I’m standing in a waiting room at Columbia Hospital, overlooking the beautiful, scenic Hudson River, as I write these words. My wife, Chaviva, is in surgery, undergoing a procedure that is anything but routine. She is donating her kidney to a stranger. A stranger, and yet, in the truest sense, a member of our extended family. Because that’s who we are as a people, bound not only by shared belief and heritage, but by shared responsibility.
There’s a particular stillness that defines this space. Unlike the waiting rooms that are filled with fear, grief or uncertainty, today’s emotion is different. Yes, I’m anxious. But it’s an anxiety infused with awe. I’m not here because something went wrong. I’m here because something went beautifully, courageously right.
There is no real way to describe what it feels like to participate in a mitzvah this profound. This morning, upon arrival, the representative from Renewal handed Chaviva a card that listed, clearly and beautifully, eight different mitzvos that one fulfills through kidney donation. But even that can’t fully capture what it means to be part of something like this. This isn’t about tallying mitzvah points. It’s about recognizing when we are in a unique position to give something truly immeasurable to someone else.
A Gratitude Too Big for Words
Many of us are blessed with good health. Others live with manageable health challenges. And then there are those who suffer from serious and debilitating conditions that alter every part of their lives. To donate a kidney, one must be in excellent health—truly on the higher end of that spectrum. It requires a body that is not only functioning well, but thriving. And that alone is worth pausing over.
Because how does one express real, profound gratitude and appreciation to our Creator, the Rofei chol basar (Healer of all flesh), for the single greatest gift we can be given: our health?
There’s no one answer to that question. And I don’t mean to suggest that donating an organ is the only way, or even the best way, to say thank You. But it is a way. And for those of us in a position to do so, it is a uniquely powerful one.
To be able to say: Thank You for giving me not just enough, but more than I need. Thank You for the extra strength, the extra capacity, the extra function that allows me to give some of it away without compromising my own health — that’s a gift of staggering magnitude. And to then be able to use that surplus to save a life … there are no words for that kind of zechus.
This moment has led me to reflect more deeply than ever on what it means when our bodies function the way they’re supposed to. When we wake up in the morning, when we walk, breathe, eat, think and move, when our kidneys quietly do their work hour after hour without us ever noticing, we are living miracles. And yet we rarely stop to take notice.
It shouldn’t take a moment like this to awaken our gratitude. But when it does, we must hold onto it. We must let it shape us. We must recognize how undeserved and immeasurable the gift of health is, and find our own way to say thank You. Whether through action, prayer, kindness or compassion, the key is that we don’t let that gratitude go unexpressed.
A Story That Keeps Giving
Over 10 years ago, I donated my own kidney. The recipient, Donny Hain, z”l, passed away in the early days of the COVID pandemic. But his memory lives on — not only in the people he touched during his life, but in the ripple effect that followed. Since then, I’ve witnessed a remarkable chain reaction. Stories inspire stories. One act leads to another. Kindness multiplies.
I’ve been privileged to see how that act of giving continues to bear fruit. But make no mistake: I don’t take credit for what others have done — not even for Chaviva’s decision. Yes, I supported her. But this decision was completely her own. And it needed to be. Because a decision like this, so deeply personal, so full of vulnerability and sacrifice, must come from within. It can’t be suggested or nudged into being. It has to be owned, fully and completely, by the one who steps forward. Still, I share this story publicly because I’ve seen firsthand how powerful these stories can be. I’ve seen lives changed. I’ve seen people wake up to possibilities they never imagined for themselves. And that’s a zechus too.
Looking Back to Look Forward
More than a decade ago, after donating my own kidney, I took the time to write and share some thoughts — a reflection on the experience and what it meant to me. That piece was meaningful then, and I revisited it in recent days. Remarkably, despite the time that has passed, and despite my tendency — like many of us — to be critical of my own writing, I found that I still stand by what I wrote. Not just the style, but the substance. The core ideas continue to resonate with me, unchanged. Rather than reiterate the same themes here, I’ll simply reference them and let that earlier piece speak for itself: https://jewishlink.news/guest-editorial-from-rabbi-larry-rothwachs/.
But I want to add something new, something personal and slightly uncomfortable to put into words. Over the years, I’ve come to learn that our story—mine, and that of my recipient Donny Hain, z”l — has inspired others. And part of the strength and reach of that story, I have no doubt, is because of who Donny was.
Donny was widely beloved, warm, charismatic, deeply connected to so many, and he came from an extraordinary, loving family. The outpouring of attention that our story received at the time was, in no small part, a reflection of the esteem in which he was held. His character, his circle and his relationships helped generate the momentum that followed. I’ve had the privilege of witnessing how one act of kindness, rooted in connection and amplified by community, can grow far beyond itself.
The Visit That Changed My Perspective
Very late at night, after my kidney donation more than 10 years ago, I received a visit in the hospital from a man I had never met before. I believe he was a Vizhnitzer Chasid. He walked in quietly, introduced himself, and told me something that has stayed with me ever since.
He, too, had donated a kidney—several years earlier. But he had made a decision to tell no one beyond his wife and immediate family. There were no public announcements, no articles, no kibbudim. This was his private mitzvah, and he wanted it to remain pure — untainted by public recognition. It was, in his words, a gift given lishmah.
But just a few days later, after he wasn’t in shul for a few days, the Vizhnitzer Rebbe found out. He called the man and asked why he hadn’t been in shul. Not wanting to lie, the man told the Rebbe the truth: “I donated a kidney.”
The Rebbe’s response? With a smile and a twinkle in his eye, he said, “You’re such a baal gaavah.” The man was stunned. A baal gaavah? He had done everything he could to keep the mitzvah silent and humble.
And then the Rebbe explained: “Because you wanted the mitzvah to be so perfect, so untouched, so free of any recognition, you denied others the chance to be inspired. You gave someone life — but you took away the opportunity for someone else to stop and say, ‘Why not me?’”
That moment reframed everything for me. Yes, humility is a virtue. But so is the impact. So is inspiration. So is giving someone else the chance to rise.
None of this would be possible without Renewal. Their work — quiet, relentless, miraculous — is saving lives. Over 1,250 transplants and counting. But more than logistics, they offer dignity, connection and community. They make it possible for people to step into their better selves — and walk away having given someone else their life back.
Today, Chaviva and I find ourselves in an unusual club, having both had the zechus to participate in this most special mitzvah. I never imagined that we would share this particular distinction. But I hope that, if nothing else, our stories can remind others that even seemingly extraordinary acts are well within reach. That there is a place in this world for unimaginable kindness. That health is a gift meant not only to be appreciated — but to be shared.
I’m still standing in a waiting room —but I know this isn’t only about waiting. There are moments when we wait, and moments when we act. And sometimes, it’s the waiting that leads us there. Each of us faces moments when we’re called to respond—each in our own way, at our own pace. It may be something small. It may be something quiet. But from stillness can come movement. And from one story, another can begin.
