The Deed That Opened the Gates of Heaven

In the busy Jewish neighborhood of Warsaw, there was one merchant everyone trusted. He was known for being honest, kind, and God-fearing. People from all over brought him their money, knowing he would take good care of it. His business was successful, and many who invested with him saw their money grow.

One of those people was my grandfather, Rabbi Benjamin Kowalski, zichrono livracha—may his memory be a blessing. When he was a young man, his father gave him a large sum of money to help him get married, buy a home, and start a good life. Rabbi Benjamin decided to give that money to the trusted merchant to invest, hoping it would stay safe and maybe even grow.

For years, everything went well. But then, quietly, rumors started spreading. People were saying that the merchant's business was falling apart. Soon it became clear that he couldn’t pay back his debts. Some people pulled their money out in time—but many, including Rabbi Benjamin, lost everything.

People were heartbroken. The man they trusted had failed them. Many were angry. They blamed the merchant and spoke harshly about him.

The merchant, once rich and respected, now had nothing. But even worse than losing his money, he lost his good name. People looked at him with anger, not pity. He was embarrassed to go outside. And instead of helping him, most turned their backs.

But Rabbi Benjamin didn’t. Even though he had lost all his money, he thought about the merchant—not about the money. He saw a fellow Jew who was hurting, and he decided to help.

He went to the man’s house and said, “I want to help you. I can bring food. I can help you get back on your feet. Tell me what you need.”

From that day on, Rabbi Benjamin helped the man rebuild his life. He found people to lend him money. He supported his family. He gave him strength, hope, and friendship. Slowly, the merchant was able to start again—and eventually, he became successful once more.

Many years passed. Rabbi Benjamin moved to Israel, built a beautiful family, and the story of the failed merchant was forgotten.

But not in Heaven.

After Rabbi Benjamin passed away, on the first yahrzeit (the one-year anniversary of his death), something amazing happened. He came to his son, Rabbi Shmuel Tzvi, in a dream. It was not a regular dream—it was clear and powerful, like a message from above.

“My dear son,” he said gently, “let me tell you what happened in the Heavenly Court over this past year.”

He described how everything he had done in his life was shown—every Torah class he learned, every prayer, every kind word. Every mitzvah was remembered. But then came the mistakes—small and big, between people and between him and Hashem. These were shown too, and they made the judgment difficult.

Even though many good deeds were done in his memory after his passing—like Torah learning and saying Mishnah—still, the judgment wasn’t clear. The scale was almost even. There was tension in the air.

Then, suddenly, an angel came forward with a story.

He told how Rabbi Benjamin once lost all his money when a merchant went bankrupt—but instead of being angry or embarrassed, he forgave him and helped him. He didn’t yell, blame, or walk away. He helped him get his life back.

When that story was told in the Heavenly Court, everything changed.

The scale of judgment quickly tipped to the side of zechut—merit. The case was decided for the good. Rabbi Benjamin was given a place in Gan Eden—Paradise.

Just before disappearing in the dream, Rabbi Benjamin turned to his son and said:

“Know this, my son: Of all the things I did, this is what tipped the judgment in my favor. The fact that I forgave the man who caused me harm and helped him anyway—that is what opened the gates of Paradise.”

His grandson, Rabbi Asher Kowalski, shares this story and adds: “Forgiveness is one of the strongest powers a person has. It can change everything—down here, and up in Heaven.”

He compares it to a “delete” button on a computer. When you forgive someone, it’s like you press a button that clears away anger, pain, and judgment. In that one moment, Hashem can erase your own wrongdoings too.

So the next time someone hurts you, and you feel like getting angry—pause. Maybe you can let it go. Maybe, like Rabbi Benjamin, you can forgive.

It might just open the gates of Heaven.