This past week, I was abruptly asked to jump on a call and share a few words of Chizuk and Tehillim with a virtual audience. But as matters would have it, I had just left a wedding in New Jersey and was heading to a vort in Brooklyn when I received this message. I tried to pull over to find a quiet place, and ended up outside a Hampton Inn. I then tried going into the lobby, but there was music playing, so there I was—standing outside, speaking into the night air. And in a strange way, that image captured the exact experience of this time.
Life continues. Simchas still happen. Summer plans are being made. And yet, all around us, Klal Yisrael is living on edge. For over 18 months, Israel has been uneasy, and now we find ourselves at the brink.
All of us feel it. We feel caught in between. Where are we in this story? What is our role? What will the next few days bring? Or the next few weeks? What will become of the families living in the north and south? What will happen to a country and people we so dearly love? And in that swirl of uncertainty, there I was, standing on the side of the road outside a hotel somewhere in Staten Island. That wasn’t a coincidence, but a symbol. Because many of us are in that exact emotional space: moving, transitioning, searching for grounding.
And yet, it’s in moments like these that the Torah offers guidance.
In Parashat Vayetzei, there’s a seemingly ordinary Pasuk: “Vayifga ba’makom vayalen sham ki va hashemesh...” (Bereishit 28:11). Yaakov Avinu stops for the night, the sun sets, he takes stones, places them around his head, and lies down to sleep. At first glance, it seems simple. But Rashi reveals that this moment was anything but. Yaakov established Tefillat Arvit there. The sun set miraculously, and the twelve stones fought over the merit to support his head until Hashem unified them into one. That stone would eventually become a mizbe’ach. And in that place of vulnerability and solitude, Yaakov had a dream—a ladder reaching heavenward, with angels ascending and descending. So why does the Pasuk sound so uneventful? Why is the narrative so understated, when something so transcendent was unfolding?
The answer lies in our purpose. We were not placed on this earth to merely find holiness in overtly sacred moments. We are meant to create holiness in the places where it doesn’t yet seem to exist. Some of us are married, others are not. Some are financially secure, others are struggling. Some are surrounded by family, others feel deeply alone. But wherever you find yourself—that makom is your assignment. Your mission is to build a ladder to heaven from there.
I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. I don’t know what next week holds. Will this moment of tension escalate into something catastrophic? Or will it be the beginning of something beautiful, perhaps even geulah? I don’t have answers. But I do know that we’re standing together, and our responsibility is to take this sense of dislocation, of vulnerability, and turn it into something eternal. To do what Yaakov did. To take “nowhere” and turn it into “somewhere.” To turn an ordinary moment into a gateway to the Divine.
And how do we build that ladder? With prayer. With teshuvah. With charity. With letting go of resentment. With small shifts in behavior. Each act becomes another rung, and together they build a path upward. Today’s ladder might look different than tomorrow’s, but every step we take toward heaven matters. You might think: “I’m just standing in my kitchen,” or “I’m driving home from work,” or “Nothing meaningful is happening.” But that’s precisely where holiness begins. Not in the extraordinary, but in the mundane elevated by intention.
And yes, the world feels unstable. The U.S. government is uncertain. Anti-Semitism is rising. Israel’s security feels fragile. We’re worried about the economy, about the future of yeshivos, about our children. But none of this is outside of Hashem’s control. The world is perfectly organized.
Let me share a story to illustrate. I once had the opportunity to visit a South African safari. We had the best guide in the region—no one understood animals like this man. We were in an open jeep, completely surrounded by wildlife. At one point, we came upon a herd of buffalo. The guide called them “the Black Death,” because if you stepped out of the jeep, they’d kill you. I saw one buffalo lying in mud, wounded, with a large open sore on its back. I remarked, “That poor buffalo.” The guide told me to wait. A moment later, a bird landed on the buffalo’s back and began pecking at the wound. I was horrified. But the guide explained: “That bird is cleaning the wound. It feeds off the dried blood, preventing infection. The bird is acting as a doctor.”
In the vastness of the wild, untouched by human civilization, with no clinics or veterinarians, Hashem sends healing from the sky. You don’t think that same Hashem can bring healing to Klal Yisrael? You don’t believe He can calm the storm, bring peace to the Middle East, protect our children, secure our future? He absolutely can.
And so, here we are—exactly where we’re meant to be. Missiles are armed. A nation is in limbo. But we are not powerless. In fact, we are standing in the perfect position to build something eternal.
That evening, at 10:30 p.m. on a Thursday night, outside a random hotel, I knew one thing: I could choose to build a ladder to heaven from this very spot.
And so can you.
So let’s begin.
