A bus ticket, a care package, a haircut — the items were small, the caring behind them enormous. A small seed sprouted and grew tall.Twenty readers share acts of giving
Tzippy Braude, Lakewood, NJ
I must have been in tenth grade, when I went to the lunchroom to wash netilas yadayim, and like every other day, took off the ring my grandparents had given me for my bas mitzvah.
I rarely saw my grandparents, and the ring was a precious memento of their love for me. To my horror, the ring somehow slipped across the wet counter and disappeared down the drain.
I gulped down tears and ran to the office for help. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to do, and I sadly went to class. About an hour or two passed and there was a knock on my classroom door. Rabbi Yoel Bursztyn, the school principal, stood there. He beckoned to me. I had no idea what he wanted and hesitatingly came out.
He smiled widely, lifted his hand, and opened his clenched fist. There, on his palm, was my lost ring!
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