Shabbat in a City I’d Never Planned to Visit

“A tight knot formed in my stomach. Candle lighting was in an hour—and I knew I wouldn’t make it.”

That’s how Dina Yalin described the moment she realized her flight home for Shabbat would be delayed. It was flight 0222 to Chicago, and everything had seemed fine at first. The plane was already on the runway, waiting to take off.

But it didn’t.

The pilot’s voice came over the speaker: bad weather in Chicago. The flight would be delayed three hours. Dina looked nervously at her watch. She usually avoided flying Friday afternoons for exactly this reason. But this was summer, and Shabbat didn’t begin until close to 8:00 PM. She had thought she’d be safe. She was wrong.

As the plane neared Chicago, the pilot announced that the airport had closed and they would be landing in Milwaukee instead—just a stopover, until things cleared up. But for Dina, it was no small detour. Candle lighting time was quickly approaching, and she knew she’d never reach her destination before Shabbat.

“I’d had close calls before,” she said. “But never like this.”

Around her, the observant Jewish passengers began to gather. Some wore black hats, others sported kippahs (skullcaps), and one stood out—a Hasidic man wearing a shtreimel, a traditional fur hat worn on Shabbat. He had already called the local Chabad emissary in Milwaukee, and there was good news: the rabbi and his wife were ready to host anyone who needed a place for Shabbat.

“Come with us,” he told her.

Dina nodded gratefully, but her heart was heavy. She had planned to spend Shabbat with her family. Now she was heading into an unknown city with people she didn’t really know.

The man sitting next to her on the plane noticed her mood. When she explained why she was getting off in Milwaukee instead of continuing on to Chicago, he was stunned. “You’re going with strangers to stay with other strangers?” he asked, wide-eyed. But Dina just felt… lucky.

The moment they stepped off the plane, something shifted. A woman offered to help her with her bags. The Hasidic man insisted on paying for her cab ride. And when they arrived at the rabbi and rebbetzin’s (rabbi’s wife’s) home, the couple ran out to greet them as though they were beloved relatives returning from a long journey.

The sun was setting over Milwaukee. Inside the home, a long Shabbat table was already waiting—covered with a white cloth, polished Kiddush cups gleaming, and the warmth of welcome in the air.

When Dina lit the Shabbat candles, a deep calm settled over her. The hectic travel day faded. At the Shabbat meal, the rabbi shared stories of the Baal Shem Tov, the founder of the Chassidic movement. He told the guests that this detour wasn’t random. It was hashgachah pratit—divine providence. They were meant to be here.

The spirit of Shabbat slowly filled the room, and everyone began to unwind. Songs were sung. Stories were shared. Slowly, connections began to emerge: Dina had gone to summer camp with one woman’s roommate. A man had studied in yeshiva with her cousin. Someone else had done business with her father. The Hasidic man used to work in her hometown. And years ago, she had even spent Purim with the son of their hosts in Crown Heights. What had started as a group of strangers began to feel very much like a family.

They even gave themselves a name: “The Fifteen from Milwaukee.”

Shabbat morning brought more warmth and laughter, more personal stories and dreams. None of them had planned to be there. But now, none of them wanted to leave.

When Shabbat ended, Dina called her husband. “Where did you end up for Shabbat?” he asked.

She paused. How could she explain? These weren’t friends. They weren’t relatives. And yet, somehow, they had been both.

So she answered from her heart.

“I spent Shabbat with family.”