There’s a young man in a community—he’s 19 years old. A truly wonderful kid. But he’s had his ups and downs when it comes to religious observance. At times, he was distant from Jewish practice, struggling with putting on tefillin and other sorts of things.
Over the summer, and even more so when we returned to Brooklyn, he kept reaching out to me. “Rabbi, I want to meet with you. I really want to talk.” And I kept pushing it off. Not because I didn’t care, but because—well, life is full of distractions. It’s easy to say, “I’m busy,” and to let things slide. It’s easy to let the urgent crowd out the important.
Eventually, I told him, “Let’s meet Thursday afternoon, 3:30, the day after Yom Kippur. Come to my house.” “No problem, Rabbi," he said. "I’ll be there.” And sure enough, he arrived at 3:25. For a teenager, showing up five minutes early is practically a miracle, especially on a block with terrible parking.
We started talking. I knew he had started putting on tefillin again and was keeping Shabbat a bit more consistently, though it was still a struggle. “I’m trying," he said. "I’m here because I want to grow. I want a connection. I want to talk.”
“Great," I replied. "Come upstairs to my office.” But, as he had walked in, I noticed that he hadn’t come wearing a kippah. “Would you mind if I got you one?” I asked. “No, not at all,” he said. “I’m sorry—I forgot to bring one.”
I walked over to my bedroom, which is on the same floor. In the closet, there’s a shelf—higher up—where we keep a small container of extra kippot. Old ones, spares, just in case. I reached up, pulled one out, and walked back into my study.
As I opened it up, I saw something that stopped me in my tracks. It was his bar mitzvah kippah, with his name and date of bar mitzvah.
I am not exaggerating. I’m telling you this exactly as it happened. I honestly still think it sounds made up. I don’t even know why I have that box of kippot—this is a rabbi’s home. We wear kippot. We don’t need a stash of old ones. And if you’re visiting, most people bring their own anyway. And yet—there it was. His kippah.
This wasn’t coincidence. This was Hashem whispering to this young man: I see you. I know you’re trying. I’m holding your hand. You’re not in this struggle alone. And this isn’t a fight you’re meant to lose.
This is a fight you're meant to win.
