I was recently davening Shacharis in a Lakewood shul, doing my own thing. A meshulach came by, and I gave him a dollar or two and continued on. After davening, the meshulach approached me again as I was making a coffee.
I gently pointed out that I’d already given him earlier, and he paused, as if deliberating whether he should say what was on his mind.
I was in a bit of a rush, running late for a meeting, and I raised my eyebrows. Nu.
This slim Yerushalmi father and husband, with large earnest eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses and neat curly peyos, looked pained.
“Hust mir gegebben, you gave me,” he said, “ubber hust mir nisht oisgehert, but you didn’t hear me out.”
I hadn’t listened to his story, hadn’t heard about the wife’s breakdown, the child’s surgery, the lost job, the chovos after being scammed by the contractor. It had been about me, but not about him.
In Lakewood, tzedakah capital of America, near the door of the Chestnut Shul, he pierced me with his words.
You have to hear every single word in the Megillah. The mitzvah is to listen, to train yourself to catch every syllable.
Purim is a day of hearing. Back in Shushan we didn’t see overt miracles. There were no revelations. But to those who were attuned, the precision of the Divine plan and depth of His love became clear.
On Purim we learn to listen again.
On Purim we learn to listen again.
