When the Jewish People arrived at Mount Sinai and were about to experience revelation, verse 19:17 says that Moshe brought the people out to greet Hashem. A strange description — what does it mean?
The Chizkuni says that because the people were afraid, they needed to be led forward. This brings to mind the tremendous role that yiras Shamayim plays as an introduction to Torah. The Chazon Ish, in Sefer Emunah u’Bitachon, so eloquently and inspiringly elaborates on the role of yiras Shamayim in one’s learning. To quote a few lines:

1. One is not a scholar of Torah until he has integrated intellectual analysis [in the study of Torah] with a sense of fear of sin. The cup that is blended with these two is the portion of the Torah scholar all his days and this is his wine-offering forever. Indeed Torah [knowledge] and fear [of Heaven] are like matter and shape, which together comprise material reality, and anyone who has not acquired [any] perfection of fear [of Heaven] even if his intellect is sharp and polished by nature, he will not merit complete Torah [knowledge], instead, his way will always have obstacles, deviations and distortion.
2. Regarding this [matter] it is said “The beginning of wisdom is fear of Hashem” (Tehillim 111:10) for fear [of Heaven] is the [connection and passageway to the] depths of the heart that discern the sweetness of the beautiful glow of wisdom and the pleasantness of understanding.

Rashi quotes another meaning of Moshe bringing the people to greet Hashem from the Mechilta: the verse alludes to the idea that the Shechinah went forth to greet them like a chassan who walks forward to greet a kallah. In other words, because Hashem had “stepped forth” away from Sinai to greet the Jewish People, Moshe then escorted the Jewish People toward Hashem. This idea is alluded to in Devarim 33:2, which says that “Hashem came from Sinai” instead of “to Sinai,” because He stepped away to greet the Jewish People.
The Tiferes Shlomo sees in this Chazal a foundational and inspiring message that answers an age-old theological question regarding the mitzvah of loving Hashem: how can the Torah command an emotion? Either you feel love or you don’t. The Rambam in Yesodei HaTorah 2:1–2 essentially answers this by explaining that love comes automatically upon contemplating the wonders of Hashem in nature, such that this contemplation itself is the fulfillment of the mitzvah.
The Tiferes Shlomo gives a similar answer, but not so much based on intellectual contemplation of nature’s miracles, rather on awareness of Hashem’s intimate love for us. Paying attention to His acts of love toward us automatically stimulates a reciprocal love back, as Mishlei 27:19 says, “As water reflects, so do the faces of people.”
The Shefa Tal points out that the gematria of ahavah (love) is echad (one), for love creates unity. For this reason, the Tiferes Shlomo says, the mitzvah of Shema — which contains the mitzvah of loving Hashem at its beginning — is prefaced with the blessing of Ahavah Rabbah, which loudly

highlights how much Hashem loves us. Our love for Hashem is not something that needs to be forced; it is an automatic response to feeling His love for us.
This is the allusion in Hashem stepping forward to the people, followed by Moshe bringing them toward Him. Hashem was expressing His deep, profound love for His people in order to stimulate their love back toward Him, so that there should be total unity between the two.
It emerges that the commandment to love Hashem is not an instruction to perform something that is “outside” of you, but rather an instruction to activate something that is already there. We innately have the capacity to love another; it simply requires a drop of contemplation upon the other’s love for us to automatically awaken the love within.
Rav Hutner in Ma’amarei Pachad Yitzchak (Pesach #53) explains why all the commandments in the Shema are articulated using a “reverse-tense vav.” For example, “love Hashem” is not written as te’ehav (a straightforward future command), but rather in a past-tense form that is transformed into a command through the vav. He explains that the past is guaranteed — it has already happened — and the Shema hints that although we are commanded to live these values, there is also an allusion that they will necessarily happen anyway, guaranteed like the past.
Rav Hutner applies this to the Ramban on Devarim 4:41 regarding the commandment of teshuvah, which is also written in this past-tense form, alluding to the guarantee and foresight that the Jewish People will ultimately do teshuvah at the end of days.
Perhaps tying this to the Tiferes Shlomo’s idea: since love for Hashem is not an external experience but an intrinsic and already-guaranteed reality that simply needs to be uncovered, the use of the reverse-tense vav is especially appropriate.
In summary, immediately before the revelation at Sinai, the Jewish People are escorted by Moshe to greet Hashem, with two possible motivations:

1. They were afraid to approach (Chizkuni
2. In order to reciprocate Hashem’s love for them (Tiferes Shlomo)

Indeed, love and fear precede the revelation for they are the bedrock of Torah and the life of a Jew.

The parsha contains the climactic episode of the Kriyas Yam Suf, when the Jewish people triumphantly walked through the split sea to their ultimate salvation from the pursuing Egyptians. They saw their destruction and the bounty from chariots rise up from the waters to become their possessions. The end of 210 years of suffering and torment had finally arrived, and they were ready to march on toward the purpose of that salvation — to receive the Torah, to become Hashem’s nation, and to bring His light into the world for generations to come, until Mashiach will arrive.
Such a moment could not but be accompanied by jubilation beyond this world in song, and hence we have the Shiras HaYam, which has become part of our daily avodah at the end of Pesukei d’Zimra. Each day we cast our minds and hearts back to that absolutely jubilant moment when Hashem literally picked us up and transported us out of darkness into light. And with that reflective joy, we may hope and aspire to experience something of that today and each day as well.
But the opening words of the song in the Chumash are nothing short of perplexing. It begins with “Az yashir Moshe u’Bnei Yisrael”, which most logically translates as “Then Moshe and the Jewish people sang,” for that is what they did, as the verses continue to present what they sang. But while az means “then” (implying the past), yashir means “he will sing,” a future tense. Many commentaries address this.
Rashi explains that upon seeing the miracles, Moshe and the people decided that they would sing — and then they did. In addition, the Midrash derives from here an allusion to the ultimate future of techiyas hameisim, when again the Jewish people will sing over that miracle.
The Kedushas Levi explains that the letter yud which makes yashir future tense can also mean “to cause.” Connecting this to the continuation of the verse — “this song to Hashem” — the sense becomes that Moshe and the people caused Hashem, as it were, to sing as well. This then explains why the verse ends with leimor, which typically implies telling another. The idea is that, as Tehillim 121:5 teaches that Hashem is our shadow — just as a shadow mirrors our movements — so too Hashem’s conduct toward us reflects how we act toward Him and others. When we sing about Hashem, we “stimulate,” so to speak, Hashem to sing about us.
v
Turning to the word “az” of the verse, the Midrash (Shemos Rabbah 23:3 and Yalkut Shimoni, Shemos remez 174) says that this az is in fact a rectification of another az Moshe uttered once before. Earlier at the very end of Parshas Shemos, when Moshe first went to Paro to demand the Jewish people’s release and instead Paro intensified the slavery, Moshe complained to Hashem. He said, “My L-rd, why have You done evil to this people… from then (az) I came to Paro to speak in Your name, and he has only done evil to this people.”
There Moshe used the word az protesting against Hashem and complaining. Therefore, as a tikkun, he uses it here at the Sea, in praise.
The Midrash uses this as an illustration of a broader principle: we are meant to repurpose that which was once used negatively into something positive — especially our speech. This is hinted to in Shir HaShirim (4:11): “Your lips drip honey, O bride.” Instead of putrid fluids beneath the tongue, sweetness emerges.
And, the Midrash says, we learn this principle from Hashem Himself — for He too took an instrument of striking, a stick, and turned it into an instrument of goodness, as in this parsha when Moshe casts a bitter tasting stick into bitter waters and the waters become sweet.
But what’s special about the word az that it should be the chosen word to convey the idea of Moshe correcting his complaint to praise?
R’ Avraham Weinroth, in his sefer L’Ohr Kedushas Levi, suggests that az in its meaning of then, zooms in on a single moment of time. Now, not all moments are the same; some are painful, and some are pleasant, and the choice lies in when we allow our emotions to reign — whether we let them rule in moments of pain, sinking into sadness and despair, or allow them to reign in moments of goodness, feeling joy and happiness. The ideal is to become immersed in moments of gratitude and not imprisoned by moments of suffering. The tragedy of life is when we miss the joy of positive moments and feel only the pain of the negative ones.
This was Moshe’s error when he complained. When he first encountered failure before Paro, he was emotionally stuck in that painful moment. But at the Sea — despite knowing they were still entering a barren desert with no clear future and bread on their shoulders — he rectified that complaint by not allowing uncertainty to dampen joy. Instead, he and the people sang.
The lesson: don’t live in moments of despair; live fully in moments of appreciation.
Connecting this back to the Kedushas Levi’s idea — that yashir activates Hashem’s response — R’ Weinroth adds that Hashem, too, focuses on us in moments of elevation and righteousness, without fixating on past failures or future possibilities of error. “Ba’asher hu sham” — as Yishmael was judged in the moment he stood.
Rav Hutner, in a penetrating maamar (Pachad Yitzchak, Pesach 53), offers another dimension rooted in the etymological nature  of the word az. After explaining the mysterious grammatical phenomenon of the vav hahipuch — which can flip past tense into future — he quotes the Ibn Ezra that az performs a similar function, except that it ties the future into the present and past.
Based on the Vilna Gaon, Rav Hutner explains that this is hinted in the letters themselves:
Aleph = 1, the first day of creation.
Zayin = 7, Shabbos, the culmination of creation.
As we say in Lecha Dodi: sof maaseh b’machshavah techilah — the end was present in thought from the beginning. The future rests within the present.
Applying this to Moshe and his earlier complaint, it’s evident that it was because he could not yet feel that the suffering was part of a larger Divine plan. Intellectually he may have known it, but it wasn’t “in his bones”. He was in the moment of pain. (Interestingly, the form used there is me’az — perhaps hinting that he was not yet fully within the depth of az, but standing at a distance from it.)
At the Sea, however, everything became clear, and he could now see how that the trail from suffering to redemption had emerged. The future revealed itself as having been planned all along. And with that realization, song burst forth spontaneously. Now it was clear that the morning light was already present in yesterday’s darkness. This then was his rectification of his earlier error.

In summary, we gain two insights from the word az:

1. Az focuses us on a single moment — and we must choose whether to drown in the pain of a negative moment or rejoice in the blessings of a positive one. (R’ Weinroth)
2. Az reminds us that the future is woven into the beginning. Even when the present feels difficult, Hashem is quietly crafting redemption — and sometimes growth requires travail before light emerges. And, instead of living narrowly inside today’s pain, widen your vision and trust that there is rhyme and reason in Hashem’s unfolding plan. (R’ Hutner)

In 2008 in Ashkelon, an outreach rabbi was driving his car when a sudden rocket siren went off. Startled, he swerved sharply to the side of the road—just as a non-religious couple was walking their dog. The couple managed to get out of the way. Their dog did not. The rabbi’s car struck and killed the dog. 
The couple was understandably devastated. But once the immediate emergency passed, they were deeply moved by the rabbi’s extraordinary empathy, responsibility, and genuine desire to make amends. A relationship slowly developed. The rabbi began visiting them, learning with them, teaching Torah. One thing led to another, until eventually the couple began hosting Torah classes in their home—classes that inspired others as well. In time, they even dedicated a room in their home as a space for learning and services, placing a plaque on the wall bearing the name “Beis Igor”, after their deceased dog. 
At one point they asked the rabbi whether it would be appropriate to add the words “who died in a car accident” to the plaque. But the rabbi himself was unsure of a more basic question: was it even appropriate to name a shul or beis midrash after a dog? 
He posed the she’eilah to Rav Yitzchak Zilberstein, who cited several sources addressing the legitimacy of memorializing even animals—and concluded that it was appropriate to name the shul Beis Igor. 
One source Rav Zilberstein cited is the Gemara in Yoma 9a. A non-Jew once purchased a cow from a Jew. Because of the Jew’s devotion to shemiras Shabbos, the cow itself had become so accustomed to resting on Shabbos that when the non-Jew tried to work it on Saturday, it refused. Frustrated, the non-Jew returned the cow. The Jew leaned over and whispered into the cow’s ear that since it now belonged to a non-Jew, it was permitted to work on Shabbos. The cow immediately complied. 
The non-Jew was so impressed that he exclaimed: “If this senseless creature recognizes its Creator and fulfills His will, then I—who was created in His image—all the more so.” He converted, became a great Torah scholar, and eventually one of the Talmudic sages. And yet, he chose a striking name for himself: Yochanan ben Torsa—Torsa being the Aramaic word for cow. 
But perhaps the most powerful source comes from this week’s parashah. The Gemara teaches that “Hakadosh Baruch Hu does not withhold reward from any creature.” Because the dogs did not bark during makas bechoros, contributing to the tranquil experience enjoyed by the Jewish People at the moment of grief and death of their oppressors, they were rewarded with the “merit” of receiving treif meat—meat that was discovered to be forbidden after shechitah (Shemos 22:30). The Midrash adds that dog dung was used in the curing process of animal hides that would become tefillin, mezuzos, and sifrei Torah. Dogs are even included in Perek Shirah. 
From these sources, Rav Zilberstein concluded that naming the shul Beis Igor was indeed appropriate. 
But beyond the halachic conclusion lies a much deeper lesson: the Torah demands appreciation and gratitude—even toward creatures and objects that possess no free will of their own. 
This idea is beautifully illustrated by the well-known story of Rav Yisrael Gustman, rosh yeshivah of Netzach Yisrael, who was meticulous about watering the small garden outside his office. When asked why, he explained that plants had once saved his life. Before the war, his rebbe, Rav Chaim Ozer Grodzinski, had taught him which plants were edible and which were poisonous. That knowledge sustained him while fleeing through forests during the Holocaust. The plants had saved him—and he never forgot it. 
No matter what we receive—large or small, from human beings or not—gratitude and appreciation are essential. 
This is also why Aharon, rather than Moshe, was instructed to strike the water and the earth during the plagues of blood, frogs, and lice. The water had protected Moshe as a baby, and the earth had concealed the Egyptian he killed. It would have been inappropriate for Moshe to strike that which once saved him. 
Returning to Hashem’s own “expression” of gratitude—rewarding even animals—we find two additional examples in these parashiyos: 

1. The Midrash teaches that the frogs who were moser nefesh and jumped into the ovens were spared. 
2. The donkeys that carried the wealth of Bnei Yisrael out of Mitzrayim were elevated through the mitzvah of pidyon peter chamor, the redemption of the firstborn donkey (despite the donkey being a non-kosher animal) 

An interesting distinction emerges: 

• Frogs: only those individual frogs that sacrificed themselves were rewarded. 

• Dogs: the entire species was rewarded, but they remained dogs. 

• Donkeys: the entire species was elevated with a form of sanctity requiring redemption. 

Why the difference? 
One commentary (I believe, the Vilna Gaon) suggests that the frogs’ heroism was individual—it affected only themselves. In contrast, the actions of the dogs and donkeys affected others, and therefore their reward was collective. 
But why were the donkeys elevated more than the dogs? 
Rav Yosef Chaim Sonnenfeld explained: we certainly learn an extraordinary lesson from the dogs—the power of silence, of knowing when not to speak, disturb, or argue. But the donkeys taught us something even greater: shlepping. Carrying. Bearing burdens for others. 
Shlepping for others—helping when it is heavy, inconvenient, and exhausting—is what earns an elevation of kedushah. Both silence and restraint are noble. But stepping up to carry another person’s load is a higher form of chesed. That is why the donkeys received the greatest reward. 
On a personal note: I was once listening to a recording of this very shiur that I had given years earlier to my Friday morning class. I was driving to Lakewood for a chasunah in terrible weather, debating whether I should go at all. I decided to go anyway—to shlep—for the sake of the kallah’s father, knowing how much it would mean to him. 
In that shiur, I had shared that earlier that same snowy morning, as I rushed out of shul, I saw my son-in-law (also named Yosef Chaim) holding my granddaughter while trying to clear snow off his car in his driveway next to the shul. I initially walked past—until I stopped myself. How could I teach about shlepping and not stop to help? I turned around and helped. 
That was then. Today, on this drive to Lakewood, Baruch Hashem, it wasn’t even an afterthought—it was a forethought. 
One final observation: the word shlepping sounds sluggish, heavy, even lazy. But true shlepping must be done with zerizus. 
The Torah also says in this week’s parashah, “u’shemartem es hamatzos”—“guard the matzos,” referring to the halachah to supervise the preparation of matzah so that the flour does not come into contact with moisture and thereby become chametz. Chazal say that this phrase can also be read as “u’shemartem es hamitzvos”—“guard the mitzvos,” meaning not to allow them to become chametz either. Rather, if a mitzvah comes into your hand, do it right away. 
The lesson here is not to delay the performance of mitzvos—to act with alacrity. As Chazal say, “zerizim makdimin l’mitzvos”—those who are zealous perform mitzvos expeditiously. But the precise phrasing of this teaching needs a bit of clarification. Chazal say that we must guard mitzvos from becoming chametz. How does a mitzvah become chametz? It almost sounds like saying that a mitzvah becomes treif! What does that mean? 
The simplest explanation is that one should not approach mitzvos the way one approaches the production of chametz, which can take as long as one wants—there is no urgency. A mitzvah, by contrast, demands immediacy. When it presents itself, do it. 
Another approach is offered by the Pachad Yitzchak (Pesach, ma’amar 1), based on the fundamental idea that time itself is part of the physical, created universe. Not only did Einstein demonstrate this through his theory of relativity, but Chazal understood it centuries earlier. As the Vilna Gaon explains, the phrase “Baruch oseh bereishis” in the opening paragraph of Baruch She’amar means “Blessed is the One who created a beginning”—that is, time itself. Time was created along with matter. 
If time belongs to the physical realm, then it follows that the sublime neshamah—which instinctively recoils from physicality as an end in itself—also has an aversion to time. Deep down, the neshamah seeks to eliminate the dominance of time in whatever we engage in, and instead hungers for the pure spirituality embedded in everything. The result of that inner pull is speed—a desire to reach the essence of the mitzvah and to resent the barriers of time that stand in its way. 
(This applies specifically to the stage before the mitzvah is performed. Once a person is already engaged in the mitzvah—once he has entered the “world” of the mitzvah—the longer it lasts, the deeper the connection to its spirituality. But beforehand, before it has begun, a person who is attuned to his neshamah will be eager to perform it quickly, to capture the true spiritual energy of the mitzvah.) 
When sluggishness is present, when delay sets in, it reflects an attitude that the mitzvah exists on a physical plane and is therefore subject to the physical constraints of time. But that is precisely what it is not. 
Returning to the comparison to chametz: 
What is chametz? Chametz symbolizes the yetzer hara and physicality, and therefore chametz is exactly what a mitzvah is not. Consequently, when a person performs a mitzvah with sluggishness and without alacrity, he has, in effect, rendered it chametz—reducing it to the physical plane of existence, and this is why Chazal say not to make one’s mitzvos into chametz, for that is precisely what happens when they are performed with delay. 
So, we learn from this parshah the importance of gratitude and appreciation—even toward the most inanimate of objects. We learn the importance of shlepping for others and going beyond our comfort zone, perhaps for an extended period of an hour or even a day. But we also learn that this shlepping should not be done shleppingly. It must be done with vigor, enthusiasm, and alacrity. 
​
Have a good Shabbos. ​

Sometimes, from the most inconspicuous places, great things emerge. An example is found in this week’s parsha.
The parsha begins the miraculous story of the Ten Plagues, which leads to the redemption of the Jewish People from Mitzrayim, their arrival at Mount Sinai to receive the Torah, and their embarking upon their mission for the world. In this parsha, seven makkos are related, and in next week’s parsha, the remaining three.
Zeroing in on the makka called arov—wild beasts (according to R’ Yehudah in the Midrash, the most quoted opinion; R’ Nechemiah holds it was hornets and gnats)—we find something intriguing in verses 8:18 and 8:19. As Moshe warns Paro about the impending makka, the Torah describes how the Jewish People will be immune to it. In verse 18 it uses the expression “hifleisi” with respect to Goshen, where the Jewish People lived, and in verse 19 it says that Hashem will make a “pedus,” a distinction, between the Jewish People and the Mitzrayim. Both verses convey the general idea of Jewish immunity to the makka, but the repetition of different terms for what appears to be the same idea requires explanation.
The Ramban explains that the difference is as follows: hifleisi, an expression of pele—wonder—refers to the miraculous phenomenon that the wild beasts did not enter Goshen at all. Pedus, meaning redemption or removal, refers to a perhaps less obvious miracle: that any Jews who happened to be elsewhere in Mitzrayim were protected and escaped being attacked by the wild beasts.
Another understanding of pedus may be based on Rosh Hashanah 11a, which states that the slavery in Mitzrayim ended at the beginning of the month of Tishrei. The Mishnah in Eduyos teaches that the makkos lasted twelve months, and although there is dispute as to how the spread of the makkos unfolded throughout the year, some commentaries place the makka of arov in Tishrei (see Haggadah Shaarei Rachamim by Hacham Rahamim Churba-Cohen). Accordingly, the emphasis on pedus—redemption—may allude to the fact that with this makka, the actual enslavement of the Jewish People came to an end.
The Baal HaTurim, however, opens the door to a more spiritual, life-lesson-oriented understanding. He notes that the word pedus here is missing a vav, in contrast to the only two other places in Tanach where the word pedus is spelled with a vav: Tehillim 111:9 and 130:7. He explains that the distinction is that since this makka did not mark the final redemption of the Jewish People, it is missing a vav—hinting to something still lacking. Tehillim 111:9 refers to the completed redemption from Mitzrayim, which was now whole and therefore written in its full form, while Tehillim 130:7 refers to the ultimate future redemption, which certainly deserves a vav in its fullness.
The vav, we see, carries a message of hope, for it is always present when ultimate redemption is contemplated. The Sefer Ateres Paz notes that this is hinted at in the continuation of the pasuk itself, which says, “Tomorrow will be the sign.” On a pshat level, this refers to the makka, but the word used is “os,” which also means letter. Tomorrow—in the future—this letter will appear in its fullness.
In addition, we find that the vav is the very letter that Yaakov Avinu requested from Eliyahu as collateral to guarantee Eliyahu’s commitment to usher in the redemption.
What do we mean?
In Vayikra 26:42, the Torah says, “I will remember My covenant with Yaakov.” Yaakov is written there with an extra vav, and Rashi notes that this occurs in five places. Conversely, there are five places where Eliyahu’s name is missing a vav. Rashi explains that Yaakov took five vavs from Eliyahu as collateral, ensuring that he would fulfill his mission of ushering in the Geulah. Of course, these are esoteric ideas, since Eliyahu lived after Yaakov—although perhaps, given that Yaakov is said never to have died and to have become manifest in Eliyahu, it is in some sense a reference to himself. (As an aside, why did Yaakov request specifically five vavs? The Maharal explains that this alludes to the five fingers of the hand used in a handshake to seal a deal.) But once again, we see the central role the letter vav plays in redemption.
What is it about the vav that gives it such significance?
To understand the meaning of anything, we are taught to return to the very first place in the Torah where it appears. Where does the vav first appear? In the very first verse: “And Hashem created heaven “vav” earth.” Beyond simply meaning “and,” the vav reveals its deeper identity—to connect heaven and earth. The vav symbolizes the entire raison d’être of our lives: to bridge the gap between heaven and earth, to bring kedusha into the mundane, to sublimate the physical.
Accordingly, it is no coincidence that the vav is also the connecting letter between the upper heh and the lower heh of Hashem’s Name. Structurally, the vav is composed of a yud—representing absolute unity with Hashem—and a long downward line that draws that unity into the earthly realm.
Moreover, we are taught that the Messianic epoch first began to shine its light at the beginning of the sixth millennium. Many commentaries place this specifically around its dawn, which intriguingly corresponds to the year 1740, when the Baal Shem Tov appeared on the stage of Jewish history. Man, the bearer of the mission to bring holiness into the mundane, was created on the sixth day—the day that connects the mundane to the holiness of Shabbos.
What emerges is that from a small, inconspicuous omission of the letter vav in the word pedus, referring to redemption, a massive and powerful lesson unfolds: in order to experience redemption, we must embody the meaning of the vav—to connect ourselves to Shamayim and draw kedusha down into our physical lives. To elevate our food through brachos, to speak with refinement, to wear tallis and tefillin, to keep Shabbos, and to live as shomrei Torah and mitzvos.
Let us conclude with an inspiring story that captures this message as well:
The part of the river used as a mikveh for ritual immersion was situated high atop a steep hill on the outskirts of Premishlan. When the road leading up to it was slippery, people had to take the long way around the hill, as walking straight uphill was dangerous. Reb Meir, the Rebbe of Premishlan, always took the direct route, regardless of the state of the road, and was never known to stumble or slip.
One snowy day, when the icy mountain paths were especially hazardous, Reb Meir walked uphill to the river as usual. Two guests were staying in the area—sons of wealthy families—who had come under the influence of the Haskalah, or “Enlightenment,” movement. They did not believe in supernatural attainments, and when they saw Reb Meir striding uphill with sure steps as always, they convinced themselves that the road must not be dangerous at all.
To prove their theory, they waited until Reb Meir had begun immersing in the river, and then confidently set out up the icy hillside. After only a few steps on the treacherous path, they slipped and tumbled down, requiring medical attention. Once one of them had healed, he gathered the courage to approach the tzaddik and ask, “Why is it that no one else can negotiate the slippery road, while the Rebbe walks with sure steps and never stumbles?”
Reb Meir replied:
“If a man is connected above, he does not fall below. Meir is tied up on high, and that is why he can walk even a slippery hill with confidence.”
May we all be bound on High, and by living the meaning of the letter vav, draw kedusha and strength into our lives below.
Good Shabbos