I’m almost positive that I met a real-life angel yesterday.
You can laugh and think that’s adorable. It won’t be the first time someone has laughed at me, and by my scorecard I’m guessing it won’t be the last.
But I know in my gut that this guy is an angel. And I feel…well, changed, I guess.
Now, I’m not naive enough to think that angels are silvery seraphs you read in books or the all-white and feathery apparitions you see on the big screen. In fact, when we are introduced to angels in the Torah they appear in human form. (Think Avraham and his three visitors, Joseph when sent to check on his brothers, and Jacob’s wrestling on his way to meet Eisav. All suggested to be angels, and all appearing like men.)
We met in my dining room. He sat across from my husband and me, reviewing plans for some electrical work we needed to do. And I spaced out thinking how cool it was that our electrician’s name was Meir—which means “giving light”—and how that alone was pretty much an only-in-Israel moment. Because I remembered that my electrician in Teaneck’s name was Carlos and that was nowhere near as cool as having “Giving Light” as my electrician. Lo siento, Carlos.
Meir seemed like just another tradesman: jeans, T-shirt, Blundstone boots, bald head. Which I realize now in hindsight was all part of his human act.
And Meir was also a little…exhausting. And by a little, I mean, a serious ton. He talked a mile a minute in rapid-fire Hebrew about everything and anything. Most of which had zero relevance to electricity. It was difficult to slow him down and get the specific answers we were looking for.
Namely, answers like, are we on budget here, Meir? Just how far off budget are we? Will I be able to still afford light bulbs? What are we talking about here, Meir? Meir?! Focus, Meir! FOCUS!
Supermarkets.
Apparently, Meir wanted to talk about supermarkets. And not about budgeting and lighting and power sources.
“You have to come to Rishon Lezion and visit me,” he urged.
OK, Meir, I’ll bite.
“What’s in Rishon?” I asked, trying desperately to be patient.
“I have a huge makolet [supermarket].” He grinned proudly.
Wow, I thought. Is this guy for real? I just want to know if I’ll be able to read by halogen or should I go all Little House on the Prairie and start getting used to reading by candlelight. But no, apparently my electrician and I were going to talk about supermarkets instead.
Something inside me, however, pushed the conversation.
“Meir,” I said calmly. “tell me about your supermarket,.”
Meir gushed.
“My supermarket is the only one of its kind,” he beamed.
“I don’t mean this to sound like I am bragging—the Torah teaches us the best way to give tzedakah is to be humble and anonymous. But I’m sharing this with you in case you know someone who I could help.
“My supermarket is special because families who really need can come and shop entirely for free.”
Meir looked at our faces and smiled even wider.
“I have everything from fresh veggies, to cheeses and meat, chicken and fish. Everything. I have everything. I even have Milkies.”
(*Milkies, for those of you who don’t know, are the chocolatey whipped cream-topped pudding treats that are the gold standard in Israel in which families measure happiness.)
Turns out Meir feeds about 150 families a week.
He is mostly funded by patron donors, but also connected to organizations like Leket, which provide Meir with his fresh produce. He has a relationship with the dairy company, Strauss, which lets him know when food items, like the luscious pudding treat Milkie, is getting closer to expiration, and he gets a huge shipment for a steal. This guy is dedicated. And passionate.
Closer to the holiday seasons he expands and sends food to needy families all over Jerusalem and other cities.
When I told him of a family in Kiryat Sefer I know who could really use his supermarket, his response blew me away.
“Here’s what we are going to do, Esti,” he said. “This week, you should come on Wednesday to my supermarket and do a full, free shopping for them. Then deliver it to the family. This way the first time they won’t be embarrassed.”
Who is this guy?
Meir.
Giving Light.
And an electrician.
Who literally provides light.
Operating the only fully free supermarket for the needy I have ever heard of.
And that’s when the light bulb went off in my head. (I had to go there.)
This was no ordinary guy. I was in the presence of something much bigger.
An angel.
See, now I even made you a believer.
On his way out, Meir casually mentioned that he also renovated a house to donate to needy couples on their wedding night.
It’s a spa-like retreat so newlyweds could start their marriage off feeling special and pampered, no matter their financial situation.
“I wanted couples to have a beautiful place to celebrate the start of their marriage.” Meir took out his phone and showed us pictures of the house the way a parent would show off a new baby.
“I feel that we are not here on earth just to work, make money, spend money, buy things or for me to just be an electrician. We are here for a greater purpose. We need to do things to make life better for other people.”
“But,” Meir continued softly rubbing his bald head, “mostly during the week we use the house for shiurim and to learn Torah.”
Of course you do, Meir.
What else would an angel do?
*Interested in donating to this incredible initiative? Please contact the author for more information.
Esti Rosen Snukal lives in Chashmonaim, Israel, with her husband and four sons. She is an advocate and adviser for lone soldiers and their families, a former special education teacher and self-taught chocolatier. Esti can be reached at [email protected]. Follow Esti on Facebook and instagram @esti1818.
