On the eve of Yom HaAtzmaut (Independence Day) last year, as the bonfires were being raised on Mount Herzl in Jerusalem, the lights were burning also in Tzafrir (Kfar Chabad), the Chabad-Lubavitcher village in the Lod Valley.

For four days the village had been in deep mourning and grievous anguish, the likes of which the Lubavitcher chassidim had not known in many years. On that black and bitter night, a band of fedayeen entered the village. They made their way to the synagogue of the local agricultural school, where the school’s young students were in the midst of the evening maariv prayers, and raked the room with fire from their Karl-Gustav rifles. They reaped a cruel blood-harvest: five children and one teacher were killed and another ten children wounded; their pure, holy blood soaking the siddurim that fell from their hands and splattering the synagogue’s white-washed walls.

The village chassidim, brawny, broad-shouldered Russian Jews with thick black beards and bushy brows, stood dumbfounded before the terrible scene that met their eyes. A pogrom in Israel! A pogrom in Chabad! they whispered, and bit their lips in rage. The women stood there too, hefty, handsome Russian matrons, wringing their hands and murmuring to themselves in Russian and Hebrew, their eyes emitting an endless stream of tears.

This was not a common scene for the Lubavitchers. These Chassidim, who had survived the pogroms in Czar Nikolai’s Russia and whom the Red Army could not intimidate, who had been banished to the frozen plains of Siberia, whose backs decades in Stalin’s prisons and camps could not bow, now stood stooped and despairing. Now, that the blow had hit home in the heart of the Jewish state.

In the center of the village stood Rabbi Avraham Maayor who had been a high-ranking officer in the Russian Army. Avraham Maayor, of whom legend told that he calmly stood and sang chassidic melodies as a band of soldiers beat him with the butts of their rifles, now stood crying out at the heavens: “Master of the Universe, Why?! How have the children sinned?!”

Despair and dejection pervaded the village, and began to eat away at its foundations. There were some who saw what happened as a sign that their dream of a peaceful life in the Holy Land was premature. Perhaps we should disband, seek refuge in safer havens? The village was slowly dying.

The Village Waits

But it was clear to all that before any decisive move would be made, the Rebbe had to be consulted. Nothing would be done without his knowledge and consent. All awaited the telegram from “there,” from New York, but the telegram was inexplicably not forthcoming. Four days had passed since the terror had struck. A lengthy telegram had immediately been dispatched informing the Rebbe of all the details of the tragedy, and an answer was expected that very night. But the Rebbe was silent. What happened, many wondered, why doesn’t he respond? Has he not a word of comfort for his stricken followers?

A telegram from the Rebbe, it should be clarified, is an integral part of Chabad-Chassidic life across the globe. Every problem, every decision pertaining to the communal or private life of the Lubavitcher chassid is referred to the Rebbe’s headquarters in Brooklyn, and whatever the reply, that is what is done. And the answer is always forthcoming, whether by regular post, express mail, or emergency telegram-depending upon the urgency of the matter-and always short, succinct, and to the point.

Why, then, is the Rebbe’s answer on such a fateful matter tarrying? The village elders had no explanation, and, as the hours and days went by, the question continued to plague their tormented souls, and their anguish and despair weighed increasingly heavier on their hearts.

The Telegram

And then, four days after the tragedy, the telegram arrived. The news spread throughout the village: A telegram from the Rebbe! The telegram has arrived! The entire village, men, women and children, assembled in the village square to hear the Rebbe’s reply.

And the Rebbe was characteristically succinct. The telegram contained a single sentence-three Hebrew words-but these three words sufficed to save the village from disintegration and its inhabitants from despair. Behemshech habinyan tinacheimu, wrote the Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson. “By your continued building will you be comforted.”

The Chassidim of Kfar Chabad now had a firm grasp on their future: they knew what they had to do. They must build! The Rebbe said to build! And that by their continued building they will be comforted! That very night the village elders held a meeting to discuss how the Rebbe’s directive might be implemented. After a short discussion, a decision was reached: a vocational school will be built where children from disadvantaged backgrounds will be taught the printing trade. On the very spot where the blood was spilled, the building will be raised.

The Rebbe Knew

The next morning, all residents of the village gathered at the empty lot adjoining the agricultural school and began clearing and leveling the land in preparation for the building. The joy was back in their eyes.

In the weeks that followed, letters arriving from relatives and friends in New York described what had transpired there in those four endless days in which the village had awaited the Rebbe’s reply.

For the entire month of Nissan, the month of the redemption, it is the Rebbe’s custom to devote himself entirely to the service of the Creator, reducing his contact with his Chassidim to a minimum. Rare is the individual who is granted an audience with the Rebbe in this period, and all but the most urgent correspondence is postponed until the close of the auspicious month.

When the month of Nissan ends, a festive farbrengen (Chassidic gathering) is held at the Rebbe’s headquarters on Eastern Parkway in Brooklyn, marking the Rebbe’s resumption of his involvement with his thousands of followers across the globe. The Rebbe speaks for hours, his talks interspersed with bouts of song and l’chaims, often until the wee hours of the morning.

That year, the farbrengen marking the close of Nissan was also held. The tragic news from the Holy Land had arrived in New York moments before the farbrengen was scheduled to begin, but the Rebbe’s secretaries decided to withhold the news from him until after the gathering. But what his assistants did not tell him, his heart seems to have told him. That night, the Rebbe spoke of Jewish self-sacrifice and martyrdom al kiddush Hashem (for the sanctification of G-d’s name), about the rebuilding of the Holy Land, and the redemption of Israel. Tears flowed from his eyes as he spoke. All night he spoke and wept, sang and wept, and wept still more.

Why is the Rebbe weeping? Only a few of those present could guess-those who knew about the telegram from Kfar Chabad.

The farbrengen ended. The chassidim dispersed to their homes, and the Rebbe retired to his room. With great trepidation, two of the Rebbe’s closest chassidim knocked on the Rebbe’s door and handed him the telegram from Israel. The Rebbe sank into his chair. He locked his door and did not open it for three days. After three days of utter seclusion, he called his secretary and dictated his reply: Behemshech habinyan tinacheimu. By your continued building you will be comforted.

The chassidim of Kfar Chabad have fulfilled their Rebbe’s request. Without the aid of philanthropists or foundations, they have raised 50,000 Israeli pounds, and today, one year after the tragedy, the new building of the vocational school is completed.

Tomorrow, as the citizens of Israel celebrate their eighth Independence Day, the chassidim of Kfar Chabad will hold a farbrengen and relate, again and again, the story of the three-word telegram that saved the village.

- From the Hebrew by  Yanki Tauber

On that note, I thought the following piece (author unknown) would be uplifting and worth sharing:

THE PRESENT

Imagine life as a game in which you are juggling some five balls in the air. You name them – work, family, health, friends and spirit – and you’re keeping all of these in the air. You will soon understand that work is a rubber ball. If you drop it, it will bounce back. But the other four balls – family, health, friends and spirit – are made of glass. If you drop one of these, they will be irrevocably scuffed, marked, nicked, damaged or even shattered. They will never be the same.

You must understand that and strive for balance in your life. How? Don’t undermine your worth by comparing yourself with others. It is because we are different that each of us is special. Don’t set your goals by what other people deem important. Only you know what is best for you. Don’t take for granted the things closest to your heart. Cling to them as you would your life, for without them, life is meaningless.

Don’t let your life slip through your fingers by living in the past or for the future. By living your life one day at a time, you live ALL the days of your life. Don’t give up when you still have something to give. Nothing is really over until the moment you stop trying. Don’t be afraid to admit that you are less than perfect. It is this fragile thread that binds us to each other. Don’t be afraid to encounter risks. It is by taking chances that we learn how to be brave.

Don’t shut love out of your life by saying it’s impossible to find. The quickest way to receive love is to give; the fastest way to lose love is to hold it too tightly; and the best way to keep love is to give it wings. Don’t run through life so fast that you forget not only where you’ve been, but also where you are going. Don’t forget, a person’s greatest emotional need is to feel appreciated and to give love to one’s family. Don’t be afraid to learn. Knowledge is weightless, a treasure you can always carry easily.

Don’t use time or words carelessly. The hurtful things you say cannot be taken back. Neither time nor words can be retrieved. Life is not a race, but a journey to be savored each step of the way.

Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery and today is a gift: that’s why we call it the present.

As he patrols the streets, Gabi discovers a guesthouse that he somehow overlooked before, and didn’t hang an invitation there.  He enters and asks the clerk to see the guest book. He checks it and discovers a name that sounds Israeli.

He goes up the stairs, knocks repeatedly on the door, and when there is no answer he leaves and starts descending the stairs.  As he reaches the bottom step, behind him the door opens and a young man with a towel around his middle, dripping water, looks at him shocked.

“Who sent you?”  asks the young man. ” The Kadosh Baruch Hu ” (The Holy Blessed be He –G-d ) answers Gabi.   The young man, in total shock, invites him to come back, gets dressed and says:
0D
“Listen to this story.  I just arrived from the south of India on my way to the north, I never intended to stop in this city, I came on a train and I was to change trains.  When I get off the train and go to buy my ticket, I discover to my horror that some pickpocket robbed me.  I sit on a rock and start getting depressed, but suddenly a young man comes to me. He talks to me with a French accent and asks where I am from. When I tell him that I am from Israel, the young man tells me that he is also Jewish, from France, and he gives me some money.  The young man tells me to go into the city, rent a room and after the holiday call home and ask the parents to deposit money in the postal bank, and then withdraw it here through Western Union.
I do as the young man told me. I get to the city, rent a room in the first guesthouse I see, enter the room, and lie down on the bed.  I look upward and begin to “talk” to G-d.  “G-d, what is going on? What will happen? What am I doing here in this bad situation? ”
You get this? ME, the kibbutznik?  ME, who never had any connection or contact with “him above” …  I now talk to him….
Suddenly I realize that this is the eve of Pesach, the evening of Seder, and my monologue starts again:  ” I know that the connection between us is not who knows what…  but G-d, if you love me, give me a sign, don’t let me be alone this evening, allow me to be at a real Seder, with other Jews… ”

I finish my monologue, take of my clothes and go to the shower, turn on the water and suddenly I hear knocks on the door. I thought I am imagining it, but no, there were repeated knocks on the door.  I turn off the water, grab the towel around me and come to open the door.  I open the door and see someone who looks like a Jewish rabbi at the bottom of the stairs, and when I ask you who sent you, you answer me “Hakadosh Baruch Hu “…(G-d)

Needless to say, that this kibutznik too, like hundreds and thousands of other Jews enjoyed the magical hospitality of the Chabad house of the city.

                        DON’T TELL G-D HOW BIG YOUR TROUBLES ARE…
                       TELL YOUR TROUBLES HOW BIG G-D IS….

                                        THERE IS NONE EXCEPT HIM

On his way out from shul in Jerusalem, Dan approached a young man in  jeans, backpack, dark skin, curly black hair, he looked Sephardi, maybe  Moroccan.

 ”Good Shabbos. My name is Dan Eisenblatt. Would you like to eat at my  house tonight?”

 The young man’s face broke in an instant from a worried look to a smile.

 ”Yeah, thanks. My name is Machi.”

 Together they walked out of the shul. A few minutes later they were  all  standing around Dan’s Shabbos table. Dan noticed his guest  fidgeting and  leafing through his songbook, apparently looking for  something. He asked  with a smile, “Is there a song you want to sing?

 I can help if you’re not sure about the tune.” The guest’s face lit up.

 ”There is a song I’d like to sing, but I  can’t find it here. I really  liked what we sang in the synagogue  tonight. What was it called?

 Something ‘dodi.’”

 Dan paused for a moment, on the verge of saying, “It’s not usually  sung  at the table,” but then he caught himself. “If that’s what the  kid  wants,” he thought, “what’s the harm?” Aloud he said, “You mean Lecha  Dodi. Wait, let me get you a siddur.”

 Once they had sung Lecha Dodi, the young man resumed his silence until  after the soup, when Dan asked him, “Which song now?” The  guest looked  embarrassed, but after a bit of encouragement said  firmly, “I’d really  like to sing Lecha Dodi again.” Dan was not really all that surprised  when, after the chicken, he  asked his guest what song now, and the young  man said, “Lecha Dodi, please.”  Dan almost blurted out, “Let’s sing it a  little softer this time, the neighbors are going to think I’m nuts.” He  finally said, “Don’t you want to sing something else?”

 His guest blushed and looked down. “I just really like that one,”  he  mumbled. “Just something about it – I really like it.”  In all, they must  have sung “The Song” eight or nine times. Dan wasn’t sure — he lost  count. Later Dan asked, “Where are you from?”

 The boy looked pained, then stared down at the floor and said softly,  “Ramallah.”

 Dan’s was sure he’d heard the boy say “Ramallah,” a large Arab city on the  West Bank. Quickly he caught himself, and then realized that he must have  said Ramleh, an Israeli city. Dan said, “Oh, I have a cousin there. Do you  know Ephraim Warner? He lives on Herzl Street.”

 The young man shook his head sadly. “There are no Jews in Ramallah.”

 Dan gasped. He really had said “Ramallah”!  His thoughts were racing.

 Did he just spend Shabbos with an Arab? He told the boy,  “I’m sorry, I’m  a bit confused. And now that I think of it, I haven’t even asked your full  name. What is it, please?”

 The boy looked nervous for a moment, then squared his shoulders and said  quietly, “Machmud Ibn-esh-Sharif.”  Dan stood there speechless.

 What could he say?  Machmud broke the silence hesitantly: “I was born and  grew up in Ramallah. I was taught to hate my Jewish oppressors, and to  think about killing them would make me a hero.

 But I always had my doubts. I mean, we were taught that the Sunna, the  tradition, says, ‘No one of you is a believer until he desires for his  brother that which he desires for himself.’ I used to sit and wonder,  weren’t the Yahud (Jews) people, too? Didn’t they have the right to live  the same as us? If we’re supposed to be good to everyone, how come nobody  includes Jews in that? “I put these questions to my father, and he threw  me out of the house. By now my mind was made up: I was going to run away  and live with the Yahud, until I could find out what they were really  like. I snuck back into the house that night, to get my things and my  backpack.

 My mother caught me in the middle of packing. I told her that I wanted to  go live with the Jews for a while and find out what they are really like  and maybe I would even want to convert.

 She was turning more and more pale while I said all this, and I thought  she was angry, but that wasn’t it. Something else was hurting her and she  whispered gently, ‘You don’t have to convert.  You already are a Jew.’

 ”I was shocked. My head started spinning, and for a moment I couldn’t  speak. Then I stammered, ‘What do you mean?’ ‘In Judaism,’ she told me,  ‘the religion goes according to the mother.

 I’m Jewish, so that means you’re Jewish.’ “I never had any idea my mother  was Jewish. I guess she didn’t want anyone to know. She whispered  suddenly, ‘I made a mistake by marrying an Arab man. In you, my mistake  will be redeemed.’ “My mother always talked that way, poetic-like. She  went and dug out some old documents, and handed them to me: things like my  birth certificate and her old Israeli ID card, so I could prove I was a  Jew.

 I’ve got them here, but I don’t know what to do with them.  “My mother  hesitated about one piece of paper. Then she said, ‘You may as well take  this. It is an old photograph of my grand-parents which was taken when  they went visiting the grave of some great ancestor of ours.’ “Now I have  traveled here to Israel. I’m just trying to find out where I belong.”

 Dan gently put his hand on Machmud’s shoulder. Machmud looked up, scared  and hopeful at the same time. Dan asked, “Do you have the photo here?”

 The boy’s face lit up. “Sure! I always carry it with me.” He reached in  his backpack and pulled out an old, tattered envelope.

 When Dan read the gravestone inscription, he nearly dropped the photo.

 He rubbed his eyes to make sure. There was no doubt. This was a grave in  the old cemetery in Tzfat, and the inscription identified it as the grave  of the great Kabbalist and tzaddik Rabbi Shlomo Alkabetz.

 Dan’s voice quivered with excitement as he explained to Machmud who his  ancestor was. “He was a friend of the Arizal, a great Torah scholar, a  tzaddik, a mystic. And, Machmud, your ancestor wrote that song we were  singing all Shabbos: Lecha Dodi!”

 This time it was Machmud’s turn to be struck speechless. Dan extended his  trembling hand and said, “Welcome home, Machmud.”

 This true story, submitted by Nechama Goodman, is documented in “Monsey,  Kiryat Sefer and Beyond” by Zev Roth.