Repeat After Me

Well, as Charlie Brown would say, there's always next year.

Or last year, for that matter. But it still hurts. My beloved Phillies did not repeat as world champions of baseball (though "world" is somewhat of a misnomer). They put up a good fight, I thought. They were reasonably competitive. One or two extra hits, one or two extra strikeouts, and it may have been a different story.

Nevertheless, it was a great season. The Phils were phun to watch all year (and thanks to mlb.com, I was able to do just that), and the Monday that I skipped work, scalped a box seat at Citi Field for thirty bucks, and watched Cliff Lee beat the Mets, 6-2, was one of the more enjoyable afternoons of the year for me.

But while the Phillies one their first title since my bar mitzvah last year, they didn't quite reach the goal again this year.

Which brings me to today's lesson.

In yeshiva we are constantly reminded of the importance of chazarah--review. In fact just as we learned in journalism classes that "writing is re-writing," it is fair to say that in the Torah view, "learning is re-learning." In order to really understand a piece of Gemara you have to go over it again and again and again.

Recently, I commemorated my uncle's yahrtzeit with a siyum on all of mishnayos. All the while I was learning mishnayos, often breaking my head to understand them, I kept telling myself how much easier it would be the next time around. Wouldn't you know it though? Once you've made a siyum on something, it can be very difficult to go back to the beginning and start all over.

Fortunately, I learn mishnayos with two boys on a regular basis and that keeps me in the game. Otherwise, I fear that my learning of mishnayos, which was a steady part of my Torah diet the past few years, would wane considerably. Let's be honest it's always easier to start on some new, exciting project than to rehash the old ones.

But "been there, done that" doesn't cut it when it comes to Torah study.

It is for this reason, I suppose, that we declare at a siyum "Hadran alach vehadrach alan--We should return to you and you should return to us." We should have the fortitude to go back and review, and in exchange for our determination, we ask that the material returns to us--that is, we don't get frustrated having to re-learn what we already think we know, but that the second time around will inspire new viewpoints and new ideas.

Years ago, when ArtScroll began its translation of the Talmud, a friend of mine, who was not from the learners in our group, began to study Gemara in a way I had not seen before. He was very determined in his learning. Prior to this project, I had never seen him pick up a sefer.

(Sidebar: I had witnessed this with more than one person--ArtScroll really did "open up" the learning of Talmud for many people. That's the good half of the equation; the other half will have to wait for another post. End sidebar.)

Eventually, the day came when he finished all of Shas. I was shocked and proud at the same time. He threw a beautiful siyum for friends and family.

But the sad part was, I never saw him pick up a Gemara again. He had accomplished his goal, and he was done.

The Phillies players, while proud of their accomplishments this year, are disappointed. At the same time, they are excited about starting all over again in 2010 and beyond.

So like I said, there's always next year. Pitchers and catchers report in four months.

Baruch Dayan Ha'emes: William Safire, 5690 - 5770

One could make a compelling case that my writing career took off one Saturday night when my parents received a phone call from a family friend.

"Is that your son in the Sunday Times?" he asked. My parents turned to me with the same question. Without uttering a word, I ran out of the house, hopped into the family car and sped down the street in the (I'll never forget) drizzling rain. I pulled into the driveway of a friend whose parents, I knew, subscribed to the Times (my parents did not) and finding their paper lying unopened on the blacktop, yanked it from its plastic sheath, and rifled through it in search of the answer.

There it was. In the Times Magazine, in the "On Language" column, just below William Safire's byline. My name.

A few weeks earlier, I had written Mr. Safire with a confession: a common phrase I had not previously understood had finally been explained to me, and I was surprised that I had managed to survive so long without being set straight. Mr. Safire dedicated his column that week to phrases that are regularly misheard, and therefore regularly misunderstood.

For a yeshiva boy, with aspirations of being a writer, appearing in William Safire's column, was more than a thrill. It was validation. On that rainy Saturday night, in the dark, on someone else's driveway, I whooped it up like I had just won the pennant.

William Safire, who died Erev Yom Kippur, taught me to love words and to appreciate their power. Moreover, he demonstrated how the right combination of words, arranged just so, could pack a powerful punch. (He would interrupt here, as he so famously did in his column—which was full of tangents, asides, and parentheticals—to point out that the phrase "pack a powerful punch" is cliche and ought not to be used. I know it's a cliche because I Googled it and got over 13 million hits.)

He knew how to connect words in such a way that they danced on the page. His most famous phrase, "nattering nabobs of negativism," which he penned for then-Vice President Spiro Agnew to describe the press corps during the Vietnam era, was the title of a recent post of mine. (Also, incidentally, a cliche by now. Over one million Google hits.)

But for all his seriousness, as a columnist and self-appointed Language Maven, he had fun with words and language. His rules of writing included:

• Remember to never split an infinitive.
• The passive voice should never be used.
• Proof read carefully to see if you words out.
• And don't start a sentence with a conjunction.
• (Remember, too, a preposition is a terrible word to end a sentence with.)
• Don't overuse exclamation marks!!
• Writing carefully, dangling participles must be avoided.
• Take the bull by the hand and avoid mixing metaphors.
• Last but not least, avoid cliches like the plague; seek viable alternatives.

I have always maintained that if Klal Yisrael had just a handful of writers who could describe Yiddishkeit—its values, its history, its laws, its magic—in a way that was simple without being simplistic, dignified without being condescending, intimate without being intimidating, we would go a long way to bringing wayward Jews back into the fold.

William Safire never did make it back into the fold, but his daughter did. I met her once at a retreat for baalei teshuvah. One night the phone rang and I had the good fortune of answering it. It was for her.

"May I ask who's calling?" I asked.

"Her father," he answered.

I thought of introducing myself, but decided it wasn’t appropriate. He was looking for his daughter not a fan.

Tehei nishmaso tzerura betzror hachaim.

Hishtadlus: A Perspective

God has blessed me with, among many other things, wonderful friends who challenge me to think and provoke me to improve. During Elul, I called up one such friend and, simply to initiate conversation, asked how he was doing. He answered me in a grave tone: “The Director has me playing the role of someone who is having a bad day.”

My friend, whose hashkafah rests upon a bedrock belief that “all the world’s a stage,” sees himself as nothing more than an actor in God’s Divine play of life. He would never come right out and say “I’m having a bad day,” as that would, in his view, indicate a lack of faith that “Kol de’avad Rachmana letav avad—Everything God does is for the best.”

We all have our good days and our “bad” days, as well as plenty of nondescript days to round out the calendar, but my friend’s description of his day—his attitude toward what had been a setback in his livelihood—got me to rethink how to approach each day, and how to prepare for the new year.

The Talmud states, ”Mezonosav shel adam ketzuvim lo Meirosh Hashanah—A person’s livelihood [for the year] is set on Rosh Hashanah.” This alone should impel all of us to take seriously our prayers on the Yom Hadin. But more important than the actual words we read from the machzor is the attitude we need to reinforce on Rosh Hashanah and carry with us throughout the year.

Rav Chaim Friedlander, in his classic work, Sifsei Chaim, writes that the operative word on Rosh Hashanah is not teshuvah, but malchius. The main objective is not so much to ask for things or to beg forgiveness from God, but to acknowledge God’s complete control over the world. “First and foremost, we must desire that through us, through all our actions, His Kingdom will be revealed.” We spend much of these first two days of the year in prayer, declaring God’s sovereignty.

As a financial advisor, there is very little about my livelihood that I control. Rumors to the contrary notwithstanding, I have no influence on the daily direction of the financial markets. I cannot foresee when a client will drop a million dollars into my lap for investment, or when a client who had previously done so will ask for it all back.

All I can do is show up at the office, read the financial papers, talk to clients and prospective clients, and behave honestly and ethically. This is my hishtadlus, the sum total of how I “earn” a living. The actual dollar amount that flows from these behaviors into my paycheck is entirely at God’s discretion. Thus the greatest advantage of my occupation is that I am privileged to see the Hand of God supporting me every day.

As we begin to crawl out from last year’s economic meltdown, even those who earned the proverbial “steady” paycheck have lost their jobs, had their salaries reduced, or otherwise borne witness to the reality that we are all dependent solely on God for our daily bread.

Last year, after the market began its drastic decline, I had a significant setback with my biggest client, who liquidated his entire portfolio on the first day of chol hamo’eid Sukkos. I went into Simchas Torah without much joy, and tried very hard to change my mood, fully aware that whatever God had planned for me, I needed to embrace it. But the intellectual recognition of something does not induce an abrupt emotional response.

During Yom Tov, the rav of my shul spoke of the verse in Devarim, with which we begin the hakafos—“Atah hareisa ladaa’s ki Hashem hu haElokim; ein od milvado—You were shown in order to understand that Hashem is the Lord; there is nothing but Him.” The rav encouraged us to focus on those three words as we sang them, “Ein od milvado,” and to imbibe its meaning—our need to rely on God exclusively.

The first question that one is asked in the afterlife is, “Nasasa venasata be’emunah?—Did you conduct your business faithfully.” The simple translation means, Were you honest in business? But I believe that emunah here is more accurately understood as faith in God. In other words, did you conduct your business dealings with the faith that God was overseeing your success? If so, you would have no reason to cut corners. You would not be anxious as to when your next client would arrive. You would not be overly worried by financial setbacks.

This year, may we all embrace the message of malchius, bowing before the crown of our Creator, recognizing that “ein od milvado.”

Desert Island Sefarim

Remember "Desert Island Discs"?

The radio station in my hometown used to ask listeners to submit three songs that they would take along if they knew they were going to be stranded on a desert island. These would be the only three songs they would be able to listen to for the rest of their lives.

Along similar lines, I wondered: What if I knew I was going to be stranded on a desert island and could only bring along a limited number of sefarim. Which would I choose? I find the exercise helpful because I have this theory: If you are, like me, not engaged in full-time Torah study (and, perhaps, even if you are), you would be better off focusing on a few learning projects for the rest of your life than randomly learning this and that, perusing every sefer that happens to catch your eye, or even attending myriad shiurim.

Mind you, I'm not suggesting that you not learn everything you can. But time is finite, and I have come to the conclusion that most of us would be better off—that is, would accomplish more and become better talmidei chachamim—by focusing on fewer books. Keep in mind that "fewer" is still an enormous amount. If you told your chavrusah that you were no longer going to look at any sefer that was not on your "favorites" list, he might argue that you’re condemning yourself to a life of amaratzus, but realistically, it would be a tremendous accomplishment just to learn—and relearn—those favorites.

So for the past several years I have been randomly asking people I know, What sefarim (a set of sefarim –anything you can buy as one unit—counts as one) would you bring? Initially, I asked for a top-ten list, but then decided to put the pressure on and narrowed the number down to five. Nearly everyone included a Chumash on their lists. Ah, yes, but which one? Personally, I would be torn between the Toras Chaim and the Torah Temimah. I could take both but that would be 40% of my total. And then what would I do about Nach? In the end, I would have to take along a standard Mikraos Gedolos Tanach.

A certain rav, whom I polled recently, shared a terrific story with me, which only deepened my belief in this theory. He learned at Ner Israel in Baltimore. Once, a famous physicist came to Baltimore from the Soviet Union for a scientific conference. He was escorted all over by Russian police, but he was able to persuade them to let him visit the yeshiva. He spoke with the rosh yeshiva, Rav Ruderman, zt”l, who was duly impressed with the man’s knowledge, especially considering his background, living in such an anti-religious environment.

How did you become such a scholar? Rav Ruderman asked.

The man replied that when he was young he had a melamed, and when the communists took over his melamed died. He took upon himself to learn six hours a day in memory of his teacher (mind you this was on top of a very rigorous secular-studies schedule through which he developed as a physicist).

All he had in his possession was a Talmud and a few books of the Rambam. He had many questions on the Rambam that he brought to the attention of Rav Ruderman. The rosh yeshiva was able to show him that all his answers could be found through an examination of the volumes of the Rambam which he did not have access to.

I wish I could tell you that the story has the happy ending that the man got out of Russia, or that he at least was able to smuggle in the “missing” Rambams. But history rarely has such fairy tale endings.

In any event, my rav told me, after that encounter he recognized the power of staying focused on just a few sefarim. So what would he bring with him to the desert island? His most intriguing choice was a Ritva. “I can’t learn Gemara without one,” he said.

The most remarkable response I received, however, came from one of my cousins who offered that he didn’t really like sefarim; he was more interested in reading Torah articles. Hmmm.

But in the end, most people included a Tanach and a set of Shas on their lists. So assuming that the desert island shtibel has those sefarim in its library (along with a siddur, a machzor, a selichos, and a haggadah), here are the additional five I would bring along:

One, the Torah Sheleimah, the most thorough collection of midrashim on each parshah.

Two, a set of Kehati mishnayos. I cannot imagine learning mishnayos without my "chavrusah," Rav Kehati. One can argue that his thorough commentary is too much of a crutch, but because it’s in Hebrew (I never use the English version), I allow myself the “luxury” of utilizing it.

Three, the Rambam’s Mishneh Torah, preferably the Frankel edition.

Four, the Aruch Hashulchan. The closest thing we have to Kol Hatorah Kulah in one work. I am continually blown away by the work of Rav Epstein as he guides you from the Mishnah, through the Gemara and Rishonim, all the way to the practical laws and customs. The publisher, Oz Vehadar, recently did a magnificent job of republishing this masterpiece, including footnotes containing the rulings of the Mishnah Berurah.

Five, a Jastrow dictionary. It was a close contest between this critical reference book and the Alkalai dictionary. But as I need more help deciphering Aramaic than Hebrew, Jastrow is my pick.

So the reality is that I'm not headed for a desert island any time soon (I hope!), but I believe this is a good exercise in staying focused. If I spent all my learning hours with "only" these books, is that not a life to be proud of?

Eric Bruntlett's Elul

One of the joys of being an "ex-pat" Phillies fan, living in New York, is that I can watch my team's games over the internet. This sure beats the good ol' days when, in order to listen to my favorite team play, I had to drive around the county in my car, with the radio set to 1210 on the AM dial, until I found a spot that picked up, all the way from Eastern Pennsylvania, a somewhat static-free signal.

Nonetheless, when the Phillies come to New York, I am, ironically, left without video coverage of the game. You see, the way it works is that the local cable companies pay enormous sums of money to reserve all broadcast rights within a team's market. So if you want to watch a game, in New York, featuring the Mets or the Yankees you first need to buy a cable television packages. In each market, Major League Baseball "blacks out" the local games from its internet service. So when the Phillies play the Yankees or Mets, I'm in a bind. It's either the radio or Kosher Delight.

Such was the case today as I drove back from getting a tooth filled at my dentist's office in Queens. The Phils were getting ready to take the field against the Mets at their brand-new home, Citi Field, just as I was driving past, my lower left jaw still numb from novacaine. I debated turning off the Grand Central Parkway and heading for the stadium parking lot to look for a last-minute ticket. But with more important things to do with my afternoon than invest three hours in a ballgame, I did the sensible thing and headed home, trying to convince myself that radio broadcasts are as good as the real thing.

The game appeared over as soon as it started. The Phillies hit two three-run homers in the first inning. But the Mets, down by six runs twice in the game, started to chip away at the Phillies lead. By the ninth, the Phillies were still in front, 9-6, but the momentum had begun to shift toward the Mets.

At this point my computer—through which I was listening to the game—informed me that the blackout had been removed for the bottom of the ninth inning, and the video feed commenced. This was great only briefly, as the first Mets hitter wound up on third, on a three-base error by the Phillies' first baseman. That play, coupled with an unreliable Brad Lidge and his 7.05 earned run average, on the mound for the Phils, made the phaithful understandably edgy.

That unease gave way to unbridled nail-biting after second baseman Eric Bruntlett muffed the next two plays—the first, scored an error; the second, charitably, a hit. Why was Bruntlett even in the game? Where was Chase Utley, the Phillies' perennial All-Star, and unofficial leader? He was being given—he never takes—a day off. Bruntlett, hitting .128 for the year, numbers that do not befit someone competing on a championship team, was subbing.

All of a sudden, it was deja vu all over again for the Phillies: holding a slight lead, the tying runs on base, the winning run at the plate, and nobody out—all being protected by Brad Lidge, who was carrying the weight of eight blown saves on his shoulders. We phans have been here before, we've seen this picture, and it doesn't always end pretty.

And then it did.

The next hitter, Jeff Francoeur hit a bullet up the middle. Bruntlett, moving to his right, jumped up, caught the ball and landed on second base, doubling up Luis Castillo, who had been running to third on the pitch. Bruntlett then engaged in an awkward two-step with Dan Murphy, who was just arriving at second base, before tagging him on the letters. And just like that, the game was over. Phillies win.

An unassisted triple play!

I had never seen one before. Not surprising since this was only the fifteenth time in Major League history that one had ocurred. It is the rarest feat in baseball.

Eric Bruntlett, who had been responsible for allowing the two runners to reach base safely to begin with; who was on the verge of being the goat of the game; who because of his awful hitting this year might have been cut from the team if they had gone on to lose this game, emerges as the hero and will have his name in the record books. He was in the right place at the right time and reacted decisively.

Life, like baseball, has many twists and turns—some of them sudden. Elul is a time when we all are asked to come to terms with our behavior throughout the year. Perhaps we are hitting a spiritual .128 for the season. Perhaps we made a couple of errors over the summer. Perhaps we are on the verge of blowing the Big Game.

Now we are in the right place at the right time. We, too, must react decisively. Eric Bruntlett reminds us: "Yeish shekoneh olamo besha'a achas"—it's never too late to turn it around. Redemption can come more quickly than you ever imagined possible.

See the play here.

Caring Enough to be Careful

One of my fondest memories is the time I was traveling with a vanload of public school kids to some JEP or NCSY shabbaton, and we got a flat tire. Pulling over the side of the road, in a light rain, with traffic around us and limited time until sundown, I got that ominous feeling I sometimes get on Erev Shabbos when there’s a sudden wrench thrown into my erstwhile perfect plan. Also, I was a yeshiva bachur. What did I know about fixing a flat?

Fortunately, within a few minutes another car pulled up behind us and some other bachurim—who apparently went to a yeshiva that appreciated the virtues of flat-fixing—popped out. With a quick introduction they got to work. No sooner had they started than another car pulled over. More bachurim. More flat fixers. At this point I’m thinking that I attended the only yeshiva in America where basic auto maintenance was not an elective.

By the time the job was done, two more cars had stopped to see if we needed help. Both were helmed by what my father affectionately calls “frummies.” We were back on the road in twenty minutes, and made it to the shabbaton with time to shower. But what delighted me more than being on time for Shabbos was the reaction of one of the kids. Noticing that everyone who had stopped to pitch in wore a yarmulke, he asked, “Are all Orthodox Jews this nice?”

In an effort to ensure that the answer to that question is always yes, I offer the following ideas.

Every day starts with the morning. Most people are, like me, not morning people. This means they are a bit crankier, a bit more sensitive, a bit groggier in the morning. How refreshing it is, therefore, to be greeted by someone, a stranger, with a smile and a cheerful “Good morning.”

This simple, straightforward salutation invariably pays outsized returns.

In the bank where I work, I have developed a reputation for greeting all my colleagues at the beginning of the day with a cheerful “Happy Monday,” “Happy Tuesday,” and so on (Everybody loves “Happy Friday”; “Happy Monday” is significantly less popular). One morning, I walked into work distracted, and moved through the bank floor quickly to my desk to get started on what I knew was going to be a hectic day. At about mid-afternoon, I was feeling a lot less tense and made it over to the service desk. One of the associates gave me the cold shoulder, which I quickly picked up on. “Everything okay?” I asked.

“You forgot to wish me a Happy Wednesday,” she said.

Indeed I had forgot. But who would have thought that it mattered? Who would have thought that she’d be hurt by my innocent slip? It did. She was.

Benjamin Brafman, the famed attorney who spoke at a recent Agudath Israel asifa, made a comment that stuck with me for its simplicity and truthfulness: “If you are careful, it’s very easy to do a kiddush Hashem; if you’re not careful, it’s very easy to do a chillul Hashem.”

Recently, a major news magazine interviewed grocery store cashiers about the behavior of their customers. Most were appalled by the lack of manners. One of the biggest offenses was talking on the cell phone while checking out. Go to your local store and I'm sure you'll see plenty of your “nicest” neighbors doing this. They don’t mean anything by it, simply multitasking through a very busy schedule, but the message to the cashier is plain: “You aren't a real person to me.” Obviously most people don't intend it that way, but that's how it's perceived by the people who are on the other side of the counter.

Smiling, waving, nodding, greeting—these are all small, simple ways we can improve our lot, both personally and nationally.

On a stronger note, I am often asked by people starting out in my profession (financial planning and investment advice) what they should do to build a successful practice. I tell each of them, Jew and gentile alike, that if you strive to be the smartest person on Wall Street, you have lots of competition; if you try to be the luckiest person on Wall Street, that probably won’t happen either; but if you aim to be the most honest, ethical person on Wall Street, you have a pretty good shot at landing near the top.

The Talmud teaches that at the end of our lives we are asked four questions. One of those is, Did you deal faithfully in business? I would suggest that the emunah, the faith, that is under discussion is not merely the faith expressed between two business parties, but also the faith one must have in God that He will provide one’s daily bread. If we deal in business with the faith that God will give us what’s coming to us, then we are less likely to be tempted to cut corners in order to make ends meet.

The Rambam, in Mishneh Torah (Yesodei haTorah, chapter 5)¸ discusses the mitzvos of kiddush Hashem and chillul Hashem. His initial discussion revolves around the particular circumstances—idolatry, murder, and illicit sexual relations— requiring one to sacrifice his life, whereby doing so would create a kiddush Hashem, and not doing so would create a chillul Hashem.

But in the final halachah, the Rambam discusses more pedestrian concerns. He writes: “There are other matters which are incorporated into chillul Hashem. These are things that if done by someone who is great in Torah and prominent in piety, things that society will slander him because of them, even if they are not actual sins, he has desecrated the Name.” The Rambam goes on to describe activities that are on the opposite side of the sin spectrum, indiscretions much less severe than idolatry, murder, and illicit sexual relations. Things like paying bills late, hanging out with the riff-raff, and not speaking courteously.

I would argue that in our time, anyone who presents himself to the world as an Orthodox Jew falls into this category of “great in Torah” and “well-known in piety.” To the gentile world, to the non-Orthodox Jewish world, and even within the Orthodox world itself, we are the exemplars of Judaism. Whether we truly are “great in Torah” is irrelevant. Our behavior is seen as reflective of the Torah’s standard.

If we do not see ourselves this way, if we believe that we are not so different from the secular world, if we think that despite the yarmulkas on our heads we still “fit in” with everyone else, then we will—wrongly—fail to live up to this higher benchmark.

But if, on the other hand, we truly believe ourselves to be God’s chose nation, if we see ourselves as the touchstone of the Jewish people and if, above all, we are careful at all times, then we ought to succeed in our Divine mission of being a light not only unto the other nations but unto our own—our families, our communities, and our people.

It's Not Fair!

My great-grandmother lived in a shtetl in a town called Rovno. One day, she was outside with her children when she heard shots being fired. A Cossack, drunk and on horseback, was galloping through town pulling the trigger aimlessly. My great-grandmother grabbed her girls and pushed them through the door to the house, but before she could get herself inside, the cossack shot her in the back. She died.

My uncle—through his marriage to the older of these two girls several years later—lived in a nearby shtetl. One day, there was a pogrom. A gentile thrust a gob of lard toward his face and told him to eat. He refused, and said "Shema Yisrael..." convinced that he was about to be killed. But the gentile let him go and instead went after an old man. The old man, too, refused to open his mouth to the lard, so the gentile lit his beard on fire. The old man died.

I live in New York City. My home is in Manhattan, a multicultural island comprising dozens of ethnicities, who live side-by-side in peace and tranquility. Jews in New York, even religious Jews, don't stand out any more than do the Sikhs, the Koreans, or the West Indians.

But the other day I woke up, walked to shul, and was confronted with the horrible desecration of a swastika painted on the front door of my synagogue. For no reason, some gentile hated us enough to vandalize our property. Now I'm thinking I should be afraid to wear my yarmulka in the street.

It's not fair.

My mother went to public school. Her Jewish education consisted of Talmud Torah at the local Orthodox synagogue. She never went to Bais Yaakov (though later she taught in one). Both my parents grew up out-of-town surrounded by gentiles and steeped in American culture. My mother met Elvis Presley and Eleanor Roosevelt. My father rooted for Ted Williams and the Red Sox.

My grandfathers, on both sides, were not Talmudic scholars. While they knew enough to pass on to their children the knowledge that knowledge—Torah knowledge—was important, they themselves never received a proper Torah education.

I grew up in the suburbs of New York City, in a very Jewish town, with a choice of kosher pizza shops and delis, a place where you rarely saw a car on the streets on Shabbos. I grew up in a house with a father who is a scholar, whose library is formidable. I can ask him almost anything Torah-related and he will have, or he will quickly find, the answer. My yeshiva education was K through 12, followed by seven years of beis medrash, two of them in Israel.

But yeshiva education today costs a fortune. As yeshivos have begun to pay their rabbeim a living wage and attempt to build decent secular studies departments and extra-curricular programs, tuition has increased dramatically. Who can afford to pay so much? My grandparents were never faced with these kinds of bills.

It's just not fair.

None of my grandparents went to college. It wasn't a "frum thing" for them; it simply wasn't on their radar. In fact, my maternal grandfather had to drop out of high school in his senior year to help with the family business. As for my paternal grandfather, I’m still not quite sure what he did for a living, but those were the years of the Great Depression, and no one back then made much money.

Things were even worse where they had come from. The shtetl was a place of dire poverty. "If we didn't fast every Monday and Thursday," the old joke went, "we'd have starved to death." Hunger drove them to leave for America's golden shores.

I have never missed a meal in my life. My college-educated parents always provided for me and my siblings. We grew up in a big house, with a big backyard, and we each had our own bedroom. My parents didn't give us everything we wanted but they gave us everything we needed, and then some.

But my cholesterol is too high. Even though I run four to five times a week, I still feel out of shape and I'm a few pounds overweight. I try to eat right, but there are so many temptations: frappuccinos, Ben & Jerry's, French fries. I have to deal with temptations my grandparents never had.

It's not fair. It's just not fair.