He could never show his face in the Chabad House again. He was a laughingstock. Everyone knew what he had done. He was even on the local news. It was a disaster.

The day had started out innocently enough. Menachem went to the Chabad House in Franklin Lakes as usual, eager to help out. Usually he just worked in the kitchen, washing dishes or peeling potatoes for the latkes. But today was different. Today Rabbi Korngold gave him his first real job. It wasn’t a difficult assignment. He didn’t have to go to the local train station and help wayward Jews put on tefillin. He wasn’t being asked to visit a nursing home and sing with the elderly. His job was to drive the Mitzvah Mobile around town. It didn’t seem so hard.

As it was the seventh day of Chanukah, the Mitzvah Mobile, an old Ford Econoline van, was specially outfitted for the holiday. Strapped to the roof was a large chanukiah, and the van’s loudspeakers were to play “Oy, Chanukah” out the windows. The whole setup was designed to remind local residents of the great miracle of Chanukah. People would look up and see the seven burning candles (actually seven light bulbs wired to a car battery in the back of the van). They would think of the mitzvah of lighting the chanukiah. Maybe they would even light one for themselves, or at least ask some questions. It was all good.

Rabbi Korngold sat Menachem down and gave him some advice. “It’s very simple, Menachem. Just drive the main roads of all the nearby towns and stay off your cell phone. Smile a lot when people stare at you, and stay within the speed limit. That’s really all you need to know.”

“Rabbi, what should I do if something goes wrong?”

“What could go wrong? You have a full tank of gas, and the car was just tuned up last week. Relax, it’s going to be fine.”

In fact, everything had been going fine. A lot of people stopped him to ask about the holiday, and he explained the miracle of Chanukah as best he could. The military victory; the purification of the Temple; the miracle of the oil that lasted eight days—he got it all in.

Menachem had been on the roads for a little over two hours and was somewhere in Oakland when he decided to head back. He turned the van around, back toward Franklin Lakes, and proceeded down Sky Line Drive back toward the highway. The last thing that went through his mind before the van struck the railroad trellis was the van’s clearance. Who ever paid attention to those road signs anyway? The chanukiah rammed into the underpass, and the van got wedged in underneath. Menachem put the van in reverse and frantically pressed on the gas, but the tires spun ineffectually. He was pinned.

The police arrived first, followed closely by an ambulance and three fire trucks. Menachem was fine, but the roof of the Mitzvahmobile had buckled like a potato chip. He was embarrassed enough by all the emergency vehicles he had attracted and the epic traffic jam he had caused, but when the van from News 12 New Jersey showed up, he was mortified.

What could he do? Menachem spoke to the reporter, a peppy woman named Sheila, about the accident. He spoke to her about the van and its significance for the holiday. He slipped in as much about Chanukah as he could. He answered every question she asked politely, and, he hoped, with a sense of humor. But Menachem knew he had messed up his first assignment and might never get another one. The Mitzvah Mobile was a wreck, and he was humiliated.

The firemen let the air out of the tires to lower the van and then backed it out of the underpass with ease. On the bright side, the electric candles were still burning. A Chanukah miracle.

The van was towed back to the impound lot in Oakland, and the police gave Menachem a lift back to the Chabad House in Franklin Lakes in the back of a cruiser. When he got there, Menachem didn’t want to go in. What would his friends say? What would Rabbi Korngold say?

When Menachem came through the front doors, the preparations were in full swing for the chagigah, the party, that night. Candles had been set up near the front window, and the smell of latkes was in the air. At first Menachem thought no one noticed him when he came in, but once he was ten steps into the room, everyone stopped what they were doing and started to applaud. Menachem took a sheepish bow.

Rabbi Korngold came out of his office and gave Menachem a big hug.

“I’m so sorry, Rabbi,” was all Menachem could muster.

“You’re so sorry?” the Rabbi said. “Sorry?” He burst into laughter. “Menachem, you have nothing to be sorry for.”

It turned out that his accident had been a big Kiddush Hashem. The first policeman on the scene, Officer Siegel, was very impressed with the way Menachem handled himself. He had called the Chabad House to commend him.

The reporter also praised Menachem. The station not only aired his explanation of the accident, they let him describe Chanukah to all of New Jersey as well. Then the story got picked up by a bunch of Jewish bloggers, and the next thing you know it was on the A.P. wire. It even made the CBS Evening News.

“Menachem,” Rabbi Korngold said, “if there is a better way to be mefarsem the nes of Chanukah, to publicize the miracle of the holiday, I’d like to know about it. And that’s what it’s all about, spreading the word.”

And so, that night, Menachem was given the ultimate honor. He went up in the cherry picker to light the giant chanukiah in the center of town. And though never allowed to drive the Mitzvah Mobile again, that day Menachem fulfilled a great Lubavitcher goal: He achieved true simcha, real happiness.

By Larry Stiefel