A.
The gaon Rabbi Yitzhak Zilberstein walks the streets of Bnei Brak, pondering the latest gemara issue that he has diligently studied. The hardened Rambam settles down and tires his mind with the words of the Torah, while his physical feet slowly walk from the Beit Midrash to his own home.
Suddenly, as if from a dream, his ears are pierced by the broken cries of a small, tender-hearted child crying and wailing in the public domain.
The rabbi slows his steps, stops walking and looks at the tormented child whose soft eyes are covered with large tears. The child is crying for help, the rabbi thinks, and approaches the crying figure, bends down and lowers himself, eye to eye, places a soft hand on his shoulder and comforts.
""What's wrong with you, child, that you cry and wail? Tell me, my son, and I will help you.".
And the child chokes on his tears, tries to speak, but cannot. His tears are stronger than him. And when Rabbi Yitzhak begs and caresses, asks and reassures, the child opens his mouth and explains: "My father asked me to wait for him here. He promised to come and he didn't," so says the child, and his crying resumes.
And when Rabbi Yitzhak tries to comfort and encourage him, the boy repeats his argument over and over again: "But Dad promised!""
New tears. This time in the rabbi's eyes.
Not about the child, nor about his father, who had managed to arrive in the meantime. About himself. About his dry eyes, often without a trace of a tear, even though his father had promised him he would arrive, but he still hadn't.
Rabbi Yitzhak is now crying because a small child proved to him that he did not truly fulfill the agonizing question: "Did you expect salvation?!""
Because if he had expected it, he would have cried and howled.
Because Dad promised.
on.
For many of us, these days are standard "July-August" days. Hot outside, humid inside. Great vacation. Sea. Air conditioners. Ice popsicles. Warm and caressing sun, sometimes scorching and burning. Oh, right, and we're stuck in the middle of the 'three weeks' too. It just sucks, no music, no weddings. Not pleasant.
Do we really understand and internalize that these days, the days of destruction, the days of bereavement, killing, and great loss, in which our Holy House and our glory were taken from us, are days that are all dedicated to a renewed expectation of redemption, an expectation of salvation, to a breakthrough prayer of 'You will dwell in the midst of Jerusalem, your city,' and to Jerusalem, your city, you will return with mercy.
Do we feel this way? Do we feel lacking? Do we even know what expectation is?
third.
In the house of Rabbi Chaim there is mourning. The father of the family lies on his bed, dying. His heart could not stand the strain of life and his hour was near. Only a tremendous electric shock will wake his heart and stimulate his pulse again. His agile sons hasten to call an ambulance, detailing their father's grave condition.
Now everyone is praying and 'expecting' with all their heart for the medic to come running into the house.
Knocking on the door. Everyone rushes to the door, hoping for the savior to come. But at the door, the one who wants to borrow must quickly bring two eggs, otherwise the cake will not rise as it should.
The request is fulfilled, the door closes, and the tension rises again. The family members 'expect' the doctor to come. And with the next knock on the door, and even the third, when it is learned that it was a random neighbor and not a rescuer, the family members will still return to the waiting position and 'expect' wholeheartedly for the medic to come.
This is an expectation!
D.
And if one were to ask how in the routine of life one can even expect salvation, how can a human heart, given to daily worries, needing to bring prey to his home and feed the mouths of his sons and daughters, be capable of containing an additional expectation of redemption?.
Can a person who lives his life and goes about his busy daily routine be required to constantly expect salvation?
To do this, imagine yourself waiting in line and sitting behind the door of the specialist doctor, with seven people waiting in front of you. The man opens a book and begins to read. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices that the line has moved forward by 'one person' and now there are only six ahead of him. The man continues reading, guzzling another chapter from the book. He looks up and, indeed, another person is waiting and entering. Now there are only five ahead of him. And so on.
Can we say that the man came to the doctor's waiting room to read a book? Of course not. He sits and 'waits' his turn with bated breath. The book is the option to pass the waiting time and nothing more. The man waits and 'waits' and in the meantime reads a book.
This is how our lives are supposed to be. The main principle and essence of our existence in this world is the waiting and the 'anticipation' for redemption. The option and possibility to spend the waiting time are the real life we live and the experiences we have.
God forbid we think and feel that our lives are the main thing and the expectation of redemption is the cure. The opposite is true. We are here to expect salvation, to hope and wish that our Father will return to us as He promised, will build His temple and send us our righteous Messiah immediately.
And if we live our lives in anticipation? What good is it to us to wait?.
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