I Missed a Day ...

That period of my life was a whirlwind of physical and emotional exhaustion. Just getting out of bed in the morning felt like a monumental effort. The simple act of putting on tefillin (phylacteries used in Jewish morning prayer), a commandment I cherish, felt overwhelming. Still, I was determined not to let my struggles sever my connection to my faith. I made a pact with myself: even if I couldn't do it first thing in the morning, I would make sure to put them on sometime during the day. It became my personal ritual, a way of holding onto a sense of normalcy and purpose when everything else felt out of my control. It was a lifeline in a storm.

On that particular day, a fleeting thought of convenience led me astray. The morning was rushed, the domestic flight was short, and I told myself, “I'll do it later.” It seemed so simple. I’d arrive at my destination and take a few quiet moments to fulfill the mitzvah. What could go wrong?

As it turned out, everything could. The initial delay was just the beginning. A small mechanical issue turned into an hour-long wait on the tarmac, followed by air traffic control issues that pushed our takeoff time back even further. Each announcement of a new delay sent a small jolt of anxiety through me. The casual “I'll do it later” began to feel more and more precarious, each passing minute a silent tick of a time bomb I had foolishly set myself. The weight of that small, seemingly innocent decision grew with every frustrating announcement. I could feel my self-made promise slipping away, a fragile thread fraying under the strain of circumstances beyond my control.

Finally, we were in the air. As the plane ascended, a sense of relief washed over me. I was finally on my way, and soon I would be able to perform the mitzvah. But my relief was short-lived. I looked out the window and saw the sun beginning its final, brilliant descent. My heart sank. I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that time was running out. I was thousands of feet in the air, my tefillin were in my checked bag below, and there was absolutely nothing I could do. I sat there, helpless, watching the last rays of sunlight disappear below the horizon. The feeling of missing the mitzvah was devastating. It was more than just a missed prayer; it felt like a broken promise to myself and to God, a surrender to the chaos I had so desperately tried to resist. The feeling was a deep, spiritual ache, a profound sense of having failed at the very thing I held onto for stability.

By the time the plane landed and I was finally reunited with my bag, the night had fully descended. The airport was quiet, the baggage carousel a slow, rhythmic hum. I held my tefillin, the leather straps cool in my hands, and felt a profound sense of loss. The pain was more than I could bear. It was a physical and emotional weight, a crushing sense of spiritual defeat. I felt hollowed out, as if the very purpose I had sought to maintain had been stripped away by my own poor judgment. The tefillin felt heavy in my hands, a silent reproach to my lapse in commitment. I couldn't simply put them on now; the moment had passed, and the opportunity was gone.

I knew I couldn't just move on from this. I needed to act. The next day, I went to my rabbi and explained the entire story, the shame and sorrow pouring out with every word. He listened patiently, his eyes full of compassion, a quiet understanding radiating from him. His advice was both simple and profound: “You cannot change what happened, but you can choose what to do with it. Turn this moment of failure into an act of repentance and return. Find someone who needs tefillin and give them a pair.”

And so, I decided to donate a new pair of tefillin to a young man who was just beginning his spiritual journey and couldn't afford one. The search for the right person took time, but when I finally found him, the sense of purpose returned. By transforming my personal lapse into an act of kindness for someone else, I hoped to repair the feeling of brokenness within myself. The tefillin I couldn't use became a beacon for another person's faith, a tangible representation of a second chance. And in that, I found a measure of peace. The pain of that night never fully disappeared, but it was replaced by a sense of purpose and a deeper understanding that our failures can be the fertile ground from which we grow, and that a broken promise can be mended through an act of selfless giving.

https://kanfeiyona.org/tefillin-stories/