The Gemara (Sanhedrin 101a) records the time Rabbi Eliezer HaGadol lay on his deathbed, surrounded by his students who had come to comfort him. R’ Tarfon, R’ Yehoshua and R’ Elazar ben Azariah attempted to lift his spirits by reminding him of his accomplishments. “Rebbe,” they said, “you’re like a drop of rain; the sun; better than a father and mother.” But he didn’t respond. He remained silent, unmoved.
Then Rabbi Akiva entered the room.
Rabbi Akiva looked at him and said, “Rebbe, suffering is good.”
At that moment, Rabbi Eliezer sat up in bed and allowed R’ Akiva to proceed to explain why that is true.
Rabbi Akiva explained that suffering has the power to break down barriers. It strips away ego, pride, and even possessions. What remains is something raw and unfiltered; just you and Hashem. In that place of brokenness, there are no distractions. There’s no kavod, no honor, no money, no pretense. And in that vulnerable space, a person can form a deeper, truer connection to G-d. You might not see the greatness of it in this world, but that relationship is higher than anything else.
I want to share a story that brings this idea to life.
My daughter, Chani, volunteered for an organization called Zeh L’zeh, which means “this one for that one.” It is a beautiful program that supports people during times of crisis, whether it’s a terror attack or someone battling illness.
During a particularly intense period of terror, Chani was assigned to visit victims, but sometimes she was sent to visit patients in the hospital. One day, she encountered a young woman in Hadassah Hospital who had terminal liver cancer. She had fallen into a deep depression and had stopped speaking entirely.
What made her case even more tragic was how her young children responded. They didn’t understand her silence as pain or grief. They thought she had stopped talking because she didn’t love them anymore. She would just lie in bed, facing the wall, saying nothing. The hospital staff saw this as catastrophic for the children and tried everything to help, but nothing did.
Eventually, someone called in my daughter’s boss, Rebbetzin Rottenberg, a seasoned expert in bikur cholim. Chani wasn’t in the room with her when she visited, so she didn’t know what was said, but when Rebbetzin Rottenberg came out, everything had changed.
The woman, who had been silent for weeks, was now not only speaking; she was recording messages for her children. And more than that, she asked to speak to other patients so she could give them chizuk. She was overflowing with strength, faith and positivity.
Chani asked Rebbetzin Rottenberg what she had told her. This is what she said:
“I told her the truth. I told her that if she, in her condition, could express even a single sentence of bitachon, of trust in Hashem, its power would be greater than anything anyone else could offer. That one word could save an entire city from terror. That one bracha could protect a platoon of soldiers. The impact of her words, of her emunah, of her strength, could change the world.”
And then she added, “You don’t see it, but that voice of despondence within you is the yetzer hara. He tells you you’re worthless and that your prayers don’t count. But you say Shehakol nihyeh bidvaro over a cup of water, and you have no idea how much light that creates in the Heavens.”
Chani was stunned. She asked the Rebbetzin, “How do you always know what to say to people?”
“I learned it from my mother,” the Rebbetzin simply replied.
She explained that when her mother passed away, her father, none other than the Toldos Aharon Rebbe, called her into his study and said, “I want you to take over Mama’s bikur cholim work.” “I can’t,” she said. “I’m not Mama. I don’t have her strength.” But the Toldos Aharon insisted. “I will help you.”
So she took it on.
“What was your mother like?” Chani prodded.
The Rebbetzin smiled and told her another story.
“When we were children, we lived in Meah Shearim in deep poverty. It was so bad that even by the standards of the time, it was difficult. My father was still young and unknown. However, our most valuable possession was a refrigerator. Until one day, it broke. We called a repairman, but since the fridge wasn’t working, my mother had to go to the store to buy fresh food for lunch. She left the kids with my older sister and came back holding a treasure: one orange.
“One orange for four, maybe six children. She peeled it and handed each child a segment. Just before we were about to eat it, she held hers up to the light and asked, ‘What do you see?’ We looked and said, ‘Seeds.’ ‘Exactly,’ she said. Every orange tree in the world came from a seed like this. Look how brilliant Hashem is; He puts the future inside the fruit.’
“She had us smell the orange. ‘You see how good it smells?’ she said. ‘That’s how Hashem tells you it’s going to taste good. And look, He gives every orange its own little raincoat: a peel.’
“Only then did she let us say the bracha and eat.” The man fixing the refrigerator had been listening. And as the children recited borei pri ha’etz, he burst into tears. Later, they learned why.
He was a Holocaust survivor, a war orphan who had grown up on a secular kibbutz. He didn’t know his parents’ names and didn’t even know his own Hebrew name. But when he heard the children say that bracha, something in him awoke. Something stirred deep within his soul. He recognized it. He didn’t know how, but he knew it was real. And he wept.
In that humble, impoverished kitchen, with nothing but an orange to eat, he had witnessed something extraordinary. It was the light of emunah.
When Hashem created the world, it was tohu va’vohu—chaos, emptiness, darkness. But then Hashem said, “Yehi ohr—Let there be light,” and there was light.
That’s what we must wish for ourselves. That we should see the light. That we should be the light. That we should understand the greatness of what we do, even when the world seems dark. That we should find strength, and share that strength. And that we should always know: every act of faith, every word of encouragement, every bracha, every moment... it matters more than you can imagine.
