This week, ten years ago, I found myself—by Divine Providence—on a United Airlines flight from Tel Aviv to Newark. I can’t recall the last time before that when I had been on such a long flight.
In my youth, when I traveled from Israel to the Rebbe, I almost always took connecting flights—both because they were usually cheaper and because, as a curious young man, I found it fascinating to land in another country, hear another language, and then board another plane (I must admit, I still find it fascinating today).
So, when I flew eleven hours straight in Adar 5775, I started getting bored in the middle of the night and decided to wander around the darkened plane.
I reached the galley, where there were hot and cold drinks and some Nature Valley cookies with a kosher certification. As I took a sip of my scorching hot tea, a man, older than me, turned to me and asked, "Are you a Chabadnik?" Without waiting for an answer, he immediately added, "Are you going to the Ohel?"
"Yes, I am Chabad," I answered, "and yes, I am definitely traveling to the Rebbe’s resting place—the Ohel."
"Tell me," he asked again, "Can one visit the Rebbe on Shabbat?"
I explained to him that the Ohel is open 24/7, but if he was asking my opinion, I told him that it’s not appropriate to drive there on Shabbat.
He shushed me and added, "That’s between me and the Rebbe. I visited him once, in 1975, on Simchat Torah with my uncle, and I will never forget the look in his eyes."
I reassured him that I wasn’t getting involved in his choices—just pointing out that Simchat Torah in New York is the second day of Yom Tov for those outside of Israel, so back then, as an Israeli, he was actually permitted to drive.
I found a lemon and added it to my tea, which was far too strong. At that moment, the man in front of me pulled out $200 from his pocket, handed it to me, and said:
"Listen, if you see a Chabad shliach there, give this to him as tzedakah."
I promised him that the money would indeed reach a Chabad shliach—without telling him that I myself was one. But I was curious. "What’s the story behind this donation?"
"Listen," he began, "my son became religious through Chabad in Holon. He is close to Rabbi David Gourarie. Ever since, he searches everywhere for kosher food and a place to be for Shabbat, and sometimes it’s not easy. But luckily, there’s always Chabad.
For example, last year, there was a soccer match between the national team and FC Basel. He simply called the shliach there, and the guy invited him for Shabbat. He stayed for the meals, prayed with him, even brought chocolates for the shliach’s kids, and had an amazing time!"
At that moment, I froze. My mind went blank. Shock. Total disbelief.
"Wait a minute!" I nearly shouted. "Do you know who I am? Do you know my name? Where I live?"
He had no idea.
"Listen," I said, "I am the shliach in Basel. Your son was at my house! His name is Omer, right?"
Now it was his turn to be stunned. His eyes widened. His mouth dropped open. He placed his hand on his head in total disbelief.
At that moment, my heart filled with gratitude for this tiny pat on the back that G-d had just given me.
Just think—how much did Hashem have to orchestrate behind the scenes? He had to turn the world upside down just so that I would fly from Israel to Newark, meet this man in the United Airlines galley, 30,000 feet above the Atlantic Ocean, at precisely the right moment, and hear a good word about Chabad of Basel—and even receive a donation!
Most of what we do—all of us, in our own lives—we rarely see the results.
Thousands of people have passed through Chabad of Basel over the years. I have no idea what impact, if any, it had on them. But it doesn’t matter. You don’t do it for the feedback.
You do it because it’s the right thing to do.
This applies to parenting as well. If we raise our children expecting constant feedback, we set ourselves up for disappointment, frustration, and emotional scars—mainly the ones we’ll inflict on our own children.
We give. We educate. We nurture. We know that "It is not upon you to complete the work."
But this time, G-d granted me a kindness. He gave me a glimpse of what one Jew felt after being at my home—how he felt accepted, loved, and welcomed.
This week, for several reasons, I was reminded of this story.
And I thought—it’s a beautiful story.
Enjoy.
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Zalman Wishedski