When Life Gives You Lemons…Find A Chabad House

by Benny Rogosnitzky – Lubavitch.com

Benny Rogosnitzky is the Cantor at Manhattan’s Park East Synagogue and directs the Rabbi Arthur Schneier Park East Day School.

As Israel launched a pre-emptive strike on Iran early Friday morning, its airspace was closed abruptly to commercial traffic, and thousands of passengers en route to the Holy Land were diverted. Chabad centers across Europe and beyond welcomed hundreds of last-minute Shabbat guests. Benny was one of them.

When life gives you lemons…find a Chabad House.

Let me begin at the end. I have always admired Chabad. Their passion and commitment to every Jew, no matter their level of observance, is one of the most beautiful aspects of this unique and outstanding movement. I have had so many great experiences interacting with different leaders of Chabad that perhaps naively, I thought I knew everything there was to know about Chabad… That was until this past Shabbat.

On Thursday morning, I left New York to travel to Israel to visit my dear father, who has not been well for many months. Living so many thousands of miles away from a parent struggling with health issues in their sunset years is saddening and complicated. How I would love to just pop in on a random afternoon to check in on my dad and see how he’s doing, or go over on Shabbat and sing the traditional Shabbos Zemirot. But over the past 23 months, I’ve travelled back and forth to Israel anytime I could—sometimes just for a day—to check in on my father and spend quality time with him.

Thursday seemed to be no different than any other day. The flight was pleasant enough, and I was watching the seatback screen as it showed that we were just shy of 10 minutes from Ben Gurion Airport. I had the whole Shabbat planned: what I would do, what I would buy in Jerusalem to bring to my dad, and what stories I would share with him. I felt blessed that I would get to see my father again.

However, the ten minutes on the screen soon became nineteen minutes, and then nineteen quickly became thirty—and I realized something was wrong. I looked around, and everyone seemed calm, so I tried not to worry. But sure enough, I started hearing whispers in the cabin that there was an issue in Israel and the country was closing its borders. A few moments later, the captain announced the very same, that Israel’s borders had officially closed due to the onset of the war with Iran. We would not be able to land in Israel.

By nature, I happen to be the more calm and collected type in times of crisis. My friends are usually the ones reaching out to me, in a panic, asking me what to do. I concluded very quickly that Shabbat in Israel would likely not happen. Now the only question was where I would spend Shabbat, and how I could obtain the basic necessities.

The pilot announced that we were being diverted to Cyprus. We landed about 30 minutes later, but the Israeli authorities had yet to formulate a plan, so we were sitting on the plane for several hours. During that time, we shared a sense of fear and helplessness as we awaited any word of intention for our deplaning and immediate plans. There was an undercurrent of desperate uncertainty, ironically melded with intrinsic faith that good would prevail and we would soon be in a safe space.

After several hours, the aircraft doors opened, and we were advised that this would be our final destination for today. Where does a Jew go when they’re in trouble? Without a doubt, to the nearest Chabad House.

In the initial hours of my arrival at the Chabad Center, there was total mayhem. People were crying, worried about their family members in Israel. Many students, some on a Birthright trip, were totally lost with very little money in their pockets. Families were concerned about Shabbat food and where they would stay. People were flooding the Chabad center with questions, overcome with concern for places to eat and sleep.

And as only Chabad could, the Rabbis showed such great empathy and grace, calming people down with a warm smile and love that only a Rebbe’s emissary could give.

I stood on the side, observing, overwhelmed by this incredible outpouring of selfless love. After finding my bearings and securing a motel not far from the Chabad, I came back to see if I could help the many people who continued arriving. I noticed a young woman with a baby, looking completely wiped and out of breath. I went up to her to see if I could assist, only to discover that she was traveling alone with her baby. It turned out that she had a husband and five children waiting for her in Jerusalem. She had no idea what she was going to do for Shabbos. Distraught, she relayed that she had never been separated from her children and family before on Shabbat.

My instinct told me to help her with her child, even if just for a few moments. I offered to take her 14-month-old for a walk, to give her a much-needed break, and time to regroup. So, baby in my arms, I began strolling up and down the street, laughing and joking with him in my attempt to cheer him up. People in the street stopped me, chatting and complimenting me on “my” beautiful child. One person asked, “What’s your child’s name?” I had to think quickly, because telling them the whole story of “how I got this baby” was too complicated. I looked up and saw the large Chabad sign hanging above me: “Mashiach” I quickly proclaimed. And so for an hour, this beautiful little baby boy had a new name. It was trivial—a really small gesture—but the relief meant so much to his mother.

I came back to the center, and together with one of the Chabad emissaries, we managed to secure somewhere for the child and mother to stay for Shabbat. We bought diapers for the baby and even connected her on the phone with her children to wish them Shabbat Shalom.

The hour was getting late, and I needed to make it back to the motel for Shabbat, as I returned to the Chabad house to figure out my own plans. I bumped into an elderly gentleman sitting on a bench wearing the traditional Hasidic garb. He kind of looked like what I imagined Moses would look like, with a glowing face and a beautiful white beard. He was completely lost and didn’t speak a word of English. He only owned a flip phone, and did not even have a charger.

I quickly engaged him in conversation in Yiddish—suddenly, he began to smile like he had just won the lottery. Finally, someone he could speak with! I asked him what his plans were for Shabbos, and he told me that he intended to sleep on the bench in the back of the Shul. I quickly told him that that was not an option, and after a short while, I introduced him to the Chabad Rabbi, who quickly secured a hotel room for him, where he stayed for Shabbos and remains still, while awaiting travel back to Israel. I made it my business to remain close to this gentleman all Shabbos, making sure that he was taken care of. His sweetness and warmth were contagious. In his kind and soft-spoken tone, he gave me a blessing as we parted ways, a blessing which will be etched in my heart forever:

“May Hashem bless you and repay you one thousand-fold. You brought me back my soul; I was devastated at the idea of not being back with my family in Israel. I couldn’t understand what was going on here at the Chabad and in Israel, what my plans would be. You didn’t only save my Shabbos, you saved my spirit. May you be blessed.”

But perhaps the apex of the entire experience came on Friday night. I walked into the Shul, and there was barely a place to stand. Hundreds upon hundreds of Jews, some with kippot, some without—men on one side, women on the other—were gathered, covering every square inch of the room. We began to sing the traditional Kabbalat Shabbat. I’m not embarrassed to say that I couldn’t even pray or say the words, I was so overwhelmed with emotion. Partially feeling my own disappointment of not having made it to Israel, I cried through the Davening, and then I looked up and saw that I was not alone, almost everyone else around me was crying, too. For some, it was tears of joy, for others, tears of sadness and disappointment, but for all, tears of sincerity and connection to Hashem. I have never before sung a Lecha Dodi this way. The Chabad Shaliach was standing at the front of the room, encouraging people to sing in the hot and sweaty but magical environment. It was a scene I’ll never forget.

I only learned later how much pain and disappointment many were experiencing that day. I met a grandfather who had put together a beautiful Bar Mitzvah for his first grandson, and close to 300 guests had arrived in Israel from around the world. He was behind it all, and yet he would spend Shabbos with us in Larnaca instead. I took his hand and went to the front of the room and danced with him. People joined in, and everyone was dancing, as if the Bar Mitzvah boy were right there with us. We met one of our pilots, sitting in the corner of the room, without a kippah. We brought him into the circle, and danced again, in an incredible show of unity.

What are we, if not brothers and sisters joined at the hip? Yes, we may have great differences. Surely not everyone sees things the same way. But for this one Shabbos, there was more love, joy, and unity present than I have ever experienced in my life. And why is it no surprise that this all happened under the auspices of the Chabad and the incredible Rabbi Raskin in Larnaca, Cyprus? I am certain that this circumstance was surely a paradoxical convergence of happenstance and destiny, and was no accident.

One of my favorite mantras is, “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade,” and I can tell you, the lemonade was overflowing this past Shabbos. I must have lost five pounds on my meager diet of gefilte fish and 2 slices of Challah that night, which I artfully managed to assemble into a sandwich, but I gained so many more in love, respect, and admiration for the incredible work that Chabad does, and for the Holy Rebbe who created this incredible, life-changing movement.