There were two tailors, Meir and Shmuel (names changed), who traveled from village to village in Eastern Europe, offering their services to the villagers, saving a few kopeks here and there until they’d have enough to return home.
When they finally collected enough to go home, the traveling tailors stayed at the inn of a Jew who, as a side job, managed the properties of the local landlord. They noticed that the innkeeper seemed very distraught, and so the two tailors insisted he confide with them his predicament.
“The non-Jewish landlord received some fine cloth as a gift from a prince,” he explained. “He got it in his head that the cloth must be made into the finest royal-looking garb, but no tailor I bring him is adequate. And now he’s threatening me that if I do not find him a first-class, Parisian-style tailor who can alter it to his outrageous standards, he’s going to throw me and my family into the dungeon!”
Though they yearned to see their families and children, Meir and Shmuel were eager to help a fellow Jew. “We are fine expert tailors,” they insisted. “We can do the job!”
Reluctantly, the innkeeper agreed. “What do I have to lose?” he said. “There’s no alternative.”
Miraculously, the landlord handed them the precious material. Within two weeks, they stood before him with the finest robe. Everybody was then happy: the landlord was on cloud nine with his new garment; the innkeeper was very relieved to hear that the landlord was happy; and Meir and Shmuel were happy with an extra thirty rubles each for the job they completed.
Now, the landlord’s wife was also in attendance as her husband gladly paid Meir and Shmuel for their work. She figured that she knew why these two Jews were really happy: they had saved their fellow Jew and his family from the dungeon. With that thought, she turned to her husband and said, “Tell them about the family in the dungeon. Maybe they will pay the ransom.”
That’s the way they did things in those days: if a family couldn’t pay their rent, the landlord put them into the dungeon until it was paid. Ingenious, right?
So the landlord told them about the Jewish family he’d thrown into the dungeon that was waiting to be ransomed.
“How much do they owe?” they asked.
“Forty rubles.”
“Sure,” said Meir. “We can put that together to save a family from the dungeon, can’t we, Shmuel?”
Shmuel wasn’t as quick to agree as Meir, though. His share of the forty rubles would be a considerable portion of his savings. He had been traveling almost a year without seeing his family. So while it was certainly sad that this family in the dungeon was suffering, he couldn’t come to simply part with all that money on their account.
Meir saw that Shmuel wasn’t willing to put up money, he counted out his entire savings, asked Shmuel for just a few more rubles, and came up with exactly forty rubles for the family’s release. Next thing he knew, the family was released from the dungeon, pale and sickly, kissing and hugging his feet for saving their lives.
POVERTY-STRICKEN
Then Meir and Shmuel returned home. Shmuel’s family was happy to see him. He used the money he earned to set up a tailor shop, and since he had merchandise to start out with, he soon became very successful.
Meir’s family, on the other hand, was certainly disappointed. He didn’t want to tell them how he used all his savings. It was a mitzvah, after all, and you don’t brag about mitzvos. And besides, they wouldn’t understand. So, they thought what they thought, and the family sank deeper into poverty.
Slowly, Meir started to sink into a depression. He sank deeper and deeper until he could do nothing but stand at a street corner, his open hand stretched out for alms. He stood there through the heat of summer, the autumn rain, and the freezing wind and snow of winter, a hollow and forlorn soul. Whoever dropped a coin in his hand received a brachah, but beyond that, he didn’t speak a word to anyone. No one. He believed he was nothing, a nobody.
Then, one day, a merchant walked briskly by Meir, late for an important business meeting. He dropped a coin in Meir’s hand as he marched by, barely hearing Meir’s brachah as he passed. “May Hashem bentch you in all you do,” said Meir.
And He did. The business worked out better than imagined. Maybe, he thought, it had something to do with that beggar’s brachah. So, the next time the merchant had a deal to make, he made sure to pass Meir the beggar and hand him a coin. And that time, he waited to hear the brachah and answer “Amen.” And once again, the brachah had a miraculous effect.
As you can imagine, this became the merchant’s regular practice. Rapidly, he became one of the wealthiest merchants in the district.
Knowing that whatever he touched made profit, everyone wanted to partner with him.
The merchant bought a new mansion for his family and held a grand party at which he got rather drunk. That’s when he spilled the beans.
“You think I’m rich because I’m smart?” he confided. “Or because of my good deeds? It’s none of the above! It’s all due to the brachah of a ragged beggar who stands motionless at the corner on the way to the market!”
The next morning, there was line waiting for Meir to arrive at his normal spot. People gave, Meir benched, and miracles happened. Meir was oblivious to it all, so lost was he in his depression. Yet, his fame spread quickly. Soon, barren women were blessed with children, the sick were healed, and the biggest shlemazels actually got jobs—all as a consequence of Meir’s brachos.
TO RICHES
That’s when the Baal Shem Tov came into the story. He also heard about this beggar-tzaddik whose brachos were as effective as the spring rains bringing seed to sprout. He traveled himself to Meir to see him firsthand. And he took Meir aside and said, “Now tell me your story.”
The Baal Shem Tov was that way. He could converse with anybody, and that person would open up as though he was his closest friend. Meir told him the story of his life. But the story of the forty rubles came hard.
“You must tell,” said the Baal Shem Tov. “You must remember and tell.”
And when he did, the Baal Shem Tov hugged and kissed him. He took him back to his town of Medzhibuzh, to his study hall, and made him one of his closest students. Meir studied Talmud and Kabbalah, and became a master of the secret lore. He became a tzaddik. He became a real somebody.
Many of us may feel like nobodies. That’s OK. The moon must disappear before it becomes full again. The seed must rot before it becomes a great oak. But that isn’t everlasting. The light one day will shine. There are better and brighter days waiting. There’s a light at the end of the tunnel.
Knowing that Hashem is running a perfect world gives us the serenity and confidence that there’s something good waiting us.
