The national focus on the opioid crisis unfortunately obscures the fact that the use of cigarettes is the leading preventable cause of mortality, accounting for about 480,000 deaths annually, and about 30 percent of all cancer deaths. Despite an over-50-year-long government campaign against cigarettes, smoking continues to hold many people in its addictive grip as well as draw new victims. Indeed, It is particularly worrisome to watch adolescents smoke either traditional (combustible) cigarettes or JUULs, knowing that smoking early in life is not only a strong predictor of smoking as an adult, but also greatly increases the likelihood of using other drugs. Adults who continue to smoke cigarettes will likely face a host of medical complications and increase the risk of transmitting the smoking habit to their children.

We often hear the term mesiras nefesh. It means, of course, to invest one’s entire soul in something. Most of the time, we use it much too lightly. True mesiras nefesh, as we will see below, is above normal human capability and can accomplish what seems impossible.

My goal in this article is not to give a summary of the life of the great Rav, Rabbi Avrohom Kalmanowitz, zt”l. Rather, I will recount one episode that shows us what can be accomplished when great people are willing to be moser nefesh. My information is taken from a recently published ArtScroll biography, A Blazing Light in the Darkness by Avrohom Birnbaum.

When I was a very young child on Loyola Southway in Lower Park Heights, every night, my father held me in his arms and slowly danced around our living room singing “La La Lee.” One day, he went to visit his parents in Atlantic City, where they owned a boarding house. That night, I wouldn’t go to sleep. “I want ‘La La Lee,’” I cried over and over again. The next morning, my mother packed our bags, and we boarded a bus to join my father. Eventually, I outgrew “La La Lee,” grew up, married, and moved to Atlanta, Georgia. But I still feel the warmth of my father’s arms as he danced and sang to me.

Both my beloved parents died in Cheshvan, four years apart: my mother in 1986 and my father in 1990. Since my mother was nifteres first, I observed her yahrtzeit by hosting a group of women in my home to speak of her virtues. Sometimes, I sponsored a class in her memory as part of Bena, the women’s division of the Atlanta Scholars Kollel (ASK). But what to do for my father?

I was ready – or so I thought. I cruised into my second driving test, confident (or trying to convince myself that I was) that I wouldn’t repeat the misI take of my last test: scraping the barrier in front of the spot I was supposed to be backing into. Now, one month later, I was a much more experienced driver, a much smoother driver, and a much safer driver. I would without a doubt pass this test with flying colors.

Okay, I’ll admit it: I was still nervous.

As the stern-faced instructor barreled into the car, I offered her a tremulous smile, intent on transforming her dry list of monotonous instructions into something a tad more cheerful. Surprise! No such luck.

Before my recent trip to Israel, my niece asked me if I could bring coats for her son and daughter, both size 2T. I remembered that Ilana Smith has a collection of baby and children’s clothing that she stores in her basement and gives away for free. I went there to look for coats, but Ilana directed me to Sara Lea Wetstein.

At the Wetsteins’ house, I was amazed to see a room wholly set aside for coats. She has men’s, ladies’ and children’s coats, hats, boots, gloves, and snow pants. In less than five minutes, I found both a boy’s and girl’s jacket in great condition and perfect for my niece’s children. I also found a jacket and a protective car seat cover for my granddaughter here in Baltimore!

Banners festoon the streets of Yerushalayim and flap in the wind, borne aloft by the hands of the youth, whose hearts beat in fervent loyalty to their chosen party. It is election day for the second time now in this storm-tossed State of Israel, and tensions are high. Music blasts from the amp speakers of a kid on a bike, trying to broadcast his political message to the crowds heading for the voting booths. It feels like Yom Ha’atzmaut! For we are one nation, albeit split into various camps: rightwing, leftwing, religious, secular, each one fighting for a voice in the Knesset, a voice to establish the law of the Land according the the truth that emanates within each one’s heart. How will we ever unite?

“The ladies decided that a sheitel looked too much like their hair,” my American grandmother, born and bred in America’s South at the beginning of the twentieth century, told me. “They talked about it for a long time, debating the pros and cons. In the end, they decided they could do better – raise the bar on tznius – and everyone started wearing hats.

Last February, Malka read a book her mother bought, called Shidduch Secrets. One chapter was about a girl who, turned off by a shadchan’s harsh words, decided to focus on doing chesed and started visiting a nursing home. Malka was inspired by this true story, in which the girl ended up marrying the grandson of a nursing home resident. She pushed herself to make the three-mile roundtrip walk, alone, to Tudor Heights Senior Living, one Shabbos shortly after Pesach, since no friend was available to go with her.

The cool air blew gently past me; the velvety darkness enveloped me in a warm embrace. The night was quiet, heavy with countless tears and so much pain, yet light with relief and so much hope. The crowded plaza lay sprawled before me, its well-worn cobblestones whispering my name, tugging at my heartstrings. A haphazard array of women stood shoulder to shoulder, their hearts woven together with threads of unspoken unity. Countless individuals merged into one – exploded in a dazzling display of connection and happiness and desperation. Each face hid a world of experiences; each heart held a gamut of emotions. And in front of it all stood The Wall, so tall and proud yet so humble. The stones, so pure yet simultaneously soaked and sullied, beckoned, their cracks mirroring each woman’s splintered heart. The stones promised to absorb all the tears and pleas, crying along as countless prayers swirled to the heavens.

It is a new school year and time for a new commentary on an old and growing problem: the Jewish day school tuition crisis. We all feel it in different ways. This past school year was particularly crushing for us, because our kids needed special education supports that were very costly.

Several years back, one of our kids needed to leave her Jewish day school and attend a non-Jewish private school for dyslexic students. Her special private school was an amazing place where they reached children who learned differently, but it was expensive. Maybe in a perfect world, Hashem would pair up special needs with wealth. It was only with tremendous miracles from Hashem and kindness from very special people that our daughter received a lifesaving, six-figure elementary and middle school education.