Recently, I received a heartbreaking message that left me in shock. A dear friend of more than two decades reached out with sobering news. He wrote, “I know this will be hard for you to hear,” and then proceeded to share that he had been quietly battling a serious medical condition. Diagnosed back in 2011, the illness had remained dormant for 13 years, leading his doctors to adopt a wait-and-see approach. But in November 2024, things changed. The doctors informed him that he would now need to undergo six rounds of chemotherapy. He had already completed one, and was now preparing for the second.
Still, despite the gravity of the situation, his message carried a tone of calm and faith. He reassured me that he was not in terrible pain, and then he shared something remarkable.
“There’s a reason why the front windshield of a car is so much larger than the rearview mirror. Because we are meant to focus on what lies ahead, not on what is behind us.” The past may inform us, but it is the future that drives us forward. “Never dwell on what was,” he wrote. “Instead, ask yourself: What can I do now? How can I grow from this moment forward?”
That message struck a chord, because each of us, at some point, faces moments of challenge and pain. And the question is not what was, but what now? What does Hashem want from me now?
We find this perspective in the life of Rabbi Akiva. After the devastating loss of 24,000 of his students, he could have given up. He could have said, “Clearly, my Torah is not desired in Heaven,” and walked away. But instead, Rabbi Akiva looked ahead. He didn’t live in the rearview mirror. He lived with a wide, forward-looking perspective, a “windshield mindset.” He looked ahead to what could be created, to what could still flourish.
This ability to move forward comes from emunah and bitachon, faith and trust in Hashem. So how does a person develop this inner strength to keep going forward, to keep believing, even when the path is difficult?
Let me share something personal. When I was 21 years old, my father became gravely ill with lung cancer. I was the eldest of seven children, learning in Torah Vodaas at the time. I knew that if my father didn’t recover, I’d need to leave yeshiva, become a mohel (something he had already trained me in), and support my mother and siblings.
My father was hospitalized near Washington Heights, where Rav Shimon Schwab zt”l served as the community Rav. My father, who had once been his student and held him in high regard, reached out and asked if his sons could spend Shabbos with Rav Schwab so we could visit him in the hospital afterward. Rav Schwab graciously agreed.
After davening on Shabbos, I visited my father and then returned to the Schwab home. Rav Schwab and his wife were waiting at the table. As I entered, he asked, “How is your father?”
I answered with a trembling voice, “I have bitachon that he will be well.” Rav Schwab turned serious. His next words shook me to my core. “Bitachon,” he said, “does not mean that your father will get better.” I was stunned. I was a frightened 21-year-old, praying for a miracle. I could barely comprehend what he meant.
Rav Schwab explained. “Bitachon means believing that Hashem has a master plan—even if you can’t see it. Terrible things happen. People lose children. Spouses. These are tragic, painful realities. But bitachon means trusting that Hashem knows exactly what He is doing, and that in time, the purpose will become clear.” That Shabbos, I learned a lesson that would shape my life.
Years later, I now attend a special Shabbaton each year for an organization called Samcheinu, which supports widows. There are close to 500 women who attend, divided by age group—each one bearing a unique pain. When I lead Kiddush on Friday night and look around the room, I see tears behind many eyes. And I ask myself: where did I gain the sensitivity to support them? It came from those years at home with my mother after my father’s passing. I saw firsthand what it meant to be a widow. I remember my mother setting the table on Friday nights with a place for my father—his knife, fork, and spoon—even after he was gone. She couldn’t yet come to terms with the emptiness.
That experience opened my heart. Perhaps that, too, was part of the master plan. Perhaps I needed to live through it in order to give strength to others.
Rav Dovid Ashear, in his bestselling Living Emunah series, cites a striking idea. The Gemara (Shabbos 31a) teaches that when we arrive in the World to Come, we will be asked, "Tzipisa l’yeshuah—Did you anticipate the salvation?” Most interpret this as referring to yearning for Mashiach.
But the Sfas Emes offers another explanation. He says it means: during your own, personal, individual challenges, did you maintain hope? Did you believe that Hashem could bring you salvation, even when things looked bleak? That is the essence of emunah and bitachon—to believe not only in the good times, but in the storm.
Yes, there are tragedies we cannot explain. After the horrific disaster in Meron, where forty-five precious souls perished, many sought meaning. Rav Meilech Biderman shlita shared a powerful insight on the Mishnah in Pirkei Avos (2:1): “Da mah l’maala mimcha—Know what is above you.” He noted that the word “mah” has the numerical value of 45—the number of lives lost. Sometimes, the things that are l’maala mimcha—above our understanding—are not meant to be grasped. We are meant to acknowledge that they are beyond us, that Hashem’s ways are not our ways. As Yeshayahu HaNavi writes, “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are My ways higher than your ways” (Yeshayahu 55:9).
To believe in Hashem doesn’t mean expecting that everything will turn out well in the way we want. It means trusting that He knows what He’s doing—even when we don’t. That’s what we must strive for. Not blind optimism, but courageous faith. A faith that looks through the windshield, not the rearview mirror.
Now, I want to share with you a Chazal which, if not recorded in the Gemara, would seem impossible to say. The Gemara (Bava Basra 16a) recounts a remarkable exchange involving Iyov, a man who endured unimaginable suffering. Iyov turns to Hashem and says, “Perhaps a tempest passed before You and confused You. Perhaps You mistook my name. My name is Iyov, not Oyev (enemy)!” In essence, Iyov dares to suggest: “Maybe You thought I was Your enemy, and that’s why I’m suffering. But You have the wrong person.”
And what does Hashem answer Iyov? Hashem replies: “Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth? Speak, if you have understanding” (Iyov 38:4). In other words, Hashem says: You arrived in the middle of the story. You don’t have the full picture. You’re trying to judge a master plan without having seen the beginning.
It’s like walking into a shiur twenty minutes late, and then challenging the maggid shiur (lecturer) with a question. But how can you ask a meaningful question when you missed the foundation of the discussion? Or imagine watching a film from the middle and being confused about the plot twists. You weren’t there at the start, so the story makes little sense.
Hashem is saying to Iyov, and to all of us: you weren’t there when the world was formed. You didn’t see the blueprint. So don’t assume you can understand the unfolding of the Divine plan with limited perspective.
Now allow me to share something beautiful and insightful from the Chofetz Chaim, something that borders on endearing in its simplicity.
We recite Ashrei three times a day, and in it we say: “Shomer Hashem es kol ohavav, v’es kol haresha’im yashmid—Hashem protects all who love Him, and all the wicked He will destroy.”
The Chofetz Chaim paints a vivid picture. Imagine someone who arrives late to shul. He walks in just in time to hear the chazzan say: "...And all the wicked He will destroy." He panics—“Hashem is destroying everyone?!” Why? Because he missed the beginning: “Hashem protects all who love Him.” Or picture someone who leaves early. He hears only the first half: "Hashem protects all who love Him..." He leaves feeling comforted, not realizing the conclusion: “And all the wicked He will destroy.” When you only hear part of the story, you may walk away with an entirely distorted understanding.
That’s how life works. We live for 70, 80, maybe 90 years—yet the story of creation spans thousands of years. We’re walking into the middle of a cosmic narrative, and we’re trying to make sense of it without having been there at the beginning. That’s what Hashem is telling Iyov: “You weren’t there when I began the world. You don’t see the entire arc.”
And so, we must carry humility when we question Divine justice. We’re seeing only a fragment of the full picture. Trusting in Hashem’s plan means recognizing that we don’t always get to understand—but that doesn’t mean there is no plan.
Because always, always, there is.
