The Stranger on Line 7

Brooklyn, New York. Wednesday. 7:03 a.m.

The subway platform at 18th Avenue buzzed with routine. People with earbuds in. Coffee cups in hand. Eyes on phones. Nobody really looked at each other.

Except for David Lieberman.

David wasn’t dressed like the typical commuter. He wore a yarmulke, tzitzit tucked beneath a clean button-down shirt, and carried a satchel filled not with business reports—but siddurim and books of mussar. He wasn’t on his way to work. He was on his way to visit someone in the hospital—a man he didn’t even know.

David was part of a volunteer group that visited Jewish patients with no family nearby. Just one visit. One smile. A chapter of Tehillim. That was the mission.

The Q train screeched in. David stepped in and took the last seat at the end of the car.

As the train began moving, David noticed a man across from him. Early 40s, tough-looking, with tattoos on his arms and a hard expression on his face. Definitely not Jewish.

But the man kept glancing at David. Not angrily—just curiously.

David smiled politely and nodded. The man looked away.

At Kings Highway, the man suddenly stood, walked across the train, and sat next to David.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “You Jewish?”

David nodded. “Yes, I am.”

The man hesitated, then leaned closer.

“You guys... pray a lot, right?”

David was caught off guard, but answered warmly. “Yes. Three times a day. It's our way of connecting—with G-d, and with ourselves.”

The man looked down, twisting his hands.

“My name’s Chris. I grew up Catholic. Haven’t prayed in years.” He paused. “But... I’ve been going through some stuff. Real stuff. Divorce. My kid won’t talk to me. I lost my job last month. I’m just... broken.”

David listened silently.

Chris pulled something from his pocket. A small, wrinkled kippah.

“I found this in my dad’s old drawer last week. He passed away ten years ago. I didn’t even know he had this.”

David blinked. “Your father was Jewish?”

Chris nodded slowly. “His name was Jacob Cohen. Changed it when he married my mom. He never told me anything. Never talked about it.”

David’s heart started pounding.

“You know... if your mother wasn’t Jewish,” he began gently, “then according to Jewish law, you’re not halachically Jewish. But... the spark? That comes from somewhere deep. And clearly, something’s waking up inside of you.”

Chris’s eyes filled with tears.

“I don’t know what I believe anymore. But... when I saw you sitting here... I don’t know why, I felt like I needed to talk to you.”

The train slowed at Atlantic Avenue.

David reached into his bag and pulled out a small book of Tehillim.

“Here,” he said, offering it. “It’s Psalms. Just words. But they’re ancient, powerful words. People in pain have been saying them for thousands of years.”

Chris took the book like it was glass. “Thanks.”

David wrote his number inside the cover.

“If you ever want to talk. Or learn more. Or even just grab coffee—I’m here.”

The train doors opened. Chris stood.

He looked back one last time and said, “Thank you.”

And then he was gone.

Six months later.

David was at a wedding in Crown Heights when he got a text from an unknown number.

“This is Chris. From the train. Remember me?”

David smiled. Of course he remembered.

They met for lunch that week. Chris had been going to synagogue on Fridays. Listening to Torah classes online. Saying Psalms every night. He was meeting with a rabbi, starting to explore his Jewish roots more seriously.

“But wait,” David asked, “you told me your mom wasn’t Jewish.”

Chris nodded. “That’s what I thought. But I did some digging. Found her old birth certificate.”

He took a deep breath.

“Turns out... her mother—my grandmother—was Jewish. Fled Poland in 1938.”

David froze. That meant...

“You are Jewish,” David whispered.

Chris nodded, tears in his eyes. “I’ve been Jewish all along. I just didn’t know it.”

One year later.

Chris stood in shul on a Friday night, beside David, wearing a white shirt and a big, grateful smile. He was still learning, still healing. But he was home.

He didn’t look like the man from the train anymore—not just on the outside, but on the inside too.

And David?

He never stopped riding the Q train on Wednesdays.

Moral of the Story:

Sometimes, all it takes is a seat on the subway, a kind smile, and the courage to talk to a stranger. Because you never know which soul is waiting to be awakened… or which journey is just about to begin.