“Hashem, if you save my son, I will become completely observant,” he pleaded
Oh, my goodness, I realized. My nose is literally in the wrong place
It was a clear Monday night in March 1993 when we set off — me, my high school friend Jay, and an assortment of our college friends. Another car, also with some friends, led the way from University of Michigan in Ann Arbor, where I was a sophomore, to Windsor, Ontario, an hour’s drive away.
I wasn’t religious at the time, and my exposure to Torah-true Judaism was minimal. My parents, Jewish Russian immigrants, knew little about Yiddishkeit, though over the course of the last year, my father had started moving slowly toward Torah observance.
Soon enough, we were cruising up Interstate-94, a sprawling highway with four lanes in each direction. The atmosphere was relaxed — we had all just returned from spring break, and here we were, driving along, shooting the breeze, enjoying each other’s company.
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