The iPhone That Wasn’t Missing
Last year, Hashem had tremendous rachmanus on me.
Right after my daughter got married, we were able to fulfill a lifelong dream — making my son’s bar mitzvah in Eretz Yisrael.
I have one son.
One.
From the day he was born, I dreamed of bringing him to the Kosel, of celebrating his bar mitzvah in the heart of the Old City. A Shabbos in the Rova. Family together. The stones of Yerushalayim surrounding us.
For me, this wasn’t just a trip.
This was everything.
We rented an apartment in the Old City. The meals were arranged. The family was there. Friday afternoon, we walked through the streets of the Rova, glowing.
If you know me, you know I’m meshugah about Eretz Yisrael.
The air.
The stones.
The history.
Cloud nine? No.
Cloud nineteen.
The Pizza Shop
Friday afternoon, everyone was hungry. So we stopped at a little pizza shop in the Rova.
We sat down — my wife, my kids, my daughter Adina, the bar mitzvah boy. There were Arab workers cleaning tables, one serving. It is what it is. The pizza was decent. We were in Yerushalayim. Life was perfect.
We paid the bill and headed back.
Halfway down the street, my daughter freezes.
“Tatty… my phone.”
Brand new iPhone 6.
Gone.
We run back to the shop. Check under the tables. Ask the staff.
Nothing.
I walked up to one of the Arab workers.
“Adoni, do you know where the phone is?”
“No idea.”
I tried pressure.
I tried reasoning.
I even waved some cash.
Nothing.
We walked back to the apartment.
The mood was sinking. This was a Shabbos of simcha. You don’t want the cloud of a stolen phone hovering over a bar mitzvah.
Then I remembered something.
Technology.
“Find My iPhone.”
The Chase
I opened the app.
Up came a grid of the entire Rova.
I could see every family member’s phone.
And there — Adina’s phone.
Moving.
I looked at my son.
“It’s on the move.”
He looked at me: “You found it?!”
“Yes. But if we don’t move now, we’ll lose it.”
We ran out of the apartment. I didn’t even tell my wife.
Father and son — chasing a blinking dot through the Old City.
At first, the street names were in Hebrew.
Then — slowly — the map shifted.
Arabic street names.
The phone kept moving.
We followed the grid like we were in the middle of a treasure hunt.
Left turn.
Right turn.
Down another alley.
We were catching up.
Suddenly, the dot stopped.
We looked around. About twenty people nearby.
“Who do we jump?” I whispered to my son.
You can’t play eeny-meeny-miny-mo in the Arab shuk.
Then the dot started moving again.
Fast.
Whoever had it realized something was wrong.
Now he was running.
And so were we.
The Turn That Saved a Life
We ended up deep in the Arab shuk.
Then I saw something that didn’t make sense.
An American seminary girl, holding a paper with directions.
She reached an intersection — and instead of turning right (the correct way toward her hotel), she turned left.
Two Arab men stood there smiling at each other.
One of them placed a hand on her shoulder.
They pointed her down a narrow alleyway.
Another man stood waiting there.
She started walking toward it.
Like a lamb to the slaughter.
I didn’t think.
I ran.
I grabbed her — gently but firmly.
“Where are you going?”
“To the Kosel.”
“No. Not that way. Follow me.”
She hesitated.
“They told me—”
“I know what they told you. Follow me.”
She turned around.
The two men stared at me.
I looked back calmly.
We walked her out of there and pointed her safely toward her hotel.
Back to the Phone
Then we resumed the chase.
We saw a man standing in a doorway, holding a cigarette, looking nervous.
We grabbed two Israeli soldiers.
“Those guys stole my daughter’s phone. Go get them.”
They weren’t exactly thrilled.
I told them plainly in English.
They went in.
There was shouting inside.
Something sounded like fireworks.
My son looked at me.
“It’s time to leave.”
We ran back to the Rova.
Phone gone.
Simcha first.
We let it go.
The Twist
We walked into the apartment.
My daughter says casually, “It’s okay, I found it.”
“What?”
“After a few minutes, it started buzzing. I forgot to take it. It was in the bedroom — plugged into the charger.”
I froze.
“Wait… what were we following?”
We weren’t following her phone.
We were following Hashem.
That blinking dot?
It wasn’t about an iPhone.
It was about a Jewish girl who almost walked into something far worse.
Hashem sent us running through the streets of the Arab shuk — not for a phone.
For her.
What Is Emunah?
Emunah means He’s with me.
Every second.
He’s running my business.
He’s running my marriage.
He’s running my children.
He’s running the streets I walk down.
I thought I was chasing a thief.
Hashem was positioning me for a rescue.
That’s emunah.
It’s not fantasy.
It’s not drama.
It’s awareness.
When you live with that awareness, you stop thinking you’re in control.
You realize you’re being guided.
And the more you thank Him,
the more you feel Him.
And the closer you feel,
the less you need to force anything.
Because you know:
You’re not alone in the alleyways.
You’re not alone in the chase.
You’re not alone — ever.
That’s emunah.
And when that clarity fills the world,
then we’ll truly see Him —
b’gily, in full glory —
binyan adei ad.
Amen.