Thirty years ago people expected Ponevezh protégé Rav Moshe Goldstein to become a rosh yeshivah. They just didn’t think it would be that kind of yeshivah.
The term “Shabbos clothes” is relative. If it means starched white shirts and pressed suits then the bochurim in Sha’arei Yosher weren’t dressed for Shabbos. But if it means nicer than the weekday with a clear attempt made at keeping button-down shirts tucked in then they were Shabbosdig indeed.
Kabalas Shabbos had just started and while a small minyan near the chazzan davened earnestly many of the talmidim sat gathered around tables chatting. Others read books and a few sat by themselves contemplating one thing or another.
But then moments before Lecha Dodi a current seemed to zip through the room a palpable sense of anticipation. Chairs shifted bochurim sat up a bit straighter many rising to their feet.
“Oy oy oy oy Lecha dodi …” The sound was full; everyone in the beis medrash joined to welcome the Shabbos. It was as if come the Seventh Day it made no difference who they were or where they’d been during the previous six.
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