The next day, in a sudden act of compassion, I decided to visit Jonathan instead of going directly home. Fifteen minutes on the bus and I was on his block, a large tree lined street with old Spanish style buildings evenly spaced and matching in color. His home blended so well with the others that I missed it my first time going down the block. The sunlight bounced off the large white walls and small yellow butterflies danced merrily from large red and pink roses.

It all seemed so picturesque, so happy. The large knocker on his oak front door groaned as I picked it up and fell with the dull thud of metal striking wood, and was met by the even emptier face of Jonathan’s mother as she opened the front door.

“Come in,” she said weakly.

The room was large and dark and large yellow sheets draped from the walls once covered with shinning mirrors. In the center of room sat my friend Jonathan and his younger brother Dave on low stools.

Jonathan looked up, a forced smile cracking his somber face,

“It’s nice to see you . . .”

“It’s nice to see you as well . . .” I returned.

I spent the rest of the day at Jonathan’s house; we spoke about sports, reminisced over favorite books, anything to get us away from the gloomy room and its yellow sheets. As the day waned new guests arrived, Orthodox Jews coming for the evening prayers. The Rabbi entered, his long frock-coat, black hat and red face framed with a thick peppered beard, seemed to take him right out of the shtetl. His cell-phone rang,

“Hello . . . Yah, I hear you . . . Listen, e-mail me the list and I’ll get back to you –I need to Daven now.”

-So much for coming out of the shtetl.

The prayers began.

At some point during the confusion of amen’s and other biblical babble a prayer book was shoved in my hands. As looked blindly at the thick black letters floating on the sea of yellowed pages, I became aware of how silent the room became. I realized that I too was now floating amongst a sea of black bobbing bodies in the yellow sheets of the room. My stomach turned with an audible groan, breaking the silence of the prayers. An uncomfortable feeling grew in me, as my Jewish illiteracy came to a blaring forefront. In vain I tried to compensate by sway my body to the ancient rhythm of the prayers, a rhythm that all but I seemed to hear. My own supplications, instead, poured forth to G-d above.

“I’m sorry,” I prayed, “I’m sorry that I can no longer make out the letters of Your tongue. When I leave here, I promise that I’ll learn again.”

The prayers ended, the doorbell rang, and dinner was delivered. I’m not sure if at when exactly, but at some point between the bagels and cream cheese and the pita with falafel I seemed to forget my promise, leaving it behind with yellow sheets in the room. The One to whom I made my promise, however, remembered.

First Portal Yearning Chapter one
It was the spring of my sixteenth year. Junior varsity, drivers licenses, and parties. I stood at the cross road in life, straddling the gap between adolescence and maturity, and like all my peers forging ahead on virgin grounds. To truly grasp the uniquely American dream: Life (1.6 children, 2 dogs, and a gerbil), Liberty (The freedom to be different like everyone else) and the pursuit of happiness (Don't even ask). Then I made a phone call that would change it all.

''Is Jonathan there?''

Silence,
Then at last a reply,
but in an oddly muffled voice,
as if his mother wasn't speaking into the phone.
''What should I tell him?''
"Well, I just wanted to know . . .''
''Jonathan, do you want to tell him yourself?''
Her voice still sounded distant; perhaps she wasn't speaking to me at all.
A sound came from the other end as I heard the phone being passed folowed by several gasps and sobs. Some thing was wrong.
''Hello? Jonathan?''
Still more noises as the phone was passed again. What was going on?
''Should I tell him?" again his mother was speaking with her mouth away from the receiver.
"Yes . . .''
At last a clear voice.
''Jacob, Jonathan can't to you now . . . . His father just passed away.''
More sobs from the other end.

*Click*

The Rebbe took Muttel's Tzetel, his petition of requests, and scanned it briefly with his eyes.
"We see, Muttel, that you are engaged to be married. Mazel Tov, Mazel Tov. It should be in an auspicious time."
Muttel could no longer bear the burden of his thoughts as they burst through the flood gates of his soul. Tears dripped down his red face,a. and his body shook like a lone, dry leaf whipped by the Autumn winds as he began to cry

"What can I do?" Muttel gasped out between sobs. "What can I do to get the Rebbe's bracha, his blessing, so that we can rebuild what they have destroyed . . . So that we can raise G-d fearing children even here, in America?"
Another shiver ran down Muttel's spine, he could tell that the Rebbe was looking at him. Those steel blue eyes were like knives, cutting into the inner recesses of one's mind. The defining ring of silence filled the room as neither Muttel nor the Rebbe exchanged a word.
Then suddenly the sensation of the Rebbe's probing eyes stopped. His stance remained unchanged, one hand rested on his forehead in a gesture of deep contemplation, the other absently played with Muttel's Tzetel. Yet his eyes were somewhere else, no longer focused on Muttel's shivering form they gazed into space, locked onto some unseen point.
"Ah, the Amerikanishe Yidden -American Jews," The Rebbe at last said, "They are like straw -quickly they ignite, even faster they burn. Yet do not underestimate them for what they lack is only on the surface, what they have inside can not be described, they are connected to the essence . . . one needs only to reveal what is already there. . .
"In fact, Muttel, we just had one of them in our audience, Yankel, R' Zundel's, your cousin, and his son."
Muttel gasped, it was unheard of for the Rebbe to repeat someone else's private audience!
"His son came in first," the Rebbe continued.
"He was a real Amerikana Chacolad'nike, his hair long in the front -he didn't even want to speak in Yiddish, lest he develop an accent and sound 'Green'. We asked him what he thought of our new shul here in Brooklyn, how it showed that even here in America a Yid could be a Yid, that he could go to shul and pray.
His answer? Nothing but a complaint -how the waiting room was too hot, that we ought to put in nicer chairs, or in general to make things 'more comfortable'. Do you know what I told him Muttel?"
The Rebbe laughed for a moment, "I told him that Judaism is not about being comfortable, that Chassidim have worked for the past two hundred years so that things would not come with ease.
When his father came in we told him that there was nothing that we could do to help his son -he had already chosen his path. As for his decedents though, they will be Chassidim, our Chassidim. We will be watching them Muttel, we will be watching them with great interest."
The Rebbe looked up at his bewildered Chassid signaling that the audience had ended. It was already 12:30 at night and there were yet more people to be seen.

BS''D
Chaos Theory

A work on Hashgacha Protis






By:
Mordechai Lightstone



The Anthropic Principle: This principle claims that millions of stars and distant galaxies generate (by means of gravity, magnetic and other energy fields) certain general physical conditions on the Earth which constitute the exclusive conditions necessary for the existence of humans and other forms of life. Indeed, even a small deviation from the present physical conditions on Earth would make the existence of human and other forms of life as we know it, impossible. These conditions are dependent on the joint influence of all the billions of stars and galaxies. This means that the entire universe is designed in such a fine way as to enable life on Earth
(Mind Over Matter; Overview liii)



· Prelude

Brooklyn, New York 1948

The line outside of the Rebbe's room was long. People sat on the wooden benches of the anti-chamber, shifting uncomfortably in the warmth of the balmy New York summer and the heat generated from numerous bodies cramped closely together.
''Thank G-d,'' Muttel sighed to himself, ''After being stuffed in cattle cars it doesn't hurt to be so close together for a good reason."
Despite the heat that made so many others squirm, a shiver ran down his spine at the very thought of all of those souls, so recently martyred, his family. . .
No. . . No! Muttel screamed in his mind, he would not let himself dwell in the past -he couldn't- life must go on; to sink into despair and self-pity would only be falling pray to their insidious plans.
Muttel began to recite Tehillem (psalms) with renewed fervor.
''Mordechai Edelstein?'
Muttel looked up, was it his turn already? As a Chassid, Muttel knew his Rebbe was no mere rabbi but rather an awesome spiritual leader, a Moses of his generation.
To go before him was to be stood bare, no longer protected by the mental walls of denial and ego -all of one's innermost thoughts were made clear. One must be ready before entering the Rebbe's chambers.
Mustering all the strength that he could Muttel approached the Rebbe's room, knocked on the large door, and then entered with down cast eyes. Fear coursed through Muttel's body, a fear of being seen, of one's every deed being revealed.