Rabbi Peretz Chen | What should we tell our children before bedtime?

00:00 How hard we work on our Shabbos meal, starting Wednesday or even earlier. We shop and get everything ready. We put in so much effort to make the meal, first of all, delicious, and to make it a family time. We’ll sit together with the family, with the children, listen to one another, and share something meaningful that will stay with them all week, with Hashem’s help. But what often happens is that after the first course, or toward the end of it, once the children have eaten and satisfied their hunger, each one goes off to their own corner. It isn’t how we imagined it, how we thought it would be, how we planned it. We aren’t really, truly sitting together. We’ve even gotten used to it looking this way, though we don’t actually want that. We certainly want it to be a much richer experience, with much more togetherness. So in today’s lesson, with Hashem’s help, we’ll talk about one thing we can do that will keep the children with us at the Shabbos table for a few more precious minutes. But it’s not just about keeping them at the Shabbos table. This will also give them direction and a path, with Hashem’s help, for their whole lives. It’s useful not only at the Shabbos table; it also matters when we’re putting them to bed. In general, the special thing we’ll discuss in a few moments can guide them and give them direction in life. Today we’ll talk about stories. We’ll see the wonderful value of telling stories. We’ll also learn what kinds of stories to tell. Every story about tzaddikim, chassidim, or Jews in general is important, of course. But today we’ll see which stories are especially worth focusing on—which ones have a particular quality and offer particular direction in life. We’ll also learn how to tell a story, what the best way is to tell it, and

02:08 with Hashem’s help, we’ll learn what else to do after telling the story so that it sinks in as deeply as possible and influences them, with Hashem’s help, for the rest of their lives. This past Shabbos, I came home after Shabbos morning davening and a farbrengen we’d held at the Chabad House after davening, and I sat down to the Shabbos meal. Usually, the daytime Shabbos meal is a little less lively than the Friday night meal. Well, the truth is that according to halachah, the daytime meal is especially important. But often, on Friday night, everyone is waiting for the meal. They’re hungry and excited about the Shabbos food they haven’t tasted all week. On Shabbos morning, there’s a little less excitement, especially when you’ve come from a farbrengen and had a few things to eat. You’re less hungry, so sometimes the meal feels a bit less special. Then the meal began, and I suddenly remembered a fascinating story about the Baal Shem Tov. After all, that very week was 18 Elul, the birthday of the Baal Shem Tov and the Alter Rebbe, author of the Tanya. I remembered a very powerful story about a student of the Baal Shem Tov who initially opposed him, and then, in an astonishing, dramatic turn of events, became a devoted chossid of his. I started telling it, and suddenly I saw that the older children—not the really little ones, of course, but the older ones—were simply captivated. It’s a long story, and they were completely absorbed. When someone interrupted in the middle, they stopped him immediately because they wanted to hear what happened next. Suddenly I saw the power of a story: how it holds their attention, how it captivates them. I realized that by next Shabbos, with Hashem’s help, I had to find another good, gripping, dramatic story, because

04:13 there’s no doubt it holds their attention and gives us a few more precious minutes with them at the Shabbos table, with Hashem’s help. A story has power. I remember an experience from my childhood. One day my mother came into my room and told me a story about cherries. I don’t remember the story, but it was a fascinating one about cherries, and it made me excited about this fruit called a cherry. When she finished, she went to the kitchen and brought back a plate of fresh cherries. She said, “Go ahead, have some.” I was so excited by the story that I ate the cherries with great pleasure. She must have done this very wisely, because apparently I was a bit of a picky eater, and she knew that if she simply brought me a plate of cherries, I might not eat them. So what did she do? She told me a fascinating story about cherries. It made me want to eat them, and I did, and I enjoyed them. To this day, I enjoy eating cherries, because a story has power. A story helps a person understand: “Oh, so this is good. This is worth doing. Look, someone did that, or said that, and it worked out for him. Someone behaved that way and benefited from it. It’s worth doing that; it’s worth behaving that way.” Sometimes we give children lectures: it’s important to do this, it’s worth doing that, and we’ve learned that we should do such-and-such. Those talks are important and worthwhile. But when children hear a story about a particular person who acted that way, perhaps found it difficult, and overcame the difficulty—a story from life connects with them. A story has power; a story has impact. I also remember

06:20 a story from years ago, when I was a bochur. One Shabbos, I was asked to go to Ashkelon with a few younger bochurim. I live in Ashkelon now, but at the time I never imagined I’d live there. Through hashgachah pratis, I was asked to go there with those bochurim. The plan was to visit shuls on Shabbos morning and speak about a particular subject. It was around the time of a certain date or holiday, and we were going to address the congregations on that topic. Anyway, we arrived, got up early, and went to several shuls. After making the rounds, we went to daven Shabbos Shacharis at the Chabad shul. Before davening, I went to the mikveh, because for chassidim, the mikveh is very significant; it’s something we value highly. Chassidim have the custom of going to the mikveh every morning, and certainly on Shabbos morning and Erev Shabbos. I said to one of the younger bochurim who was with me, “We’re going to the mikveh, right?” He told me, “No, I don’t go to the mikveh on Shabbos.” I asked him why, since he came from a home where that was the custom. He explained that on weekdays, after immersing, he takes a hot shower. On Shabbos there’s a halachic problem with taking a hot shower, so he can’t shower the way he likes and chooses to skip the mikveh. As soon as he said that, a story popped into my head. I told him that there was once a chossid named Reb Moishe Vishnytsky. This chossid lived in Russia, by the way. One day, he went with his young son to immerse in the mikveh. Now, what did going to the mikveh mean there? On a winter’s day, it meant breaking the ice covering the river and immersing in it. As they were walking there, some

08:14 A Jew sees them walking along and says to Rabbi Moshe Vishedsky, “Reb Moishe, are you normal? You’re taking your son to immerse in ice?” Reb Moishe tells him, “It’s all right.” They went where they were going, broke the ice, and Reb Moishe immersed. He was already used to it. He came out and said to his son, “My dear son, it’s your turn to immerse.” So his son took off his coat and started shouting, “I’m cold!” “No, no, come on.” And with every piece of clothing he took off, the poor boy cried out. By the time he had taken off all his clothes and put the tip of his toe in, he let out such a scream—it was just so cold. His father said, “All right, get dressed. We’re going.” On their way back, that same Jew saw them. He could tell the son hadn’t immersed, and he said, “Reb Moishe, why?” What was going on? You knew from the start he wouldn’t manage it, so why bring him at all? And if you were going to bring him, why didn’t you make him do it? Reb Moishe Vishedsky answered him, “I knew my son wouldn’t immerse in a mikveh with water that cold. But when he felt on his own skin just how cold it was, and saw that I had immersed, it would get into his bones for the rest of his life that you have to make an effort for mikveh—that for mikveh, you give of yourself completely.” That’s the story I told this young man. That Shabbos he didn’t go to the mikveh, but about two weeks later I met him, and he told me, “You know, I go to the mikveh on Shabbos.” I said, “What happened?” He said, “You told me that story, remember?” I said, “Yes, I remember.” He said, “I thought about it

09:48 afterward. The effort it takes for me to shower less than I’d like doesn’t come close to the effort that chossid made to immerse in ice. I realized I needed to make that small effort and immerse in the mikveh on Shabbos too.” This young man heard a story, and it changed his whole direction, his whole way of thinking. A story has such power to change us and move us forward. I’m also reminded of a personal experience. When I was a young man, I once heard or read about a chossid whose family name was Duchman—I don’t remember his first name—who would read and study a chapter of Tanya each day according to his age. For example, if he was twenty, he would study chapter 21, because he had entered his twenty-first year; at twenty-one, chapter 22. I read that story, and it caught hold of me, so I started doing the same. After that year—I was twenty at the time—I knew chapter 21 by heart, simply from reading it every day. I heard a story, and it caught hold of me. There may be many, many stories I’ve heard that didn’t affect me as much, but some stories enter us and penetrate deep into our souls. So we should tell children as many stories as possible, and prepare good stories—engaging, interesting, instructive ones. We don’t know which story will enter deep inside them and move them forward. So what kind of story should we tell? There was a chossid named Reb Abba Pliskin, who had been sent as a shliach to Australia. The previous Chabad Rebbe, the Frierdiker Rebbe, sent him there on a particular mission. Later he went to the United States, worked at the yeshivah there, and served as the shamash in the Rebbe’s beis midrash at 770. Once, he wrote to the Rebbe that he

11:49 felt the students needed more vitality, more warmth. They needed a lot more instilled in them, much more strength. How could he do that? The Rebbe wrote to him, “Tell them stories.” Then the Rebbe added, “I don’t mean stories about the Rebbes, but stories about chassidim.” Why? Of course, stories about the Rebbes are also immeasurably important. But there’s a particular advantage to a story about a chossid. Why? When someone hears a story about a Rebbe, a tzaddik, acting a certain way, what might he tell himself? “Well, he acted that way because he’s a great Rebbe, a tzaddik. I’m not at that level.” But when we hear a story about a chossid, a person like us, who acted a certain way, made an effort, did a certain thing, it feels much closer to us. Here’s a person like us, and he acted that way, he did that—so it’s definitely possible. That’s why stories about chassidim have a special advantage. Stories from life: how people acted, how Grandfather acted, how someone else acted. People like us are much easier to connect with. They show us much more clearly that this path, this direction, is possible. Incidentally, that’s why something in Tanya chapter 8 is interesting. There the Alter Rebbe speaks about eating for the sake of Heaven. Someone who eats for the sake of his appetite—who simply feels like diving into a meal for the pleasure of it, rather than eating solely for the sake of Heaven—pays a price for that, called chibut hakever, after 120 years. Anyone who wants to can look at the details in Tanya, chapter 8. But, the Alter Rebbe says there, someone who takes no pleasure at all from this world and does everything for the sake of Heaven, like Rabbeinu Hakadosh, does not. He is pure and will not undergo all

13:47 those things after 120 years. The Rebbe asked: Why, when the Alter Rebbe says this, does he use the words “like Rabbeinu Hakadosh”? Rabbeinu Hakadosh is Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi. So why doesn’t the Alter Rebbe say “like Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi,” who took no pleasure from this world? Why use the words “Rabbeinu Hakadosh”? The Rebbe explained that if it had said Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi took no pleasure from this world at all—and he was very wealthy; it says that his household lacked no food, even foods hard to obtain in winter, like radishes and horseradish, were available to him in winter—and he testified about himself, “I did not derive pleasure from this world even with my little finger,” then someone might tell himself, “Well, he was so holy and pure, and took no pleasure from this world, because he was Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi. What does that have to do with me? I’m not Rabbi Yehudah HaNasi.” That’s why the Alter Rebbe uses the words “Rabbeinu Hakadosh”: Rabbeinu, our teacher. In other words, someone who belongs to us, who comes down to our level to tell us that we too can draw closer and move in that direction—eating for the sake of Heaven even when we eat. This applies to us too. That’s why he writes “Rabbeinu Hakadosh.” In other words, when we tell a story about a chossid, about someone connected to us, it touches us much more, strikes home, and points the way. Another thing: when telling a story, the Frierdiker Rebbe says, it’s also important to give its background. The Frierdiker Rebbe himself was an example of this. He tells many stories. As a boy, he loved sitting with the elder chassidim, hearing their stories, and he wrote them down. When you read a story he tells, one he wrote down, you simply enter into

15:36 The picture. For example, he tells a story about walking one day through a garden—a park with trees and benches. He says it’s an old, somewhat neglected park. He describes walking through it: there are ancient trees, enormous trees planted many, many years ago, with large hollows in their trunks. As you walk through the park, you’re afraid that at any moment a snake or scorpion might come out of one of those hollows. Between the benches, plants have grown wild, and the place is badly overgrown. Anyone who reads this story—it appears in the introduction to Kuntres Maayan Mibeis Hashem—really enters the scene. You feel as though you’re in that overgrown park, among those frightening trees with their hollows. You’re drawn right into the atmosphere of the story. When we tell children a story, too, we need to set the scene. Give them the background. What was the weather like? What had happened to the person, the main character, that day? Where did he live? What were things like at the time? Giving the story background makes it much, much more engaging. And another thing: after telling a story, we need to get feedback from the listener. Ask the child who heard it: “So what did you understand? What do you think? What good character traits do we learn from this story? What does this story teach us about yiras Shamayim?” It’s told that the Mitteler Rebbe, the second Rebbe of Chabad, had a yeshivah, and every new young man who arrived received guidance during his first period there. The person responsible for that guidance was the tzaddik Rabbi Hillel of Paritch. Rabbi Hillel would appoint two young men to guide the newcomer, and it’s told that the main part of their guidance was to tell him

17:39 stories about tzaddikim of earlier times and chassidim of the previous generation, and then ask him: “So how did you understand the story? What did it teach you? What does it teach about yiras Shamayim? What good character traits does it teach?” They would expect that young man to work very, very hard to draw the lessons out of the story, just as one works hard when studying a deep Torah subject. After he had worked through the story, they would say to him, “Okay, very good. Now come and hear how Reb Hillel understood this story, too.” In other words, the main emphasis was on stories, because stories give direction. Stories are guides. That’s what helps a person grow. So we need to make sure we tell stories. For most of us, it probably doesn’t come naturally on the spur of the moment. We need to prepare stories before Shabbos: one good story, two good stories, interesting stories with some drama, something that will connect with our children and speak to their hearts. With Hashem’s help, it will give them direction and a path for life. A story that speaks to them, a story about people they can relate to. Tell them a story like that, prepare it with all the background, and afterward find out exactly what they understood from it. The same goes for bedtime. Telling a story before bed is an incredibly powerful thing, because what you fall asleep with stays with you throughout the night. So we need to make sure to bring in as many stories as possible—at the Shabbos table, before bed. Soon Moshiach will come, with Hashem’s help, and then we’ll have the greatest story of all. Why? When Moshiach comes, we’ll suddenly understand the entire galus, everything the Jewish people went through throughout the galus. We’ll understand why it happened. We’ll understand what was behind it all and see the whole story in its complete form. But for now, our task is to take small stories, one from here and one from there, and share them with our children. This lesson, this

19:44 very important lesson—share it with others. Share it with a friend. I’m sure it’s worth letting others hear these messages, this very simple idea of telling children stories. It’s worth letting others hear it too, because it can contribute so, so much to their children’s education. With Hashem’s help, may we have much nachas, and may all of us have blessing and success. May we rejoice with our children, and may our children rejoice with us. And let each of us remember again—every woman listening and every man listening—that surely each one of us has some story from the past, a story that changed something or gave us a new direction. Surely everyone has one. That’s life. So let’s give that to our children too. Good news and all the best. Thank you very much.