When I was a little girl about 3 or 4 years old, I accompanied my father, of blessed memory, on a trip from Lancaster, Penn., where he served as a pulpit rabbi, to New York to see the Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson, of blessed memory.
I remember during that trip joining an evening service in the Rebbe’s shul. Scores of Hasidim — some with white beards, some with brown or black beards, even some people with no beards — were engrossed in their prayer books, swaying in concentration, pouring their hearts out to G-d.
The Rebbe sat on a bench, near a simple brown table, carefully saying each word of his prayers, never lifting his eyes from his beloved, black prayer book, intensely engrossed in addressing our Father in Heaven.
That cozy shul near the Rebbe’s office was full of energy. It felt warm and comfortable. It felt like home. It was real.
So what is a little girl carried away by all this to do? I took the siddur my father had given me and opened it up to daven. I read the Aleph Bais, I went to the special section for little children. I too was praying, in the way I knew how, and, wrapped up in my own little toddler world, became oblivious to what was going on around me.
Suddenly I felt a pair of eyes on me. But I mean I really felt those eyes. For those of you who ever saw or felt it in person, you know the strength and intensity of the gaze to which I am referring.
The hazzan had finished davening, and the Rebbe had gotten up from his bench to return to his private room.
But, on his way, he stopped in his tracks. Seeing me all wrapped up in my siddur and my prayers and my pure toddler thoughts, the Rebbe had stopped to watch me.
And when I realized that I was being watched, when I felt that pair of eyes on me, I looked up.
There, looking right back at me was the kindest, proudest and most beautiful, benevolent and infectious smile I had — or have — ever experienced.
For what seemed like an eternity, the Rebbe simply stood there and smiled, radiating warmth — and pride — and encouragement to a little girl innocently struggling with her prayers.
First lesson
For many years I carried that picture around in my mind’s eye. I called it up in grade school and as a young teenager, whenever I felt particularly challenged or lonely or thought that what I do doesn’t matter. I remembered and knew, just knew, that every little thing that I do, does matter, and matters greatly.
When I grew older I was able to reflect more deeply on how impossibly rare this experience was in this rushed world of ours, which teems with electronic gadgets, scientific advancements and staged photo-ops, but is so lacking in real, human touch.
I grew awed at the recognition that here was a world leader, in the truest sense of the word — someone who counseled David Ben-Gurion and Zalman Shazar and thousands of clandestine operatives behind the Iron Curtain; whose mailbag was full of important letters from San Paulo, Kinshasa, Tel Aviv, London, Los Angeles and Morocco; on whose decision hung matters literally of life and death — for individuals and, at times, entire communities.
And yet, he had the time and cared enough to stop and express his love and encouragement to a little girl.
I discovered later that I was not the only one to whom the Rebbe had communicated this same message, this ideal, this reality — there were thousands, tens of thousands, like me.
Thus was my first lesson in early childhood education.
And from the first moment my husband, Rabbi Yisroel Shmotkin, and I received the Rebbe’s blessings to move to Wisconsin, we have tried urgently to infuse our every waking moment, program, institution or new center with that message. The message that says, “You matter. What we do — what you do — matters. Your contribution is special and unique. No one else can do what only you can do — indeed, what the world is expecting you, is relying on you, is rooting for you, to do. What you do matters to yourself, to your family, to your community, to the entire world.
“We care. G-d cares. Everyone cares.”
We all know that in the breathtaking sweep of history to which the Rebbe dared us to aspire, that in the love he infused our generation with, the irresistible invitation he extended the smallest of us to join his dream, no one — not a single person — can go missing. If one is missing, G-d forbid, we are all missing.
Thousands of Jewish children still receive no Jewish education, thousands of Jewish adults wait to be inspired by a word of Torah or simply offered a helping hand and thousands of Jewish teenagers aimlessly and sometimes dangerously attempt to navigate the waters of life, begging, hoping that their silent cries be heard and that a sure — but not overbearing — hand help guide.
So as we are entering the tenth year since the Rebbe’s passing, we invite you to join us, be our partner, dream our dream, consider our mission your mission, consider each Jewish child your child, help ensure that no Jewish child is lost to our people.
We hope to never rest — and that together none of us will rest — until every single child learns the lesson, gets to experience what I was lucky enough to discover at 770 Eastern Parkway as a little girl.
Rebbetzin B. Devorah Shmotkin is director of Children’s Lubavitch Living & Learning Center. This piece was excerpted from an address prepared in honor of the ninth yahrzeit of the Lubavitcher Rebbe on 3 Tamuz, which fell this year on July 3.
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