Stories That Inspire

“I’m Muslim,” he said. “I’m from Afghanistan. You’re Jewish. We help each other.”

Most people would say, “Good luck,” and move on. But in Israel, strangers often help like family.

Generations later, a family heirloom comes full circle.

This is my thing. It’s not big but it’s mine. And it’s not for me. It’s for them. The hostages.

The remarkable story of Sholem Benchimol.

A disrupted journey uncovers a Jewish grave in a non-Jewish cemetery, sparking a prolonged effort for a proper burial.

A commitment to lifelong learning leads to remarkable birthday synchronicity.

The younger of the two boys shared a story. “You know, it seems very quiet now, but this past Friday I experienced the greatest moment of my life.”

"As soon as I got to New York, I had 350 helmets made, and on my next trip to Israel, we gave out the helmets, T-shirts, pamphlets and stickers."

“I filled my car with diesel fuel instead of regular, and now it won’t start!”

Unexpectedly, Alan started to feel sick.

Two camps that my father had contacted that week had already signed on, but everyone assumed that approaching the Hashomer Hatzair camp was an effort in futility.

They were surprised but grateful to see Doobie, telling him how meaningful his visit was at such an auspicious time.

The congregation was already deep into the Shabbat morning services when a little boy, dressed with a kippah and Shabbat clothing, ran into the synagogue, looked around with confusion, and ran out again.

I first met the family some seven years ago, when I was called to perform a bris on their newborn son.

It was hard to concentrate. Words were spinning in my head, like a wheel of anxiety.

It wasn't about until a year after meeting Elliot that I found out that he was Jewish, and that his name was Elliot Cohen. Although my Jew-radar failed me, the connection that Jews have when they find another Jew kicked in, and I tried to reach out in a more personal and meaningful way to Elliot.

It was the most uncomfortable Shabbat I have ever experienced. What was meant to be a quick visit to the emergency room turned into a hospital admission over Shabbat, with no advance warning.

I was ready to tell my wife that one of us was going to return to Cambodia to retrieve the medication. And then I stopped. I googled “Chabad Cambodia.”

Handling electronic devices is not permitted on Shabbat, so I would have expected the rabbi to gently and respectfully ask his guests to refrain from using their phones. Not this rabbi.

Wherever I went, I met women waiting to go home. But in each place, as we connected over the source of our souls, we realized how at home we truly were.

Asi is one of a growing number of farmers who let their land lie fallow every seven years in observance of the Shemittah (Sabbatical) year.

For a full year, Steve drove 45 minutes, rain or shine, and sat with me for an hour as he taught me all he knew to help me with my stutter. He never agreed to be compensated.

Our paths are guided from Above. Yet in each of our encounters, we are given the opportunity to help ignite a spark of another soul.

He was standing by the side of the road speaking through the open window of my car. "From this moment on," I said to him, "every good deed I do will also be credited to your account..."

At first, we weren't concerned, knowing how children love to report even the slightest mishap. But when my husband and Rabbi Rosenfeld saw her sock bright red with blood, it was clear that she had to get to a hospital

Once he had been a brilliant Lower East Side yeshiva prodigy. The Depression had changed that. The Party valued him. After Stalin he rethought his life and was a watchmaker. One afternoon he asked me -- a Jewish illiterate -- if I wanted to hear a niggun

He imparted a lesson not through speaking, but by listening to a story, a story he knew firsthand...

My children specifically enjoy hearing my most vivid image of a late March Canadian blizzard, the night of my Bat Mitzvah . . .

She walked out of the room. Halfway down the hallway she stopped and stood motionless as if confronting an invisible wall

Her English could only be described as broken at best. But her pride was evident in her erect carriage and the glow in her eyes as she relayed her story

“When I was about three years old, the war broke out. I was too young to know why things were so hard, but old enough to know that every egg and every piece of fruit was a real treasure.”

It was rumored that back in Russia, before the Revolution, the Cigarette Beggar had been a wealthy man, with textile factories in Minsk and philanthropic projects all over the world...

"The first soldier killed in Cast Lead," Benny explained, "was named Dvir. His story touched us, and we decided to name our son after him."

I was at my father’s side in the empty prep room. The room was silent; just the two of us. Suddenly—this could happen only in Israel—someone swung open the door and jabbed his head in. “I’m looking for my friend . . .”

When I visit my parents’ graves, I am usually at a loss, unsure what to say and what to do. Are there prayers I should be saying? Should I be reading Psalms, and if so, which ones? Do I have a chat with them? What do I say?

A congregational rabbi shares three remarkable tales, each one demonstrating the miracles embedded within us.

Will we stand up against this vile hatred? Or will we look away until the flames reach all of us?