He Gave Away Everything—And Never Lacked a Thing

“My father, Rabbi Yechiel Nach Feldman, of blessed memory, was a man of deep faith,” begins the storyteller, Naama Green. “He didn’t speak much about it—but he lived it in every breath.”

At the time, Naama was already married when her younger brother got engaged. “I remember following the wedding preparations with a mix of joy and tension. My father had promised to help buy an apartment for my brother and his bride, and I couldn’t understand how. My father gave tzedakah (charity) freely, with no limits. Even though he had a respectable salary, he never held on to money for long.”

She shares a memory someone told her during the week of shiva (mourning) after her father passed away. “A man approached us and told us that once he bumped into my father on the street. He was newly married and distressed—he didn’t even have a refrigerator at home. My father looked at him and said, ‘Is that all? Let’s go buy one.’ And they went, and my father paid for it, just like that.”

That was her father’s way. If someone needed help, he gave—without calculating, without hesitation. So when he committed to give 150,000 liras for the apartment, his daughter was stunned.

“‘Where will you get the money from?’ I asked him. And calmly, like he always was, he answered, ‘They told me I have something left over from my pension.’”

She was worried that if he held onto the money himself, he might end up giving it away to someone in greater need. “So I respectfully asked if I could keep it for him. He agreed. When I opened the envelope and counted, there were only 100,000 liras. ‘Father,’ I said, ‘we’re missing 50,000.’ But he just smiled and said, ‘That’s not your problem. It’s what Hashem gave, and everything will be alright.’”

Her father’s trust in Hashem—called bitachon in Hebrew—wasn’t theoretical. It came from experience. “When he was imprisoned in Siberia during the Soviet era, he refused to work on Shabbat, even though his fellow prisoners warned him it could cost his life. He held firm. That Shabbat, he stayed in the barracks. Afterward, he was severely beaten and became sick. But because of his condition, he wasn’t sent back to work. He recovered—and was eventually released. From then on until he made aliyah (moved to Israel), he helped forge permits so other Jews could escape Russia. Many Jews in Israel owe him their lives.”

Naama recalls how nervous she was as the wedding drew near. “I had the 100,000, but not the full 150,000. The in-laws said the contract would be signed on Thursday and we needed to bring our share.”

She approached her father. “‘What will we do?’ I asked. He replied, as usual, ‘That’s not your problem. I’ll bring the money after Shabbat.’ I couldn’t understand how he could be so calm when we were missing a third of the amount.”

Friday afternoon, she went to the mikveh (ritual bath) in Bnei Brak, as she did every week, and was surprised by the excitement in the air. “People were talking about a financial upheaval—the dollar had suddenly jumped in value by 50%! The dollars I had bought with the 100,000 liras were now worth exactly 150,000 liras.”

She was stunned. Her father hadn’t even known she had bought dollars—he hadn’t asked her to. “But somehow, his quiet faith had brought about the exact sum, just in time.”

When she ran to tell him, overcome with emotion, he didn’t seem surprised. “‘Hashem in Heaven is marrying off my children for me,’ he told me, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. ‘I trusted Him—and He helped.’”

This wasn’t a story about shortcuts or magic, Naama explains. Her father never encouraged people to ignore their responsibilities or rely on miracles. But he had developed a deep, personal relationship with Hashem—and lived each day with the certainty that his needs would be taken care of.

As she reflects on her father’s life, Naama leaves readers with a quiet reminder: sometimes the strongest kind of faith doesn’t shout—it simply walks forward, confident that Hashem is holding our hand.