One day, the wealthy man hosted a particularly important guest—someone he had been waiting a very long time to receive. The guest arrived in a limousine, surrounded by bodyguards. The host was thrilled at the opportunity to impress him—especially with his prized wine collection.
The guest was ushered into the grand dining hall, where a table was laid with fine china, glittering silver, and delicate crystal. Candles flickered in tall holders, casting a warm glow across the polished wood and embroidered linens. The guest was visibly impressed; everything spoke of wealth, refinement, and dignity.
The meal began with elegance. Each course was served with precision—the fish was fresh and flavorful, everything perfectly seasoned. Conversation flowed easily, and the guest nodded with appreciation, clearly enjoying both the cuisine and the company.
Then, as the main course approached, the host leaned back in his chair, ready to reveal the crown jewel of his hospitality. He turned to his butler and said with deliberate care, ensuring that his guest overheard: “My dear butler, you’ve been with me for many years, and you know my cellar well. Please go down and bring up a very special bottle—an aged cabernet I purchased in France forty-eight years ago. It is extraordinary, unmatched in taste and rarity. You’ll find it on the third row, at the very end, near the wall, bottom shelf.”
The guest’s eyes lit up with interest. The host smiled inwardly, pleased with himself. He knew this moment would be memorable.
The Wait That Stretched On
How long should it have taken? Just a few minutes. The cellar was only a short walk away. Meanwhile, the host launched into an animated description of his collection, extolling its quality, its rarity, its value, and the meticulous care he devoted to its preservation. The guest listened, intrigued, nodding at each detail.
But five minutes passed. Then ten. Then fifteen. The smile on the host’s face grew tighter. His words continued to flow, but his mind was elsewhere. The cellar was just downstairs—what could possibly be taking so long?
Twenty minutes ticked by. The host shifted uneasily in his chair. He kept speaking with passion about vintages and vineyards, about the rarest bottles in his possession, but inside his chest, unease began to grow.
Why is he not back yet? he thought. It is a simple request, clear instructions. The bottle is right where I told him.
He glanced at his guest, who was still smiling politely, though now with a hint of curiosity in his eyes. The host forced another smile, hiding his discomfort. “You know,” he said smoothly, “my cellar is vast. It is practically a labyrinth. I imagine it must have taken him a few extra minutes to reach the right shelf.”
The guest chuckled, nodding, but the host could feel the flush in his cheeks. He raised his glass of water, sipped, and continued speaking. He described the oak barrels imported from Italy, the cooling system that kept the cellar at a constant temperature, the strict insurance policies protecting the collection.
But inside, his thoughts raced. What could be happening? Did the butler misplace the bottle? Did he perhaps drop it? No... surely not. He has been in my service for years, he knows every row, every corner. He is careful. He is reliable.
Another five minutes passed. Twenty-five now. The guest’s eyebrows lifted ever so slightly. He shifted in his seat, looking toward the cellar door. The host laughed nervously, “Patience, my friend. I assure you, the wait will be worth it.”
But sweat beaded at his temple. He could no longer ignore the gnawing sense that something was terribly wrong.
Finally, with a tight smile and a quick apology to his guest, he rose from his chair. “Please forgive me—I’ll just check what is keeping him. It must be something small.”
He hurried across the hall, heart pounding faster with every step, and descended toward the cellar door.
The instant he opened it, a wave of air hit him—and with it, an overpowering scent. Of course, a wine cellar always carried the fragrance of aged bottles. But this was different. Stronger. Thicker. Pungent. It clung to his nostrils, overwhelming and unmistakable.
His pulse quickened. He gripped the railing as he stepped down the staircase. With each step, the smell grew stronger. And then, at the bottom, his polished shoe splashed—not on stone, but into a puddle.
He froze. He looked down. His shoe was soaked, not in water, but in wine.
His heart dropped like a stone.
The cellar floor was covered in liquid; bottles were shattered everywhere. Treasures worth tens of thousands of dollars lay ruined in pools of red.
The Butler’s Madness
Finally, in the far corner, he found him. The butler was lounging comfortably on a couch, feet propped up, utterly unconcerned—sipping from a glass of expensive wine.
As the master approached, ready to erupt, the butler looked up casually and said, “Ah, thank you for coming down. You know, I’ve been working here a long time. I think this would be a perfect moment to ask for a raise.”
The master nearly exploded. “Are you insane? What’s the matter with you? Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Do you know how many priceless bottles you’ve smashed? How many thousands of dollars you’ve literally poured down the drain—and now you ask me for a raise?!”
That is Elul. All year long, we are smashing bottles in the cellar. A berachah without kavonah. A mitzvah neglected. A tefillah rushed. A careless aveirah. Words of lashon hara, eyes wandering where they shouldn’t, a harsh word spoken in anger. Each one is another shattered bottle. And then comes Rosh Hashanah. And what do we do? We arrive with a long list of requests. We come with our brand-new machzorim and our heartfelt pleas: “Ribbono Shel Olam, give me more! A better year. Better parnasa. A shidduch. Health. Success. So many blessings.”
And Hashem could say: “You’ve been smashing bottles in My cellar all year long—and now you ask for a raise?”
That is why we do not wait until Rosh Hashanah. That is why we begin already now—this is the very idea of selichos. We cannot walk into the Day of Judgment as though nothing has happened. We must begin repairing before the court convenes. Already we look inward. Already we plead for forgiveness. So that when Rosh Hashanah arrives, we will not appear like the butler surrounded by shattered bottles, brazenly demanding more. We will come instead as children who are sincerely trying to improve—children longing for their Father’s embrace, begging for a year of forgiveness, a year of closeness, a year of growth in avodas Hashem. (This was taken from R’ Yehoshua Frankenhuis, Divrei Hisorarus)
