The Power of Letting Go: A Rosh Hashanah Miracle

For over seventeen years, R' Yitzchak and his wife waited—hoping, praying, and trying every spiritual path they could—to be blessed with a child. Seventeen long years of tears, heartache, countless prayers, and every segulah (spiritual remedy or practice) they heard about. But still—no children.

Then came Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, in 2003. The day before the holiday, R' Yitzchak got a phone call from a friend. “I just read something I think you’ll want to hear,” the friend said. “There’s a segulah that many say is very powerful. If someone buys the Maftir aliyah—the final Torah reading on the first day of Rosh Hashanah—and prays with deep focus during the Haftarah reading of Chana (Hannah), who was also childless and remembered by Hashem on this day, they are promised a child the following year.”

R' Yitzchak felt a chill. Every year, he cried during that Haftarah. Chana’s pain, her prayers, the miracle she experienced—it mirrored his own longing. He had never heard of this segulah before. Maybe this was the moment. He thanked his friend warmly and hung up, filled with a new sense of hope.

The next day at synagogue, the gabbai (synagogue attendant) announced the auction for aliyahs (An aliyah auction is a common tradition in many synagogues where men are called up to recite blessings before and after each section of the Torah reading). “Two hundred shekels for Maftir,” he called out. Without hesitation, R' Yitzchak stood up. “Four hundred,” he said. Another man tried to outbid him—“Four fifty!”—but R' Yitzchak responded instantly, “Six hundred.” The gabbai nodded. “Sold.” R' Yitzchak had secured the Maftir.

As the Torah reading began, he peeked at the Haftarah text, refreshing his memory. He was already holding back tears. The words of Chana pierced his heart. He prayed that this act, this segulah, would finally open the gates of heaven.

But then—a tap on the shoulder.

A fellow congregant asked to speak with him. “R' Yitzchak,” the man said, “my brother and I both bought aliyahs, but since we’re brothers, we can’t be called up one after the other. The gabbai says it’ll only work if you switch with me—take the fifth aliyah, and let me have the Maftir. Is that okay?”

R' Yitzchak was speechless.

The struggle in his heart was fierce. He had paid so much, hoped so deeply. The Maftir was everything to him this year. How could he give it up?

One voice inside him whispered, “Don’t do it! The whole segulah is the Maftir!” But another voice gently said, “Maybe giving in is also a segulah...”

He took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I’ll take the fifth aliyah. You take Maftir.” The man thanked him and rushed off.

The gabbai called, “May R' Yitzchak ben R’ Kalman rise for the fifth aliyah,” and R' Yitzchak went up, his heart heavy but calm. He had let go—with a whole heart.

After the reading, during the break before the shofar blowing, R' Yitzchak stepped outside. There he saw the man who had taken the Maftir, standing beside his brother, both looking uncomfortable and pale.

“R' Yitzchak,” the man began, “I didn’t realize... When I read the Haftarah, I saw how meaningful it was. I understand now why you wanted it. I’m so sorry…”

His brother nodded, too embarrassed to speak. “We thought it was just an aliyah,” he said softly. “I didn’t know. Please forgive us.”

R' Yitzchak smiled warmly. “It’s okay,” he said. “Who says the Maftir is the only way? Maybe giving in—maybe that’s the real segulah. I gave it up with a whole heart.”

The tension eased. They all returned to daven (pray) for the blowing of the shofar and the long Musaf service. The dramatic moment passed, and life moved on.

But Heaven hadn’t forgotten.

That very year, in the winter of 2004, R' Yitzchak and his wife were blessed—with twins.

At the Shalom Zachor (celebration on the Friday night after a baby boy is born), R' Yitzchak made sure to invite the man who had asked him for the Maftir. “They were born because of you,” he told him. “If you hadn’t asked, I wouldn’t have had the chance to give in.”

This story was told firsthand by R' Yitzchak himself—his real name changed for privacy—but every word is true.

And the message is powerful.

When we give up—even when something is rightfully ours—we open gates in heaven.

We can never know how Hashem measures things. Sometimes, it’s not the effort or the cost that brings a blessing, but the quiet moment when we let go of our pride, our rights, and our plans—for the sake of peace, kindness, or someone else’s needs.

Yes, it’s hard. “It’s mine.” “I deserve it.” “Why should I lose out?” Those are all fair thoughts. But here’s a truth that R' Yitzchak discovered: letting go can do more for us than we’ll ever imagine.

So next time someone cuts in line, takes your seat in shul, or builds a fence that blocks your sunlight—remember this story. It’s okay to stand your ground. But sometimes, when we choose to give in, we invite blessings we never dreamed possible.

Because sometimes, giving up… is the greatest segulah of all.