Driving the road to Yerushalayim

DAVID MIVASAIR SPECIAL TO THE JEWISH BULLETIN

There's so much more to life in Israel than the struggles we always seem to be talking about. I'd like to tell you about how my family met Eliyahu ha-Navi on the road to Yerushalayim. These things happen in Israel. It's why we're here.

The whole time we were planning to spend a year in Israel, we kept telling our kids, Yehuda and Sophie, how great it would be to live here without a car. We'd walk everywhere and take buses. With all the money we'd save by not having a car, we could take taxis any time we thought it was necessary. That's how we lived when we were here before.

We found out soon after we arrived last August that living in Israel with two school kids and a baby is not that easy. Shlepping a family of five with a baby carriage on a bus or in a taxi is really a hassle. We don't live right near a bus line and taxis can take a while to get to you. So, within a few weeks we reluctantly decided to buy a car. We found an old clunker for a fairly cheap price. It's been great for getting around town for daily necessities. It's taken us twice all the way up north to the Kinneret and beyond, all the way down south to Eilat and Taba and back and forth to Ashkelon, south of Tel Aviv, a few times. But it does break down occasionally.

My wife Michal's cousin Judy is leaving Israel with her three daughters and returning to the United States after living in Ashkelon for three years. We've really enjoyed being with them and wanted to visit them one last time. We put baby Miriam in the car, picked up Sophie and Yehuda from school, got Michal's mom, Lyn, and headed down the ancient winding passage through the mountains from Yerushalayim to the coast. It was raining like crazy, every drop a gift from God renewing life on earth, falling on good and evil alike.

An hour later, late in the afternoon, Michal was driving across the Plains of Ayalon, on the two-lane road that runs through wide open green fields between Beit Shemesh and Kiryat Malachi, about 20 miles from Ashkelon, when our motor shut off and our car lost its power.

Michal let the car drift off onto the shoulder. I got out to flag down a passing driver to use a cellphone and call Maestro, the Israeli equivalent of the BCAA.

People here are very helpful in times of need and everyone has cellphones. A man with a couple of laborers in a pickup truck stopped right away. Maestro couldn't quite tell where we were, but anyway told me they'd be there within an hour and a half. With the rain and dark coming on, the entire family in the car and Judy's family waiting for us with dinner, I didn't think that sitting and waiting for an hour and a half was a great idea. I did the one thing I could think of and opened up the carburator, fiddled with the butterfly valve and put it all back together again. That used to work on another old car I had once, but this time nothing happened. The car simply would not start up.

We waited another 15 minutes and tried again. This time - vroom! - it started right up and off we went. (I stopped at a payphone to cancel with Maestro.)

We had a lovely last visit with Judy and her family. When it came time to leave, she lent us her cellphone in case the car broke down on the return trip. It was still raining and pitch dark.

Even in this little country there are, baruch Hashem, still long stretches of road with no lights, no phones, no towns. So, wouldn't you know it, we got past Kiryat Malachi, going through the same green fields and - putt, putt, putt - the engine gave out again. Fortunately, we were right at a crossroads with some streetlights.

I called Maestro; again a promise of "within an hour and a half." Again, people wanted to be helpful. A couple who were waiting to meet someone at the crossroads asked if they could help, but didn't really know anything about cars. A young soldier hitchhiking home with a huge packback and an M-16 offered me the use of his cellphone. Another two or three people stopped to offer help, but no one knew what to do.

After about an hour, a station wagon stopped and a young man with dark complexion, a short beard and a black velvet kippah walked over to me. He was driving to Yerushalayim and would be happy to take my family if I wanted to wait for help with the car. There was one other person with him but he was sure Michal, the three kids and Lyn could all squeeze into his car. It was getting late, only God knew when Maestro would come and then whether they'd be able to get our car running or would just tow it away for us and leave us in the rain. It made sense for Michal, the kids and Lyn to take this ride.

Just as we were about to accept the offer, the guy's companion got out of their car and walked over to us. He was a big guy, older, with a long coat, a big black hat and a long black beard. This guy looked like he spent his time learning or possibly even teaching in a yeshivah. I was surprised to see him take an interest in our motor.

He suggested that he see if he could fix the car. He pulled the wire off the distributor, told me to start it up and said "Ain nitzotz - No spark!" I know from kabbalah that there is always a nitzotz - a spark of holiness - in everything, even in apparently lifeless distributor cables, but decided not to argue with the guy. Instead I said, "Nu, mah la'asot - So, what can we do?"

Without saying a word, the guy scraped and pinched the cable connector bracket, plugged it back in and told me to start it up. I turned the key and - vroom! - it started right up again!

We thanked these guys like crazy and got ready to drive off into the rainy night. They wished us well and said they'd follow us all the way to Yerushalayim in case we broke down. Such kindness! Half way up the mountains, it happened again. Putt, putt, putt and off to the side of the road. Again, the guys jumped out, pulled off the distributor cable, scraped it, pinched it and plugged it back in.

Again, the car started up. And, again, they followed us. Just at the entrance to the city of Yerushalayim, it broke down one more time. This time, the younger guy pulled off the distributor cable and the bracket came right off in his hand. The metal was so fatigued, it just broke. "Nu, ain mah la'asot - There's nothing more to do," he said. Then the big guy with the hat and long black beard took the pieces of the bracket in his hand, pulled a piece of wire
and a pair of pliers out of one of the pockets in his big, long coat and pinched the bracket back onto the end of the wire and stuck it back into the distributor. Amazingly, the engine started up!

Since we were right at the gates of Jerusalem, they were going to turn off to their neighborhood and we were going to ours. We thanked them a hundred times, said "Tizku le-mitzvot - May you merit doing many more mitzvot."

They just laughed and said, "Don't thank us. When you daven tomorrow, thank Hashem for creating us."

Just before we parted, I couldn't contain my curiousity and asked, "Mah, atem metaknim mechoniyot? - So, do you guys fix cars?"

"No," came the reply as they drove off into the night. "Anachnu metaknim neshamot - we fix souls."

Just another rainy night in the land of Israel.

David Mivasair is the spiritual leader of Or Shalom. He is on sabbatical in Israel with his family.

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