The road was long but the hair on my head grew longer. Out there among the desolate world did the Yishba show me the most magnificent colors through the davening method of the avos. But I will speak of that another time, for the window into the sublime deserves its own chapter, and for now, I wish to tell you of our short exchange, that same day the rebbe gave me a haircut and that same day he taught me, unknowingly, how to write.
You see, the Yishba spoke sparingly, using language only as a reminder for the forgotten spirit. He, like how a writer strives to write, never interrupted a moment. He merely punctuated with a language of ellipses points, which created the never ending niggun of optimism. That there was more to the story. And the sound of it, always, let you go forward. Like when we stopped at the overlook.
The sun was setting all of its toil, returning to its maker. The subtle song of distant waves, like a spritz of Shabbos, caressed my soul. An orange sky swiveled into the distant horizon line as seven beautiful whales, all fat and spotted cow looking, emerged from the Mikvah of the Creator’s pool, then disappeared into the deep again. I couldn't help but cough into a little cry. I turned to the rebbe with embarrassment, but he didn’t acknowledge me. I looked all around but couldn’t find him. I called softly into the evening wind. "Rebbe." But it seemed, he wanted me to feel what I was feeling. So I looked out and thought of the missing boy. How alone he must’ve been, wondering what the shepherd was doing at this moment. Then the Yishba patted me on the shoulder. Relief ran through me and my tears dried. We continued staring out to the horizon. Seagulls glided over shining waters glowing light like the pearls from queen Esther’s crown. I asked the Yishba the loudest question of our time. A question I imagined he also held. I asked, “Rebbe, how are we going to find him?” The Yishba breathed deeply and reflected his fingernails into the final candle of the sun’s goodbye. “We don’t know the first thing about where he could be,” he said, “yet the hope of a man is never found in his knowledge of where to start, but in believing in how it might end." The Yishba pressed his grip into my shoulder then turned back to the path. I stood alone for a moment looking. Although I saw nothing coming, I knew something was…
Sweetest friends,
Have a beautiful Shabbos and stay tuned for Chapter 3!
With Love,
The Yishba's Assistant