Crowned with Kindness: The Janitor Who Found His Royal Mission

As the sun rose gently over the old Mishkenot neighborhood in Jerusalem, Rabbi Aryeh Levin, z”l, walked through the stone-paved streets with his familiar, peaceful smile. His warmth seemed to light up the path before him, as if even the walls could feel his kindness.

Then, in a quiet alley, he saw something most people would pass by without a second thought—a simple Jewish man, broom in hand, sweeping the street. His name was Yaakov Haziza, and this was his daily job: cleaning up the alleyways of the holy city.

But to Rabbi Aryeh, this wasn’t just a janitor doing his job. This was a Jew doing a mitzvah. With eyes full of light, he stopped and said warmly, “Good morning, dear Jew.”

Yaakov, caught off guard, felt a little embarrassed. He quickly hid his dustpan behind him so it wouldn’t dirty the Rabbi’s kind smile. Suddenly, his broom felt out of place, like it didn’t belong in such a holy moment. He wiped his hands and nodded respectfully.
“Good morning, honored Rabbi,” he said.

Rabbi Aryeh stepped closer. He gently rested one hand on Yaakov’s shoulder and touched the broom with the other—treating it with care and honor.
“You know,” he said with a deep feeling in his voice, “I’m actually jealous of you. What a beautiful job you have! Every day you make the streets of Jerusalem cleaner, more beautiful. You’re caring for Hashem’s city.”

Yaakov didn’t know what to say. It didn’t make sense to him. He worked with garbage and dirt. It didn’t feel like holiness—it felt low, even shameful.
“But Rabbi,” he said softly, trying to understand, “you learn Torah all day—the Torah of Hashem. And me? I’m dealing with trash. That’s all I do. My son Baruch, baruch Hashem, he learns in yeshiva, and I work like this just to support him…”

Rabbi Aryeh took a step back, and a look of pain crossed his face. “Chas v’shalom!” he said gently but firmly. “Don’t ever speak like that again. You’re doing something incredible. You’re helping to make Jerusalem pure. You’re cleaning Hashem’s city before the world even wakes up. And you’re supporting your son so he can sit and learn Torah—what a zechut! You are blessed and fortunate!”

Years passed, but Yaakov never forgot that moment. He would often tell the story, and when he did, his voice would soften:
“That was the first time I felt like a prince. My broom wasn’t just a broom anymore—it was a scepter. A royal tool I used to help crown my son in the kingdom of Torah.”