How One Act of Compassion Changed Our Children’s Lives

“I have four sons. Each one sweet, talented, full of potential. They learned to read beautifully and started off strong in their Torah learning. But slowly, something changed. As they got older, their test scores started to fall,” Reuven shared, his voice heavy with emotion. “It was like their understanding disappeared the moment they opened a page of Gemara”—the Talmud, a central book of Jewish wisdom. “Everything became heavy and confusing. No matter how hard they tried, they couldn’t grasp it.”

Reuven and his wife did everything they could. “We hired a top private tutor, paid him a small fortune. He really tried—but he couldn’t change what was going on inside their minds. And this wasn’t just one child. It happened to all four! All four sons… like the four sons mentioned in the Haggadah on Pesach. But ours felt like the ‘simple son’—or the one who doesn’t even know how to ask.”

They poured their hearts into their children. “We didn’t just sit back. We prayed—oh, how we prayed. We gave tzedakah, charity. We cried at candle lighting, we whispered desperate tefillos—prayers—while opening the Torah scroll. We begged Hashem for help.”

“You can accept that your child might not be the best student in the yeshivah. But it’s so hard to accept that he’s struggling, especially when you once saw so much promise in him. Especially when teachers used to say, ‘This boy has a bright future.’ And now… nothing. We felt like our prayers were hitting a wall—like they weren’t even reaching the sky, let alone the Kisei HaKavod, Hashem’s holy throne.”

Still, they kept going: more tutoring, more prayers. But it felt like nothing changed.

Finally, Reuven decided to turn to someone wise. “It was the 13th of Adar. I remembered what the Sages teach: When you’re in pain, go to a chacham, a wise Torah scholar, and ask him to pray for you. I went to our shul’s rav and poured out my heart. I told him about our sons, our struggles, and how I felt our tefillos were being blocked.”

The rabbi listened quietly, compassionately. Then he opened the Sefer Chassidim, a holy book written by Rabbi Yehudah HaChassid over 800 years ago. “This is incredible,” the rabbi said. “I learn from this book every day. And just now, I was studying this exact passage. Look at what it says in section 562:

‘There is one who prays and is answered, and one who prays and is not answered. Why? Because he does not feel the pain of others. If he truly felt another’s suffering, he would pray for them too—as it says, “Love your fellow as yourself.” Since he doesn’t feel the pain of the righteous, he cannot be answered. For Hashem shows compassion to those who are compassionate. If someone is unmoved by others’ pain, how is he different from an animal?’”

Reuven was stunned. “It was like the words were aimed straight at me. And then I realized—it was the yahrtzeit, the memorial day, of Rabbi Yehudah HaChassid. I felt like Heaven was sending me a direct message.”

When Reuven came home, he shared the story with his wife. After a moment of silence, she said gently, “I think I know what it means.”

She reminded him of something that had happened eight years earlier. “Our neighbor, who had ten kids in a tiny two-and-a-half-room apartment, came to ask if he could build a small addition to his home. He wanted to close in a bit of his yard. But we said no. We didn’t want to block our view or lose light. We came up with reasons. And to this day, he’s still living in that small, crowded apartment—while we expanded ours.”

Her eyes welled up. “We didn’t feel his pain. We didn’t think about how hard it must be for his family. Maybe that’s the wall blocking our prayers.”

Her words pierced Reuven’s heart. “She was right,” he said. “What good is a view, if our hearts are closed?”

That Purim, they prepared a beautiful gift basket and brought it to their neighbor. “He looked at me, surprised, not understanding what was going on. I explained everything—that we did some soul-searching and realized we had wronged him. I told him: ‘You have our full permission now. Please go ahead and build.’”

But the neighbor replied quietly, “We’ve managed until now, and we’ll keep managing. Back then, I had the money. But now, it’s all gone. I can’t afford to build anymore.”

Reuven didn’t hesitate. “I told him that a ‘generous donor’ wanted to help him build. I didn’t tell him it was me. I called a contractor and got the process started—just a few days after Purim.”

There was only one condition. “The ‘donor’ asked for one thing: that the family pray for his children’s success in Torah.”

Construction began. The neighbor’s home filled with light and space. But something else changed too—something Reuven didn’t expect.

“From that summer, everything shifted. Week by week, our sons improved. We no longer needed private tutors. By the end of the school year, our boys weren’t just doing well—they were at the top of their classes! Their test scores soared. They became the most sought-after chavrusas—study partners—in yeshivah.”

Reuven finished with a full heart. “It’s like all our tears, all our prayers, all our begging—finally rose up together. The wall was gone. The Heavens opened. And we understood what King David meant when he said, ‘Ashrei maskil el dal’—‘Happy is the one who considers the weak.’ Hashem truly rescues those who care for others.

“A little less sunlight in our home… and a lot more light in our hearts.”