It Can Take 19 ..18..21..Years – An Incredible Encounter

Boston University, 1970s. An anguished father struggles for a way to bring his bright son back to Jewish observance.

CrownHeights.info and the Avner Institute presents a touching encounter, where the Rebbe urges that family ties—and patience—be maintained, in spite of level observance, and that in time Torah will prevail, with special thanks to Rabbi Mordechai Berkowitz.

Rabbi Mordechai Berkowitz relates:

A few months ago, during a visit to the countryside, I led the Sabbath prayers at a non-Chabad local community synagogue. Before service, the attendant approached me and asked me to deliver a sermon. Seeing this as a chance to spread the wellsprings of Hassidism, I agreed.

While giving over the weekly Torah portion and its relevant lessons, I spoke primarily about the Rebbe, his tremendous work in Jewish outreach.

Afterwards, an elderly congregant approached me. “When you spoke about the Lubavitcher Rebbe, you aroused some very special memories within me,” he said, with great emotion. “If you are free for a few minutes, I’d like to tell you a story about the Rebbe that I personally experienced.”

Of course, I had all the time in the world when it came to hearing such stories, so I soon found myself sitting down next to this gentleman, listening most attentively.

The Man Began:

About thirty years ago, I was living in Boston, actively involved with the local Jewish community and Young Israel. I sent my children to the Jewish day school and, when they reached college age, to Boston University. Since in those days many observant Jews learned there, the campus provided a kosher kitchen. Naturally, I not only paid the high cost of tuition, but also the special cost for the kosher meal program.

Several months later I received a surprising phone call from my son, who decided to be honest: since he didn’t want me to waste my money for nothing, he asked that I stop paying for the kosher meals.

“For several weeks now,” he said, “I haven’t been stringent; I eat my meals in the university’s regular dining hall, together with all of my friends.”

I was in shock. I never imagined how powerful the winds of heresy were blowing at the university. But the reality was far stronger than anything, and I realized that I had made a serious mistake by sending my son to a place of spiritual danger.

But it was too late. My son had shaken off all Torah observance, and I was beside myself. From a communally active individual and a businessman, I became a broken vessel.

Encounter

One day, I met one of my acquaintances in the street. Noticing on my face that something was wrong, he asked if he could do something to help. I tried to dissuade him, but as a truly a good friend, he insisted.

Eventually, in great anguish, I shared with him the news about my son, about my attempts to persuade him to return to the right path, only to find that it was no longer possible.

My friend brightened. “I know someone who can help you. You know I’m not at all a Lubavitcher, but I’m telling you right now that the Rebbe can help you.”

I refused to believe that after all my efforts to bring my son back to his heritage, the Lubavitcher Rebbe from New York, who had neither seen nor known my son, could succeed where I had failed. But hearing from my friend a number of miracle stories, I concluded that it was worth a try. Even if it didn’t help, it certainly couldn’t hurt. I called the Rebbe’s secretary, made an appointment, and traveled to New York on the appointed day.

I arrived at 770, Lubavitch headquarters, late in the evening. I went into the secretaries’ office, and after being explained the procedure of yechidus, I exited into the entranceway leading to the Rebbe’s room.

The people in line ahead of me were standing quietly and chanting Psalms. The tranquil atmosphere calmed ever so slightly the storm my soul was enduring.

My turn came. I entered the Rebbe’s room with much excitement, and after introducing myself, I proceeded to give all the sad details.

The Rebbe listened. After I finished, he said, “You must be careful not to sever your connection with your son. Maintain good relations with him, and in the meantime, accept him as he is. However, in the end, he will come back.”

Then, the Rebbe added the following: “This could take some time—eighteen, twenty, twenty-two years. But he eventually will come back.”

Although I wasn’t a Lubavitcher Chassid, the Rebbe’s unique look and tone filled me with serenity, and I left the room certain that my son would return to his family and his Torah.

Reencounter

Over the following years, we always kept the channel of communication open between us, despite the fact that it was a little one-sided, since my son didn’t want to come home. This was possibly because he didn’t want to upset us too much.

Then, in the eighteenth year, just before Rosh Hashana, he called and asked if he could come to us for Yom Tov. We told him that his room was waiting, and that he should just come.

I excitedly remembered the Rebbe’s words. My son came for Rosh Hashana, went with me to shul, and ate the holiday meals with us. The atmosphere was wonderful. Apparently, however, the time had not yet come for him to return completely, and after Rosh Hashana he left in peace and went back to his business affairs.

Two years passed. Twenty years since the meeting with the Rebbe, I again received a phone call from my son. This time it was right before Passover, which my son asked to come and spend with us. He actively participated in the Seder, and we spent the entire week together. Faithful to the Rebbe’s instructions, I refrained from pressuring him regarding Torah and mitzvoth. For his part, my son also didn’t raise the subject.

From our conversations, I understood that my son was rapidly advancing in his public career. He had been appointed to the staff of advisors to then President Clinton, a post that naturally obligated him to live in Washington DC.

Another two years passed, and the Rebbe’s words began to ring even more powerfully. I had waited twenty-two years for this moment, which had come at last.

One day, my son called me. He asked to see us again, but this time he wanted my wife and me to come to his house. Before I could think about how to keep kosher there, he updated me with some recent developments.

Recently he had become acquainted with the Rebbe’s emissary in Washington, through whom he had begun to get closer to Yiddishkeit. Remembering his bar mitzvah speech—its content and cadences—he became the official Torah reader for the local Chabad House.

“A short while ago,” my son concluded, “I had my kitchen kashered, and how you can come to me without any worries.”

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