From Main Street to Miracles, Chabad of Eastern Orange County Part II

By Chaya Chazan

When I walked into a local medical facility for my usual visit, I was unprepared for the enthusiastic welcome I received.

"Oh Rabbi! Thank G-d you're here!" the nurse called out.

"What happened?" I asked, instantly alert.

"We've had a Jewish patient here for a bit," she explained. "He specifically asked not to receive any chaplain visits, so I've never told you about him before, but he's really not doing well. The doctors said he only has days left. I think he could use a visit before it's too late."

"Does he have burial plans?" I asked as I flipped through his file.

"He doesn't have any," she answered. "I know it's unusual, but we really don't know much about him. He was living in a hotel before he came here, and there's no next of kin on file. When he passes, the state will be responsible for burying him."

"Can I try to see if he'll agree to a Jewish burial?" I asked.

"You can try," she shrugged. "Good luck!"

"Ah, I see here where he noted that he doesn't want any chaplain visits," I said, reading through his notes. "But it also says he'd agree to see a Chabad rabbi. Well, I am a Chabad rabbi!"

"Oh, are you?" asked the nurse in surprise. "That's great! Then you should definitely go see him!"

"Hi, Jimmy!*" I said, gently knocking on his door. "I'm a Chabad rabbi, here to visit you. Jimmy, would you like to have a Jewish burial?"

Jimmy, in his weakened state, could only affirm his assent with a slow nod of his head.

"I'll arrange everything," I assured him. "Is it okay if I recite Viduy, the deathbed confessional prayer, with you now?"

After we recited viduy, I asked him once again if he wanted a Jewish burial, just to confirm and be sure. His lips moved soundlessly, forming the word "yes."

"Jimmy, it's the Jewish month of Elul now, so I'm going to blow the shofar, okay?" As the staccato blasts filled the small room, Jimmy's eyes grew wide and filled with tears. I sang a slow and heartfelt rendition of Ani Maamin, and, although Jimmy couldn't sing along, I could almost feel his soul joining in melodious harmony.

After leaving Jimmy's room, I immediately contacted Chesed Shel Emes and explained the situation.

"Can you attest to his Jewishness?" they asked.

As I'd only just met him, I couldn't, but I remembered seeing in his notes that he was willing to see a Chabad rabbi because he'd visited a Chabad house previously and had really enjoyed the rabbi's approach to Judaism.

I contacted the shliach and asked if he remembered Jimmy.

"I'm sorry; no," he apologized. "But if it was ten years ago, as you say, it's possible that there is someone who does. I had a bochur working for me that year. He now has a Chabad house of his own, but he might remember Jimmy. It's the middle of the night for him now, but I'll explain the emergency and have him call you very soon."

Sure enough, within five minutes, my phone was ringing.

"Of course I know Jimmy!" the shliach exclaimed. "We became quite close ten years ago, and I kept in touch with him sporadically, up until quite recently. I can vouch for his Jewishness. I can even tell you that his name is Yisroel Aryeh ben Gershon*!"

A researcher from Chesed Shel Emes followed up, and together, we spent hours researching, eventually finding the gravestones of his parents and confirming his Jewishness for certain.

Baruch Hashem, thanks to the Rebbe's network of dedicated shluchim worldwide, who are happy to give up a night of sleep for the sake of another Jew across the world, Jimmy received a kosher kevurah, after he returned his neshama to its Maker.

I met Matan and his friend, Danny , at a menorah lighting one Chanukah. They were Israeli immigrants who'd recently moved to the area. I took their contact information and kept in touch periodically.

I found out that Matan had grown up in a moshav just down the road from Kfar Chabad, although he'd never learned much about Yiddishkeit from his secular school. A few years prior, he'd decided to start putting on tefillin. Without really understanding much about what he was doing or why, he chose a few tefillos to say.

"Why don't we get together once a month for a morning session?" I suggested. "We'll daven, study something together, and enjoy breakfast. It will be a great way to keep in touch with each other, and, more importantly, G-d."

Matan and Danny were interested, and we all looked forward to our monthly meetings.

As summer approached, I suggested taking advantage of the longer days and more lax schedule to make our meeting weekly instead of monthly, and to invite more members of the community to join.

I started a WhatsApp group for all interested individuals, and, to my shock, the group quickly grew to over 50 members! We started having weekly minyanim every Tuesday. I knew from experience how hard it was to put together a minyan in small towns, especially on weekdays, so it felt like nothing short of a miracle.

"I really like the Tuesday minyanim," one member commented. "Can we do it another day of the week as well?"

I was overwhelmed by the positive response his suggestion received, and we soon began a second minyan on Fridays.

People are shocked that such a small town like ours offers a weekday minyan, but that's just the miracle of shlichus in Newburgh!

Matan, who was shocked the first time he learned what Shacharis actually entails, now leads the minyan confidently, and even the shiurim, occasionally.

Mitch*, another minyan member, became very passionate about the mitzvah of tzitzis. He sponsored a pair of tzitzis for everyone, and every newcomer to the shul is immediately offered a pair of their own!

The miraculous minyan is proof of the Sage's dictum, one mitzvah leads to another.

When we first moved to New Windsor, we found a cozy little house on a main street that was perfect for us - at the time.

As the years passed and our family and community grew, the small house became uncomfortably tight. We knew we needed a bigger house, but it wasn't as simple as that. We were having issues getting approved for a mortgage, and the housing market was abysmal.

I wrote a letter to the Rebbe, asking for a bracha to find a new house, and placed it in a volume of Igros Kodesh.

When you add to your house in a spiritual sense, the Rebbe's response read, it will help bring your physical house closer to reality.

I wasn't sure how to extend my "spiritual house," but after doing more research, I learned it often referred to studying more Torah and Chassidus in the house. I set up a new weekly chavrusa and hoped the brachos would start to flow.

When I wrote about finding a new house again, a few weeks later, the letter on the page of the Igros read, Make sure your wife likes the house.

I knew exactly what my wife wanted. Most of the house options were either split levels, or large, sprawling colonials. The split levels were impractical for our family and community, but the colonials were far beyond our price range. Again, I hoped and waited for the brachos to arrive.

I met an old classmate of mine, Yehoshua Dubinsky, who'd become a mortgage broker. He heard me out and graciously offered his advice, expertise, and support through the process. With him at our side, everything seemed much simpler.

It still took a long while to find a house that suited both our needs and price range, but eventually, we found "the one."

Our entire family, not least of all my wife and myself, were excited for closing day. We were on our way to the bank when the broker called.

"I'm really sorry, but I'm afraid we won't be signing any deeds today," he said, hesitantly. A last minute check had revealed some trouble with the seller's finances, and the house was now tied up in legal jumble.

We swallowed our disappointment and resumed the house search. As Covid drove New Yorkers away from the city, demand - and prices - kept rising. But eventually, baruch Hashem, we found another house. Everything seemed to be going smoothly, until about two weeks before closing. Our insurance agent called attention to a red flag that revealed the house had major problems with the foundation, problems that would cost more than the house was worth to fix.

Once again, we were back at square one.

That summer, we spent a Shabbos in the mountains, where I got to farbreng with a good friend, Rabbi Raskin. I shared the saga of our house troubles and Rabbi Raskin thumped me on the back.

"You need a house? Print a Tanya, and you'll have a house," he proclaimed. "Chai Elul, the birthday of the Alter Rebbe, is coming up, and it's the perfect opportunity!"

I took his advice and invited our whole community to a grand Zoom printing of the Tanya. Although the printer was set up in our house, by sharing control of our screen, different community members were able to press print on the next set of pages and take an active part in the printing.

The next day, I got an unexpected phone call from someone we knew.

"How's the house hunting going?" he asked.

"I think we've looked at every house in the city!" I complained. "We got close twice, but it fell through last minute. I wish we could buy the house around the corner. It's mid-construction, but I can already tell it would be large enough for us, and the location couldn't be better. Unfortunately, it's way out of our price range."

"Buy it," he encouraged me. "I'll help you make up whatever you're lacking for the down payment."

I appreciated his generosity, but I was still nervous about relying on such a vague promise. Once again, I sat down and composed a letter to the Rebbe, placing it afterwards in a volume of Igros Kodesh.

Don't worry about the debts on the house, the Rebbe's letter read. It's not your house; it's Hashem's house, so Hashem will pay the debts.

"I'll sign right now!" I cried to our sudden benefactor. "I'll get in touch with the owner right away!"

Baruch Hashem, everything went incredibly smoothly. Since we knew about the house before it went on the market, the price was much lower than it could have been. The timing of our signing was perfect - just after the costs had lowered, and just before the interest rates skyrocketed. Had we waited even a couple more weeks, the numbers would've looked vastly different, making it impossible for us to meet the obligations.

As construction continued, it fell to us to pay the costs. Somehow, every time we were presented with yet another bill for ten or fifteen thousand, the exact amount of money we needed appeared in our account from unrelated sources.

One day, I went to check the mail, thinking of an upcoming bill that had to be paid immediately. I rifled through the mail as I wondered how we'd pay it. One envelope caught my eye and I opened it to find a check with the exact amount needed. Included was a note that read, I want this to be an anonymous donation. Thank the Rebbe; don't thank me.

I took the donor's advice and sat down to write a thank you letter to the Rebbe. When I placed it in the Igros Kodesh, I couldn't believe the letter on the page.

I'm happy to hear you're moving into your new home. Make sure to put up mezuzahs right away, move in the fundamental sefarim that are required, and host a chassidishe farbrengen.

The brachos were, indeed, flowing unabatedly. Until then, the constant bills and increasing costs made me doubt whether or not the whole thing would work out at all. Now, I had no doubts.

Last year, on Chai Elul, I studied a sicha of the Rebbe that said that when one prints a Tanya in their home, they add to the spiritual aspects of the house, just as the first letter had encouraged me to do.

"Names changed to protect privacy