I don’t know who’d arranged for the printing of those booklets, who’d chosen those few words, but I do know that that last word spoke everything
It had been a long, hot day, but the air held a chill as we stepped off the bus into the hazy dusk. We wrapped our sweaters tightly around us.
We trudged up the path to the thicket of trees. The area looked foreboding, and I hesitated for just a moment before pushing through the gate and continuing on. The leaves crackled underfoot and at every snap of a twig, I jumped. The hoot of a bird sounded in the distance, otherwise all was still.
The ohel was full; it always was. A group of American women stood together, swaying quietly. Several Israeli girls, obviously belonging to one cohesive group, mingled through the crowd, each finding a space in which to speak her heart, to express the whispers of her soul. A Mizrachi-looking woman stood to one side, praying intensely.
Everyone finds their way to Lizhensk, to the resting place of the holy Rebbe Reb Elimelech, the tzaddik who will not allow the hushed pleas and fierce supplications of Yidden go unheard Above.
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