Reb Yisrael Aaronson noticed that his rebbi always wore a wristband. He and everyone else who saw it assumed that there was a watch on the flipside of the band, but whoever looked closer realized that there was nothing there. It was just a wristband — with no watch. Reb Yisrael mustered the courage to ask for an explanation as to why his rebbi wore the wristband without a watch. In response to the inquiry, his rebbi shared a personal story:
As a young boy, any project that I set myself to do went sour. There was one thing, and one thing only, that I was good at — failure. My parents knew that. My teachers knew that. My friends knew that. And I knew that, too. One year, at the onset of the school term, we got a new rebbi, and on the first day, he requested that I prepare ten cups of tea. One of the cups would be for him, and the rest would be for other rebbeim. “Have them brought to the rebbi’s room,” he commanded me.
“You obviously don’t know me,” I replied. “I am a world-class schlemazel. Even if I manage to prepare ten cups, they’ll spill all over the floor. Nothing else. In the past, I’ve been asked by my rebbeim to prepare a tea, and the cups land everywhere other than the table. And here you are, asking me to arrange ten cups? I don’t stand a chance. Find someone else,” I said heartbrokenly.
The rebbi reassured me that he was sincere, and that he knows that I can do it. “You’re the right boy for the job, and I want all ten cups ready within five minutes!” the rebbi added.
Well, without a choice in the matter, I ran to the yeshiva’s kitchen to prepare them. In four minutes, all ten cups of tea were brewing with a blend of the herbal essences and a splash of sugar. I slid over a tray with which I would transfer the teas to the rebbi’s room, and I placed each of them on the tray slowly, one-by-one.
I cautiously made my way to the room. Then, as I was lowering the tray in the rebbi’s room, two of the cups zipped right off the tray onto the pants of one of the rebbi who was sitting there. Hearing the groan erupt from the rebbi who now had scorching tea all over his legs was all I needed. I ran to a corner of the building where no one would find me.
Sometime later, engrossed in thought, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the new rebbi. Seeing him standing right before me, I murmured: “You see, I told you! I told you that I am not cut out.”
“You see what I told you?” he replied. “I told you that you were cut out!”
“Huu?!?!” I asked. “I just showered that poor rebbi with hot tea. How is that called ‘cut out?’”
“Don’t you see that 80% of the task was accomplished? Eight of the cups made it just right. So, all you have to deal with is two cups that didn’t make it. It’s just 20% of the job. 20% isn’t hard to deal with.”
The following day, the new rebbi approached me and handed me a rubber band. “This is a present for you,” he exclaimed. “Every time you’re faced with a thought telling you how you’re a failure, tug at that rubber string. It’ll hit you and remind you of your successes. That’ll give you courage to keep going. For example, when you are learning a Gemara and don’t understand the answer, recall that you were able to pull through the question.”
On the first day, my hand was already black-and-blue all over. I battled those pessimistic thoughts tooth and nail. I couldn’t keep hurting myself, though, so I went to a watch repairman and bought a band similar to a rubber band. Every time I feel that I can’t succeed, I remind myself that I indeed have the power to withstand. And I will succeed.
At the conclusion of his story, the rebbi said to Reb Yisrael, “But I must tell you, this band that you’re looking at isn’t actually that one. That band went lost. This one is a new one that I got when I started my high-profile job. When I became a maggid shiur, I made myself another one to remind myself where I was destined if not for that very first rubber band and reflecting its aftereffects. With this, I see to it that I encourage others and give them the self-assurance to bring out their inner capabilities.”
