Photo Credit: Jewish Press

Shabbos comes every week. This is Tuvia’s mind-blowing realization when he wakes on Friday morning. And he needs money for Shabbos, no excuses. This week he has none.

Tuvia supports his family of six with whatever his pockets hold that day – and usually it isn’t much. Money for rainy days or a savings account is non-existent. His wife’s salary from preschool teaching enters their account directly and leaves just as promptly. It covers some basic bills, and Tuvia exerts a fair portion of his math capacities at keeping the account at a constant zero and not letting it dip into overdraft. His meager income from his electricity work – he was just a beginner, after all – had to cover all the rest of the expenses.

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Tuvia ticks off his list as he walks to minyan that Friday morning: grape juice, fish, chicken, some fruit and vegetables. This they cannot do without. And he hasn’t more than a few cents in his pocket.

He davens Shacharis as if his life depends on it. It does. And his shalom bayis depends on it too. He can’t expect Nechama to produce Shabbos meals from the three potatoes and two apples there are in the house. And if he doesn’t bring home anything, that is basically what he is doing, and she won’t be happy about that.

Davening is over. It is time now, not just for hoping, but for doing. Tuvia steadies his breath as he walks out of shul. There must be Shabbos – and there will be.

He begins the three-block walk to the local supermarket. I’m going to buy food for Shabbos.

Really now, with what?

For a moment he loses his breath. And then the answer comes from somewhere inside with a resoluteness that surprises him.

With whatever Hashem gives me.

He unclenches his fist and takes deep breaths of the fresh air. He may as well enjoy the walk in the sun. He feels suddenly happy, rich, and indulges in noticing the fragrant trees that shade him. It takes him a few seconds to notice that someone is calling him.

“Reb Tuvia!”

A car pulls over to the curb and the driver rolls his window down to the bottom.

“Reb Tuvia!” he calls again.

Tuvia dodges the short bushes and sees Mr. Breuer’s head stick out of the car window. Mr. Breuer was a fellow acquaintance and shul mate. He had a 9-year-old son Benny, whom Tuvia adopted whenever Mr. Breuer was away on business. On those Shabbosim, Tuvia, a father of only girls, reviews the boy’s learning with him. Tuvia enjoys it – a son was sorely lacking in his life, after all – and it only takes 20 minutes of an occasional Shabbos afternoon. He loved to watch the boy’s face light up when he offered to learn with him, and that was reward enough.

Mr. Breuer waves a hundred dollar bill at Tuvia, and for a minute, Tuvia feels faint. Money. He had none of it, and needed lots of it.

“Thank you for learning with my Benny,” Mr. Breuer was saying, and Tuvia turns to him sharply. “This is yours.”

Tuvia takes the bill, Mr. Breuer nods and waves, and then speeds off.

Tuvia stands in the shade for another whole minute, studying the bill. Mr. Breuer always thanked him, but never offered payment. Tuvia was happy to volunteer that little bit of his time on a random Shabbos to a boy who needed it, and the thought of payment never even crossed his mind. But today, as he made his way to the supermarket without even one dollar, Mr. Breuer passed by and decided to pay him.

When he realizes he might just cry, right here in the street, any minute, Tuvia takes quick strides to the pavement. He’d better keep going, or else this hundred-dollar bill and what it represented overtakes him.

Tuvia enters the busy supermarket and picks out an oversized watermelon and an overflowing box of plump purple grapes. He hums under his breath as the shopping cart grows heavier and more colorful.

Hashem gave him life, and He gave him his Shabbos too.

 

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