It was late one winter night in 1998. Snow swirled under the streetlights as Shulamis Friedman*, a young mother of three, drove home to Monsey after visiting her ailing parents in Flatbush. The highway was slick and empty as she neared the Tappan Zee Bridge. Suddenly, she noticed a woman standing beside a stalled car, waving desperately. Shulamis hesitated. It was late, she was alone, and her instincts told her to keep driving. She also had to get home to her young children. But something tugged at her heart.
“What if it were me?” she thought. She pulled over, and the woman, shivering and pale, explained that her car had died and her phone battery was dead. Shulamis bundled her into the car, turned up the heat, and took her to a gas station, where they made arrangements to have the car towed. Seeing how weak she looked, she insisted on driving her all the way to her home in Teaneck.
The woman’s name was Devorah*, a nurse just off a long hospital shift. “You were the only one who stopped,” she said softly. “I know Hashem sent you.”
Shulamis smiled. “Maybe He sent both of us. You reminded me that we should always extend ourselves to do a chessed.” They exchanged numbers, and then life moved on.
Fifteen years later, in Yerushalayim, the Friedmans had long since settled in Eretz Yisroel. Their eldest daughter Esti*, now twenty-two, was kind, bright, and accomplished — but shidduchim had been difficult. That spring, Esti began teaching in a special-education nursery, where she grew close with one of the mothers, a warm American lady named Naomi Klein*.
One afternoon, Naomi mentioned that her brother-in-law was visiting from the States — “a really special young man, learning in Yerushalayim for the year.” His name was Ari Klein* and she wanted Esti to meet him. After inquiries were made, they met. Their first meeting went unexpectedly well. Ari was thoughtful and sincere, and Esti felt at ease around him. Soon both families were quietly hopeful. After they met for the third time, Shulamis Friedman was talking to Naomi, when it suddenly dawned on Naomi that the name sounded so familiar to her. “Tell me did you ever live in Monsey?”
Shulamis paused. “Years ago.”
Naomi hesitated. “Did you ever stop for a woman whose car broke down near the bridge one snowy night?” Shulamis was taken aback. “Yes,” she whispered. “Her name was Devorah. But how did you know?”
Naomi exclaimed. “That was my sister!”
Silence hung between them. Then Naomi continued softly, “She told that story so many times — how she was freezing and scared, and one frum woman stopped when no one else did. She said, ‘That woman saved my life and reminded me of how chessed should truly be done.’ My sister passed away at a young age, years ago. She never forgot what you did for her.”
Shulamis could barely believe what she was hearing. Naomi whispered, “Maybe, in the zechus of what you did for her, she advocated in shomayim for your Esti, and now Hashem is bringing our families together.”
A little while later, Esti and Ari were engaged. At the vort, Naomi said to Shulamis, “Kindness travels — even across oceans, even through time. You helped my sister Devorah when no one else did, and it came back to you through your daughter’s shidduch.”
Reprinted from the Parshas Toldos 5786 email of The Weekly Vort.
