Late one evening, two young men in Israel decided to drive from Ashdod to the Kosel. It was a spontaneous idea, perhaps even an impractical one. Yet they davened, spent some time there, and then returned to Ashdod around two o’clock in the morning. Exhausted, they began walking home through the quiet streets.
As they passed a local shul, they noticed something unusual: the lights were on.
Pause for a moment and consider the scene. Two o’clock in the morning. The streets are empty. The simplest response would have been to shrug and walk on. But one of the men said to the other, “Why would the lights be on? If no one is inside, they’re just wasting electricity. Let me check.”
It was a small decision. A minor inconvenience. A step out of his way.
He opened the door—and discovered that the shul was not empty. Inside were two people. One was a teenager studying intensely for an upcoming exam. The other was a kollel fellow, whose name he came to learn was Moshe, a man in his early thirties. Moshe was crying.
The visitor approached him gently and asked what was wrong. Moshe did not speak in abstractions. He spoke plainly.
“My wife threw me out of the house tonight,” he said. “She told me that I may be learning Torah, but I’m not taking care of my family. There’s no food in the house and the children went to bed hungry. We don’t even have soap or shampoo. She locked herself in the bedroom, crying. I didn’t know where else to go, so I came here. I turned to Hakadosh Baruch Hu and asked, ‘What do I do now?’” At two o’clock in the morning, Moshe sat alone in a shul, broken and desperate.
The visitor responded instinctively. “I have some shampoo at home,” he said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” But as he stepped outside, he stopped. Shampoo alone would not solve this problem.
He told his friend what was happening. Between them, they had four hundred shekels. Without hesitation, they decided to find a market and buy Moshe everything he would need for Shabbos—food and the other basics.
At two o’clock in the morning in Ashdod, there was only one place open: a brightly lit convenience store called “24/7.” They were uncomfortable shopping there as it was open even on Shabbos—literally 24/7—but they knew Moshe could not go home empty-handed. They bought challah, meat, fish, groceries, soap, shampoo. Everything. Every shekel they had was spent.
As they loaded the bags into their car, they realized something else. Moshe would be uneasy if he knew the food came from a store that operated on Shabbos. So they began transferring everything into plain bags.
Unbeknownst to them, the store owner had been watching. He approached and asked, “What are you doing?” Nervously, but honestly, they explained the situation. They expected anger, maybe mockery.
Instead, the man broke down crying. “I’m not fully religious,” he said, “but I’ve been growing. I was learning regularly with a chavrusa two hours a week and it changed my life. When he moved away, I lost that connection. Tonight, I prayed to G-d and said, ‘I want to come closer. I want this Elul to mean something. Please help me reconnect.”
Then he looked at them and said, “And now, at two o’clock in the morning, you walk into my store to help a kollel fellow who has nothing.”
He made them an offer. “I want one of you to learn with me for two hours a week. In return, I will give my maaser—not to you, but to Moshe. He will have steady support.”
And that was not the end of the story.
Moshe was able to continue learning and his home stabilized. The store owner as well regained his chavrusa and furthered his spiritual journey. And months later, the store changed its name and its sign.
No longer “24/7.” It became “24/6.”
All of this... from one small moment. One person saying, “Let me check the shul lights.” One step. One decision.
Never underestimate the impact of a single act of responsibility or one gesture of kindness. We often have no idea whose life we are touching or how far the consequences of our choices will reach.
They stretch beyond the imagination.
