The Rabbi Who Left Poland
There are moments in life when leadership is not defined by speeches, positions, or titles — but by presence.
This is one of those moments.
A Student Who Had Been Through Too Much
Before leading a group of college students on a trip to Poland, I had a student — I won’t mention her name — who had endured more pain than most people experience in a lifetime.
She was one of our regular guests. Our home is always open; on Friday nights we often host close to 100 people. Students linger long after the meal ends. They know they are welcome. She was one of those who stayed. She needed warmth. She needed family.
This past year alone, she lost her mother. That loss came on top of illness and other crushing challenges. It nearly broke her. There were moments she almost gave up hope.
And then — she got engaged.
I remember rushing into Brooklyn between flights just to attend her engagement. It meant the world to her.
Then the phone rang.
“Rabbi, what are you doing next Thursday?”
“I’ll be in Poland with a group.”
A pause.
“Oh.”
That “oh” said everything.
“I’m getting married Thursday.”
I hadn’t received the invitation yet. I explained gently that I couldn’t cancel. Fifty college students were coming. Flights were booked. Buses, hotels, tours — nearly $100,000 in reservations. It simply wasn’t possible.
The conversation ended.
The next day, her cousin called.
“Rabbi, I don’t think you understood. She was hoping you and your wife would walk her down the chuppah.”
Oh my goodness.
The dilemmas of a rabbi.
But what could I do? Everything was set. I boarded the plane to Poland.
Standing in Majdanek
One of our first stops was Majdanek.
Unlike Auschwitz, much of Majdanek still stands. The barracks. The gas chambers. The scratches on the walls. The blue stains from Zyklon B. The silence there is not empty — it screams.
As we walked through the camp, crying, the guide said something that pierced me:
“How many parents cried for their children here? How many children cried for their parents?”
And suddenly it hit me.
I was standing here mourning children who lost parents seventy years ago.
But I was not there for my own student who had lost her mother this year.
The contrast was unbearable.
I felt the weight of it. Not as a speaker. Not as a tour leader. As a rabbi.
A Decision in the Dining Hall
That night at dinner, I stood up.
“My dear students,” I said, “I hope you’ll understand. But I need to leave tonight. I’m flying back to Brooklyn. I will walk this young woman down the chuppah. Then I will take the next flight back and rejoin you. I’ll miss about fifteen hours of the trip.”
There was silence.
I continued: “A rabbi must be there for his student.”
The next day I flew to New York, walked her down the chuppah, and flew straight back to Poland.
It was exhausting.
It was expensive.
It was complicated.
It was right.
The Greatest Lesson
After I made the announcement, one student came over to me.
“Rabbi,” he said, “that was the biggest lesson you could have taught us. More than anything we’ll learn here. If a rabbi is there for a student like that… how much more so must Hashem be there for us.”
That was the real lesson of the trip.
Not just remembering tragedy.
But understanding presence.
Leadership is not about being impressive in public. It is about showing up in private pain.
It is easy to cry over history. It is harder to show up for someone’s present.
Majdanek teaches us what happens when the world is absent.
Judaism teaches us to be present.
A Reflection for All of Us
Every one of us is someone’s rabbi.
Maybe not with a title. But to someone — a child, a friend, a sibling, a student — we represent strength, stability, guidance.
The question is not whether we care.
The question is whether we show up.
And if a human being, limited and flawed, can rearrange flights and cross oceans to stand beside someone in their moment of vulnerability — how much more so does Hashem stand beside us in ours.
We are never abandoned.
We are never forgotten.
And sometimes, the greatest Torah we will ever teach is not delivered from a podium — but at a chuppah, quietly walking someone forward into their new beginning.
Have a meaningful day.