Why the Men Starting Yelling at the Post Office
This morning I was waiting for my turn at the post office when two men approached the counter and started yelling at one of the clerks.
I realized from their accents that they were Arabs, and as their yelling turned into outraged screams, I considered speed-walking over to get the security guard by the door…
But then the branch manager came out of her office and spoke firmly with the men who soon exited in a big huff.
Even after they left, I didn’t know what the men had been so upset about. But they were so enraged by the clerk’s behavior that before they stormed out of the post office one of the men took a photo of her and the manager and said, “Now I have your photo! You just wait to see what I’m going to do with this!”
The wait went relatively quickly– a total of only about 10 minutes of waiting before my turn arrived. As the clerk stamped my registered mail form I asked her, “Why were those men so angry?”
“Those men who were yelling at the clerk?”
The clerk suppressed a yawn. “Oh, them? They said they had been waiting a long time in line, and wanted to be served already. They didn’t want to wait like everyone else.”
I’ve lived in Israel for 22 years. I’m no stranger to chutzpah. But I was still surprised by the nerve of those men.
Everyone’s got to wait. No exceptions.
When I’m experiencing big challenges, I go to the grave the Zviller Rebbe zts”l. And I’m not alone. Every Monday and Thursday hundreds of people come from all over Israel to pray at the grave of this tsaddik which has been credited with many miracles.
So this morning I went to the Zviller Rebbe’s grave, and I read a prayer for the sick for my father—Matityahu Tuvia ben Esther Tsiporah. And then I read some psalms.
As I prayed, I was filled with a feeling of dread. My Mom and brother and Dad met with the head cardiac surgeon yesterday. My father’s condition is stable but my father is still very ill and very weak. He will need very serious surgery sometime over the next few months.
As a tear crawled down my cheek, I decided to do something I do when everything seems dark and hopeless. I made a Thank-You Hashem list. I was a bit surprised how easy it was to find things to be thankful for regarding my father’s scary situation…
Thank you, Hashem. My father is alive!
Thank you, Hashem. I was able to visit and speak with my father a bunch of times!
Thank you, Hashem. My father has medical insurance and can afford some of the best medical care in the world!
Thank you, Hashem. My father has my mother to visit him every day, and my brother and sister live relatively close by.
Thank you, Hashem. My father’s medical situation has improved in many ways over the last few weeks.
And my Thank you, Hashem list went on and on.
And I realized something.
I want everything to be perfect.
Instant healing. Immediate recovery. My father leaping from the ICU to swimming his regular daily laps at the pool.*
But things almost never work that way. Even miracles.
Everyone’s got to wait.
Even those guys at the post office.
Even my Dad.
*A random side-point: my dad’s hospital room is literally one minute from the swimming pool where I spent a large chunk of my childhood. My parents still go swimming there almost every day.