ask, "Did you climb the mountain I gave you? Did you carry the load I placed on your shoulders? Did you fight through the obstacles I gave you?"
That is the only measure that matters.
Every person in Klal Yisrael is a soldier in Hashem’s army, tasked with a mission only they can fulfill. Every person is a unique star, illuminating the night sky that our ancestor Avraham was shown. Every melamed, every shoemaker, every mikveh attendant, every eruv checker, every sukkah builder, every shochet, every gabbai, every baal tokeia, every fundraiser, every struggling soul, every triumphant one—each one of us plays an irreplaceable role in the vast mosaic of the Jewish people.
We are the rainbow of Klal Yisrael. Each color essential, each shade divine.And we must live our lives with the awareness that in the eyes of Hashem, each of us is His only child. Because to Him—we are.
Reprinted from the Parshat Shlach 5785 email of The Torah Anytimes Newsletter.
