Quest, the father beside me, also pushing his child in a swing, smiled in sympathetic understanding.
I introduced myself and he reciprocated, and I asked him what he did for work.
“I’m in finance,” he answered. “How about you?”
“I lead a factory demonstration for kids, explaining how shofars for Rosh Hashanah are made,” I said.
He was thoughtful for a moment.
“It’s funny,” he began, hesitantly. “When I was a kid, my mom signed me up for Hebrew school. I only attended for a short time, so I didn’t get a chance to learn much, but I do remember participating in a Shofar Factory and making my own shofar.
“That shofar sat in my room until I left for college. I’m still not sure why, but something compelled me to pack it in my suitcase and take it along with me. I kept it throughout college, and brought it along after graduation.
“I’m now married, and my wife isn’t Jewish, but the shofar has a place on our mantel. It reminds me that I’m a Jew whenever I see it.”
I was moved by his story, and it gave me all the inspiration and motivation I needed for beginning my new shlichus. If a single Shofar Factory could have made such an impression on this man, I knew the work on which I was about to embark was important and could change lives.
Baruch Hashem, our youth programs had been successfully integrated in many schools throughout the city, but there was one Jewish school, Oheb Shalom*, that kept giving me the polite runaround. It was frustrating, because I knew how much of an impact even the Matza Bakery could make, but there was nothing else I could do.
I was scheduled to bring the Matza Bakery to a certain Chabad house, so I loaded up all my paraphernalia and ordered an Uber Pool. I hoped that I’d be lucky enough to get a solo ride, but my driver picked up not one, but two additional riders. My arms were filled with awkward, bulky items that took up precious space in the small car, and it was hard to ignore. One of my fellow riders, a sweet elderly woman, asked where I was “headed with all those tools.” I gave her a brief explanation, and she nodded, pleased.
“Have you ever brought one of these programs to Oheb Shalom?” she asked.
“Funny you should ask,” I replied. “I’ve been trying to contact them...”
“Say no more,” she said. “You’re in.”
As it happened, she was an influential member of the board, and managed to convince the school with one short text. The school loved the Matza Bakery so much, they also booked many of our other experiences.
“It’s the strangest thing,” the woman commented, pocketing her phone. “I’m on my way to the dentist, but I didn’t mean to order an UberPool. I can’t figure out why I made such a mistake!”
“I can,” I said, with a smile.
Every shliach understands the struggle of finding and meeting people in their neighborhood, but moving during Covid gave us an extra challenge to overcome. People were suspicious of strangers knocking on their doors, coming within their 6 feet of safe space, even if those strangers offered them freshly-baked challah. Nevertheless, one way or another, we managed to meet some Jews in the area.
I found out that the neighborhood hosted a block concert every Friday afternoon, so throughout the spring and summer, when Shabbos started late, I went to the concert to mingle and meet people. It was an excellent way of introducing myself in a very friendly, nonchalant way.
One Friday, I brought my daughter with me, and before I realized what was happening, she’d slipped up to the front and handed the drummer a challah.
“Rabbi!” I heard, coming from the speakers. “Come up here and bless this bread!”
To the appreciative cheering of the crowd, I made my way up to the central stoop and wished everyone a Shabbat Shalom.
“Why don’t you sing some Shabbat songs?” I suggested to the drummer.
He shrugged. “‘Cuz I don’t know any!”
“I can do it,” I volunteered. He raised an eyebrow, but silently handed me his drumsticks and stood up to give me his place. “A one, two, three, hit it!” I sang, and banged the sticks with abandon. “Shabbat Shalom, hey! Shabbat Shalom, hey! Shabbat, Shabbat, Shabbat, Shabbat Shalom!” the entire crowd sang with me and cheered every time I hit the drums.
“Give it up for the Rockin’ Rabbi!” the drummer announced with a flourish when the song was over.
It was an incredible experience, and for weeks after that, people came up to me in the street, calling me the “Rockin’ Rabbi,” and telling me how much they’d loved the performance.
Ronnie was feeling lost. She was doing her best to fight cancer, but it had already advanced and she was so, so tired. She desperately needed guidance. She felt a yearning for something spiritual, but had no idea what - or where - she should be seeking.
She was riding an elevator one day, when a woman entered and pressed the button for the lobby. Completely unprompted, she asked Ronnie, “Are you Jewish? There’s a fabulous ladies class at Chabad every Wednesday. You should check it out!”
The next Wednesday morning, Ronnie was there, and so was the stranger from the elevator - although she didn’t recognize the woman on whom she’d made such an impact.
As my wife began the class, Ronnie felt a sense of peace descend upon her, soothing the spiritual ache she’d been harboring for weeks. She began coming every week, never missing a class, and became more involved in other areas as well. The words of Torah and the embrace of the community help her face her challenges, and we continue to daven for the complete refuah shleima of Rochel bas Gittel.
*Names changed to protect privacy
