Community Magazine November 2003

It was the first day of our new year, Shabbat Rosh Hashanah 5764. Unfortunately, I was off to a slow start as I rushed out of the house to get to Shul a bit later than I would have liked. The last to leave the house, I ran out the side “Shabbat door” which has a combination lock, so that I wouldn’t have to carry a key. Just as I closed the door and was about to turn the lock to secure the house, a chill came over me. I tried to reopen the door, but to my despair, my worst fears were confirmed; I had acci- dentally left the dial on the knob in the locked posi- tion so that now we could not open the door with- out a key. As I walked to Shul, I thought, “What are we going to do? My family is going to be furi- ous at me. How in the world are we going to get back in the house?” In Shul, my dilemma seemed to grow and I became more nervous about the situation with each passing moment. It was becoming increasingly dif- ficult for me to focus on my prayers. Then I thought to myself, “This is ridiculous. It’s Rosh Hashanah; my fate for the entire year is going to be sealed in ten days, and all I can think about is this petty little problem?” After this realization, I resolved to pray with kavanah (deep meaning and concentration) and literally forgot all about the problem— but only until prayers were over. As we walked out of Shul, and were about to be off to my older brother’s house where we were invited for lunch, I knew I had to speak up. I told my mother about the situation, hoping that she had a key hidden outside of the house. She didn’t. I proceeded to tell my father that it looked like we were going to be homeless for two days. Oddly, the situation didn’t faze him. “Don’t worry”, he said, “We’ll deal with the situation later. Let’s just go to your brother’s house and enjoy ourselves. The problem will solve itself.” My oldest brother was not comforted and, in an exasperated tone, insisted that we go back to the house and figure out what we were going to do. My mother echoed this sentiment, asserting that she absolutely needed to get back in the house now so that she can change into more com- fortable shoes for the thirty block walk ahead. So we walked back to our house and stopped at the scene of the crime, the side door of the house. My father began willfully tug- ging at the door, which wasn’t moving an inch. It was a valiant attempt, although it began to make the situation appear dire. As my brother shot me angry looks, my father reasoned that if we had a knife of some sort, perhaps he could slip it through the crack of the door to pry open the latch. “Where are we going to get a knife from—we can’t carry today!” my mother lamented. Just as the words left her mouth, a fire truck pulled up in front of my house and as if rehearsed, my father answered, “From the fire- men over there!” As he started to stroll over to the fire truck, I was worried that they might pull away, assuming that they were just stopped at a red light. I urged “Dad, can you maybe walk a little faster?” But they weren’t going anywhere. They had stopped there to check a fire hydrant right in front of my house (that pump that I thought was an eye- sore all this time now seemed to be a blessing!) As they did their work, my father asked their assistance in getting into the house. Looking at him like he was from Mars, they asked “You want us to break down the door?”( At this point, I’m picturing in my mind a big axe slicing through our side door.) My father replied “No, maybe you can do it with a knife!” The fire- men thought the situation very odd—rightly so, and went to go ask their supervisor if they were permitted to help, as my father essentially was asking them to help in the breaking and entering of an unidentified locked home. Thank Hashem, the supervisor allowed them to help, and three big, burly firemen made their way to our side door. One removed a knife from his pocket and began to slip it through the door, just as my father pre- scribed. After about a minute (although it felt like an hour, I was so nervous) of jiggling and sliding the knife, the door finally flew open. After watching us revel in the interior of our home for several seconds, the friendly firemen requested some identification to prove ownership of the property. Having moved recently, none of us both- ered to update the address on our driver’s licenses. Were we going to be taken in for questioning instead of feasting on a holiday meal? Maybe—if I hadn’t mysteriously lost my license a couple of months earlier. What had before appeared to be an unfortunate nuisance— requiring that I fill out annoying DMV forms, collect identification and wait for weeks and weeks to get my new license—now appeared to be a stroke of good luck. With my new license now showing our correct address, the firemen were satisfied and we were on our way to my brother’s house without further delay. 44 COMMUNITY MAGAZINE s ” xc It Happened to Me! Your Stories of Everyday Miracles Prayer is the Key