The land we passed through to scout is an exceedingly
good land. If God is pleased with us, He will bring us to this land and give it
to us—a land flowing with milk and honey.
—Numbers 14:7–8
Two brothers—orphans, still young when their father
passed—found themselves heirs to a grand estate. The kind you only see in
paintings or wistful novels: tall windows, sweeping staircases, and a garden
that knew how to keep secrets. It was more than a house. It was a legacy.
But legacies come with maintenance bills, and the boys,
practical if nothing else, decided to rent the place out. They moved into a
small apartment on the other side of town. Not nearly as impressive, but
manageable. Besides, the rent from the old house would keep them afloat.
Then one summer evening, fire broke out in the city. It
spread fast, faster than anyone expected, and before long, it was licking at
the windows of their little apartment. The brothers panicked. They grabbed
buckets, soaked towels, shouted down hallways, did everything they could to
save the place. Their shirts were soaked, their hands blackened with soot.
And that’s when an old man appeared. A neighbor, or maybe
just one of those people who shows up at the right time. He watched them for a
moment, then called out over the noise and smoke.
“Tell me,” he said, “why are you working so hard to save a
house that isn’t yours?”
The brothers looked at him, confused. He pointed through
the smoke, toward the distant hills. “You’re pouring your strength into saving
this apartment, but what about the house your father left you? If that burns,
what will you have left?”
Reclaiming Our Home
We’re not so different. Most of us spend our days
protecting what’s immediate: the homes we rent, the lives we’ve built in
borrowed lands. And they matter, make no mistake. But they’re not the whole
story.
There is a home that’s ours, not leased but given. A land
that’s more than real estate. It’s our inheritance. Our identity.
Like the old man said: Save your own house. Because if
that goes up in flames while we’re busy elsewhere, we’ll lose our home and heritage.
(The Wit and Wisdom of the Dubno Maggid. Adapted from Mishlei Yaakov, pp. 342-343)
