It was a rare and much-appreciated invitation. We had been invited out for Shabbos dinner, and were very much looking forward to an enjoyable evening of good food and flowing conversation in a warm, welcoming atmosphere. Truth to tell, I was likewise looking forward to a streamlined erev Shabbos, without having to prepare the usual multiple courses for the Friday night meal.
Then the notice came from our local shul. Our lovely cousin, a young pediatrician and father of two beautiful toddler boys, had just lost his mother. My husband and I attended the levayah and paid a shivah call. Soon after, I phoned the rebbetzin to volunteer my services assisting with the shivah meals. Predictably, I was assigned various menu items for Shabbos dinner…
Despite the obvious irony, I wholeheartedly shopped for the groceries I required and lovingly prepared the standard Friday night cuisine: gefilte fish, chicken soup, knaidlach, etc.
My husband generally volunteered to be my messenger, delivering the meals I routinely prepared for new mothers and, lo aleinu, shivah homes. Unfortunately, he was not available that erev Shabbos, so I carried the food out to the car and loaded the trunk to the best of my ability, while a drizzle evolved into a light rain.
Then I climbed into the driver’s seat and drove the short distance to my cousins’ home. En route, I took a sharp turn a little too quickly on the rain-slicked road, and almost immediately heard a sickening thud from the back of the car. When I pulled up at their house, my worst fears were confirmed. The golden chicken soup I had spent so long meticulously preparing had overturned, and was soaking into the carpet and upholstery. Bright orange carrots and perfectly formed matzah balls floated incongruously on the pale gray interior of the trunk.
Part of me regretted the wasted labor and ingredients, not to mention the looming task of cleaning and deodorizing the car. But mostly I lamented the fact that this wonderful young family, so prematurely bereft of a beloved parent and grandparent, would not have the comfort, albeit minor, of a bowl of hearty homemade soup.
I carried in the other food, which had, Baruch Hashem, been spared any similar mishaps, and apologized profusely to my relatives about the soup debacle.
Although I had the usual lengthy erev Shabbos to-do-list to attend to, I intentionally extended my visit, chatting with my cousins and keeping them company.
During the course of our conversation there was a knock on the door, and my cousin rose to answer it. There stood a mutual friend and neighbor, a lovely woman who had a couple of children in the same grades as mine. In her hands, she carried a large plastic Tupperware container.
“I know the shul must have organized your meals for you,” she began, “but I couldn’t resist bringing my own small contribution. It’s just some homemade vegetable soup. I really hope you enjoy it.”
My cousin and I stood there open-mouthed and incredulous. We subsequently tripped all over each other, eagerly sharing the story of the spilled soup. Eventually, I wished everyone a good Shabbos and took my leave, still visibly shaking my head in disbelief and wonder.
Sometimes it takes years to see the completed tapestry of Hashem’s heavenly design or to appreciate how the puzzle pieces of the Master Plan ultimately fit together so seamlessly. Once in a while, however, all the ingredients come together instantaneously to create the perfect divine gift, albeit something as seemingly mundane as a pot of soup.