by Rabbi Yisrael Rutman

I went to the store, collected the stuff I wanted to buy, made my way to the checkout counter, and then realized…I had forgotten my wallet. It was one of those I-want-to-kick-myself-for-being-such-an-idiot moments. All flesh is heir to this, but as a card-carrying low frustration thresh-holder, it took a significant exertion of self-control not to let the incident becloud my morning. I had to remind myself once again that it was not the end of the world, that worse things can happen, that in a very short time the whole thing will be forgotten, and not worth getting upset over.

This week, I didn’t need to remind myself. The reminder was sent in the form of news bulletins and banner headlines, over every media outlet in the world—from Mumbai. For when a tragedy of that magnitude occurs, the loss of precious Jewish lives, the orphans, the bereaved family members in Israel and America, automatically extends the threshhold of frustration. The ups and downs of everyday life immediately shrink into insignificance. They do not matter. All that matters is the fate of the Jewish family, one and indivisible, in Mombai, in New York, in Jerusalem, everywhere.

But that reaction is, I think, not quite right. True, in proportion to the tragedy of the Holtzberg, Orpaz, Kruman, Teitelbaum, and Schwartzblatt-Rabinowitz families victimized in India, my forgotten wallet is nothing. But Judaism teaches that nothing in life is an accident. Not the selection of the Chabad House as a target for terror, and not the vicissitudes of any Jew going about his business anywhere else, either. And if it happened at the same time as the Mumbai tragedy, then perhaps there is also something to be learned from the timing.

One could say that the reason for the timing is to teach us that perspective, just that very unimportance of life’s little letdowns. Yes, could be. But I have another idea. The Jewish Sages say that the lowest point on the scale of suffering is to reach into your pocket for three coins, to find only two. The Sages mean to teach here that a small disappointment like that is not to be dismissed entirely. It, too, is a form of suffering. But so what? Are they only offering consolation for those of us who suffer from low frustration tolerance? No doubt. Everyday stress is not nothing. Those who suffer from it should not think they are worthless because of it; those who don’t should not look down their noses at those who do.

But there is a deeper meaning, as well. The Midrash says that in the Garden of Eden, the angels served wine and meat to Adam and Eve. All their needs were taken care of. All desires were fulfilled. And there weren’t any hitches. The wine was the perfect temperature, the meat was never underdone or overdone. Never a long wait for their order. And as for forgetting his wallet, well, it was all on the house. It was only after the sin of disobeying God and eating of the Tree of Knowledge that life as we know it, of hard work and disappointment, came about. All the sufferings of mankind down through the ages derive from the sin of Adam and Eve. Even the small, seemingly insignificant suffering of reaching into one’s pocket and not finding the amount you thought was there should serve as a reminder of the original perfection of mankind to which we are yearning to return to in the messianic era.

Part of the perfection of man is the transcendence of self, overcoming the selfish desires of the ego. Reaching a state in which giving is a way of life. A person who constantly gives instead of takes is not affected by low frustration tolerance. Because he is not concerned about himself, all effort is directed to serving others. Whatever is given by God is only to use for others. A life of giving and love.

More than most people, Rabbi Gavriel and Rebbetzin Rivka Holtzberg, the couple who ran the Chabad House in Mumbai, lived that kind of life. They dedicated themselves to providing a home for Jews traveling in India. Their hospitality was straight out of the pages of the Torah, of Abraham and Sarah, the models of Jewish hospitality. They served kosher food (slaughtered by the rabbi himself, and kashered by his wife); they invited wayfarers to their table on the Sabbath and festivals, and every other day, for that matter. Rabbi Holtzberg went to great lengths to visit Jews held in Indian prisons, in some cases was instrumental in obtaining their freedom. Most of all, they offered a warm welcome and an understanding heart. No wonder that busloads of Jews from Tel Aviv, not exactly the heart of ultra-Orthodoxy, came to the Holtzbergs’ funeral procession.

So when I reach for my wallet and it isn’t there, I have the consolation of the Sages that I needn’t berate myself for being neurotic. But it’s also a reminder that it’s not supposed to be this way. That there are levels of existence above this, in the pathways of the love of God and the Jewish people. I am reminded of the Holtzbergs.

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