The trees swayed in rhythm with the soft winds that rippled
the last few leaves still clinging to their branches. The
winter sun pierced the dark clouds, brightening the gray
atmosphere of a dull winter day.
A young man walked briskly down the familiar streets, heading
purposefully towards the nearby post office. He let his mind
wander as his feet led the way, or so he imagined, as he
continued, lost in thought. Suddenly, he lifted his eyes from
the gray pavement and looked around. His brows furrowed as he
stroked his beard in surprise. He had deviated from his
regular route and now found himself in a narrow alley. He
shrugged his shoulders and began to retrace his steps,
heading with determination in the proper direction.
Suddenly, he noticed a strange woman. He tried to sidetrack
but she quickly said, "Please, come with me."
He blushed in embarrassment. Her mode of dress was worlds
apart from religious life in general and chassidim in
particular.
"Please," she whispered urgently, "my parents need your
help."
His curiosity piqued in spite of himself, he asked for more
details.
"My father has finally procured kosher mezuzos for his
home," she explained. "In his old age, he has decided to
return to the ways of his ancestors and he wants to die an
observant Jew. Now he needs someone religious to affix the
mezuza properly on his doorpost. Please, please come
with me."
He followed her, eyes focused on the pavement as he marveled
at the greatness of Divine Providence: how a minor,
unintended detour had given him the opportunity to perform
the great, even rare mitzva of affixing a kosher
mezuza to a Jewish home.
He followed her into the dingy lobby of a run-down apartment
building. He continued up four flights of stairs until she
called, "Here we are."
Panting somewhat, he leaned on the bannister and waited. She
knocked lightly on the wooden door and then fished out a set
of keys and opened it. Behind the door stood an old, bent-
over man with a large black kipa on his small, balding
head. His elderly wife stood by his side. The threesome
struck up an animated dialogue in some European tongue while
the chossid impatiently awaited his cue.
"Yiddish, ya?" the old man pointed at him with a
crooked finger.
"Ya," he answered.
"Mezuza, kenstu?" he implored.
"Ya, ya."
The old woman brought a hammer and two rusty nails. The old
man lovingly caressed the mezuza, kissing it as he
would his very own grandchild, and gently placed it into the
stranger's hand.
All was still. The hammer was poised in mid air and then the
words reverberated fervently in the air, " . . . likboa
mezuza."
"Omein!" the elderly couple chorused.
Soft sobs grew louder with an outpouring cry of joy and
emotion of two elderly Jews expressing the privilege of
marking their home as a home of the chosen, a home which
would now enjoy special surveillance, day and night, by the
King of kings.
The final blow of the hammer hit its mark, brightening one
dim corner with hope for the future.
