I thought about Shlomo and this story often as my life turned over, as my world ended
As told to Ariella Schiller
W
e called him Uncle Shlomo. To the rest of the world, he was known as Shlomo Zakheim, pioneering Hatzolah activist and fount of chesed. Uncle Shlomo hated the spotlight, and wouldn’t have appreciated the articles and accolades that spread his myriad acts of kindness after his death. But it was a story his wife, Aunt Faigy, and his son retold that really stayed with me.
During their first few years of marriage, Shlomo, not yet the philanthropic giant he would one day be, was presented with a business opportunity. “This was going to be it,” Faigy said. “We were going to strike it big on this deal, we were going to achieve financial success; we were young and excited. And then Shlomo decided to ask a rav for a brachah. Cryptically, he was told to drop out of any business deals. And he listened, Shlomo. Dropped out of the deal of a lifetime. Years later we found out that the deal was corrupt, but that was much, much later. In the meantime, there was just us, struggling, trying to stay strong.”
I thought about Shlomo and this story often as my life turned over, as my world ended.
June had come at last; summer was upon us, and Camp Mommy was in full swing. My three little ones were the perfect ages for kiddie pools and finger painting, and we were going to fill the weeks with fun activities. But a lingering lethargy seemed to have taken hold of my usual verve. Succos arrived, and I still felt heavy and tired, nothing like my energetic self. “Shaul,” I told my husband, “I think I need to see a doctor.”
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