Buried In Dirt

By: Rabbi Benny Berlin

I recently heard a story of a photographer who went through a complete scare. Any photographer will tell you their greatest fear is losing the photos. Imagine telling a chassan and kallah that every image from their wedding is gone. There would be complete panic and heartbreak.

This photographer knew that. So he developed an elaborate system. The moment he finished a shoot, he removed the SD cards from his camera, locked them in a special vault, transported them with care, and built checks and balances so nothing could ever be misplaced.

One night he finished a wedding and went home. He took out the SD cards to upload a few shots for an advertisement. The next morning, he grabbed them on his way out, planning to bring them to the office. But he was rushing. Instead of locking them in the vault, he dropped them in the cup holder of his car unconsciously.

He stopped for a bagel. A friend borrowed his car. When it came back, the cup holder was empty.

He searched everywhere. Seat pockets. Trunk. His desk at work. The breakfast place. Nothing. He called his friend, who casually mentioned he had taken the car through a car wash before returning it. The photographer’s stomach dropped. He would have to face the chassan and kallah and tell them every photo from their wedding had vanished.

He began to daven with tears, pleading with G-d not to let this happen, not to take this away from the young couple.

He drove to the car wash and pleaded with the workers. “This is going to sound crazy,” he said, “but can you open up the airbag compartments and dump out whatever dirt is inside.” They shrugged and agreed. Mountains of dirt and dust poured onto the pavement. He got down on his hands and knees and started sifting through gravel and dust, not even sure what he was looking for anymore.

Eight minutes later he screamed. He found it. Hodu LaHashem Ki Tov. He grabbed the tiny card, slid it into his camera, and watched the images appear. He danced in the parking lot for ten straight minutes. Later, driving home, he pulled over and broke down crying. He had cried tears of pain before. Never tears of pure joy like this.

That photographer experienced what so many of us forget: that sometimes blessings hide in the most unlikely places, waiting to be discovered by those willing to search.

This week Americans celebrate Thanksgiving. For us as Jews, hakaras hatov is not a once-a-year exercise. It is woven into the fabric of our very identity. We are called Yehudim. The name Yehuda itself comes from gratitude. When Leah gives birth to her fourth son, she declares, “Hapaam Odeh Es Hashem,” “this time I will thank G-d” (Bereishis 29:35). 

Dr. David Pelcovitz shares a story that captures this truth. There was a survivor who was unusually energetic. Dr. Pelcovitz was deeply moved by his optimism and asked what got him through. The survivor smiled and explained that through all the hardships, the freezing nights, even when the Nazis had taken everything, he would conjure the berachah his father would bentch him with. He would feel the warmth of his father’s breath enveloping him, and it gave him tremendous strength through unbearable hardships.

Once, when Dr. Pelcovitz was giving this over at a talk in California, there was another survivor waiting for him afterwards. He said that the other night he was at his son’s house, and his son was bentching his grandchildren. He watched him place his hands on their heads, and all this survivor could feel was rage. Rage at Hitler for stealing that moment from him. For taking away his father’s hands, his father’s voice, the berachah he would never receive.

You cannot blame the second survivor for being so bitter. We cannot even imagine what he went through. And yet there was no doubt in Dr. Pelcovitz’s mind which one was psychologically thriving, which one had found a way to live. Both men endured such hardships. Both lost everything. But one learned to search through the ashes for what remained. The other could see only what was taken.

This is not about pretending life is perfect. This is not about denying pain. Gratitude is getting on your hands and knees and searching through the dirt to find those things which are pure.

There is a remarkable Midrash that teaches that in the times of Mashiach, every korban will be abolished except for the Korban Todah, the offering of thanksgiving. In the final days gratitude will remain. It is essential to who we are.

Even when the blessings feel buried, they are still there. Until the time comes when we will see them clearly, we must be willing to get down on our knees in the parking lot and sift through the dirt. Because somewhere in that mess, if we search with enough determination, there are still moments worth dancing for. 

Rabbi Benny Berlin is the rabbi of BACH Jewish Center in Long Beach, New York. For more information, visit BACHLongBeach.com.