You know how it goes. Someone asks you, “Are you flying to Israel tonight?” “Yes, you say.” Then comes the next question. “Can you take something for me?” You think for a minute, considering how much room you have. Your five suitcases are packed to the brim in every conceivable spot. “What is it that you’d like me to take?” you ask politely. “Just a small refrigerator.” comes the quiet answer. So I’ve since learned to do the following.
The phone rings. “Can you take something to Israel?” “Bring it over,” I say. Then they ask if I will be home. “I’m sorry, but I won’t. But don’t worry; just put it through the mailbox.” As soon as I say that, I cut to the chase. “It won’t fit through the mailbox,” they say.
That usually helps me indicate, as delicately as possible, that a small refrigerator is just a bit too big.
One time, someone asked if I’d be willing to take $5,000 for a kallah to help pay for a wedding. “It’s under the legal limit,” they said. I hesitated. “I’m not good with money,” I admitted. “If something happens...” My wife gave me a look. “Come on; just take it.” So I agreed. I put the money in the outer pocket of my carry-on suitcase and zipped it shut.
Back then, we didn’t have the full-body scanners at airport security. There were just metal detectors, and I’m the guy who always beeps. I do everything I need to do—empty my pockets, take off my shoes, remove my belt... beep. Finally, I joke to the TSA agent, “You want me to take off my nose?” So this one time, he asked, “Do you have money in your pockets?” I said yes. “Sometimes that sets it off.” So I placed the cash into the suitcase’s outer pocket and continued on my way.
When I reached the gate and opened the pocket, the money was gone. Gone. Suddenly, people swarmed around me. “Did you lose money? How much?” I didn’t even know how they knew. “Go back to security,” someone said. “They have cameras.”
So I ran back. Now, I don’t mind telling stories, but I don’t enjoy being in them.
I told the TSA what happened. “I lost a bundle of money,” I said. One agent replied sarcastically, “So did I.” I wasn’t in the mood for jokes. “Can you check the footage?” I asked. “There’s protocol,” they said. “First, bring the suitcase. A lot of people misplace money inside and think it’s gone.” So I ran back to the gate, grabbed my suitcase, and returned.
We had to wait for a special TSA agent to arrive and inspect the bag. When he finally came, he began removing everything and lining it up neatly. To add to the comedy, someone else had given me a full set of dishes to bring to this same kallah. Picture it: middle of the airport, TSA agent pulling out plates, bowls, cups, and people walking by, whispering, “Wow, this guy’s making a simcha at the gate.”
He reached the outer pocket and declared, “There’s nothing here.” “I know,” I said. “That’s why I’m here.”
“Can you check the cameras now?” I asked. “Not yet. Do you have any other suitcases?” Now, if I had even a drop of common sense, I would have said no. But I admitted we did. I was traveling with my wife, my children, and a mountain of luggage. So now, we had to go through every bag before they’d check the footage.
That’s when I realized: this was over. I was going to miss the flight. Between my ticket, my wife’s, and all the kids—it would cost far more than $5,000. I turned to my wife. “Let’s just go.”
She refused. “I’m not going,” she said. The airport agent asked, “Sir, are you boarding or not?” I turned back to her. “What’s the problem?” She looked me straight in the eyes. “You’re going to ruin this trip. You’ll spend the whole time saying, ‘We lost the money. I lost the money.’ You won’t let us eat out or enjoy anything. We’ll get some rugelach at the hotel and that’s it. You’ll be miserable.”
She was right. So I promised her, “I will not mention the money once this entire trip.” And I kept my word.
I borrowed money, gave it to the kallah. Even though, halachically, as a shomer chinam I might not have been responsible, I felt I had been negligent. So I took responsibility. I swiped the credit card. And once we were swiping anyway, we enjoyed.
We went to Meron for two days instead of one. We invited all of my son’s friends from yeshiva over for a big dinner. We made the most of it.
On the very last day, as we were about to leave for the airport, my wife said, “Look at the table.” “The taxi’s waiting,” I said. “Just look.” I turned and saw it—$5,000 in cash. “What? Where did this come from?”
“It was in the suitcase all along,” she said. Turns out, the suitcase was so full that when I put the money in, it slipped under a bulge in the lining, out of reach. It had been there the whole time. And as the bag lay flat under the hotel bed, the money slowly surfaced again.
Let me tell you something: there’s nothing like finding what you thought you had lost.
But that’s not the real story.
The real story is this. Imagine I had spent the entire trip sulking, complaining, saying, “We lost the money. I can’t enjoy anything.” And then, on the very last day, I found it. Too late. The trip would have been over.
That’s life.
We go through our days angry, worried, regretful. We complain about what’s missing, what’s broken, what’s unfair. But after 120 years, we’ll see... it was all there. The joy, the light, the blessings. We just didn’t see it in the moment.
The Baal Shem Tov gives a mashal. You go through one dark time in life, then another, and it keeps on getting darker and darker. But you keep going, and you tell yourself, “Life must go on.” And then, all of a sudden, there’s light. You realize it was all part of something bigger. And Hash-em says, “You did it. You passed the test.”
Recently, I heard a piece on the news about presidential pardons. Many were issued with an “auto-pen,” a machine that signs documents on the president’s behalf. But one reporter asked, “Was there any pardon that that President signed with his own hand?” The answer was, “Yes, the one for his son.”
And I thought: when a Jew does teshuvah, it goes up to Shamayim, and Hashem doesn’t use an auto-pen. He signs it Himself.
Yes, life can be dark, but as the Chozeh of Lublin said, “Behind every darkness is light.” Behind the three weeks of mourning are the three Yamim Tovim. Behind the twenty-one days of the Bein HaMetzarim are the twenty-one days from Rosh Hashanah to Hoshanah Rabbah.
Our job? Don’t lose the trip. Don’t spend your life lamenting what’s missing, only to discover too late that it was all there. There is joy here and now. There is growth and purpose today, even in the confusion and pain. The presence of Hashem is with you. You may be on vacation, but Hashem never is.
And so, may the Ribbono Shel Olam give us continued strength to walk through darkness with hope and with open hearts.
And for now and for the rest of your life, keep smiling.
