I was leading a CTeen group in Dusseldorf during Elul. We played some games and did some fun activities, but I wanted to make sure they’d have a real Tishrei experience.
“Guys, two weeks from now is Rosh Hashanah. It’s a mitzvah to hear the shofar. I want you all to come to shul then!” I told them.
Most of them agreed to meet up in shul, but Erik* shook his head.
“I’ll be out of town,” he said.
“No problem! Wherever you are, try to find a shul or a Chabad house, and make sure to hear the shofar!” I answered.
After Rosh Hashanah, I received an excited text from Erik.
You’ll never believe who blew shofar for me, he wrote. Your brother!
My brother had recently moved to a small remote town in California. His shlichus was so new, he didn’t have a shul, or even a minyan for Rosh Hashana. He’d heard about an elderly Jewish man who lived about two miles away, so he walked over to blow the shofar for him.
On his way back home, he took a different route. He was stopped by a young teen, who asked him where he could find the local shul.
“We don’t really have one yet,” my brother answered.
“Oh man! I promised my rabbi I’d hear shofar today!” Erik said, disappointedly.
“Well, I can still help you with that!” my brother said, producing his shofar.
Hearing Erik’s accent, my brother asked him where he was from.
“Dusseldorf,” Erik said.
“My brother lives there! Do you know him? Yosef Gruzman?”
“That’s my rabbi!” Erik exclaimed.
“What hashgacha pratis!” my brother marveled.
“My rabbi always says that, too!” Erik laughed. “I couldn’t agree more. What insane hashgacha pratis!”
*Names changed to protect privacy
