For two weeks, I shared personal reflections from my recent trip to Israel. Last week, I shifted gears to focus on our pulse survey and the presentations that followed. I want to begin this week by offering sincere thanks to everyone who took the time to attend one of those sessions. Your engagement, your questions, and your thoughtful presence made those conversations meaningful and productive. For those who were unable to join, a recording of the online presentation is available upon request.

This week, I am returning to the story of my time in Israel.

Since I’ve been home, a number of people have asked the same very reasonable question: why travel to Israel during a war? The answer is both simple and deeply personal. I was there for my son’s wedding. In the weeks ahead, I’ll share more about the wedding itself, the setting, and what it meant to celebrate such a profound moment under such complicated circumstances. This week, however, I want to begin at the beginning — with the story of how the bride and groom met.

To tell that story clearly, there are a couple of pieces of context that may be helpful.

In an Orthodox synagogue, men and women pray in separate spaces, divided by a partition known as a mechitza. Another feature of synagogue layout is the raised platform at the center or front of the sanctuary, called the bimah, where the Torah is read and where those participating directly in the service stand.

There is also a custom, common among Orthodox Jews of Eastern European Ashkenazi descent, regarding the wearing of a tallit, or prayer shawl. In some communities, an unmarried man wears a tallit only when he is on the bimah — for example, to read from the Torah or receive an aliyah — but not during regular prayers in the pew. My son Levi followed this practice.

With that background, here’s how the couple met.

Goldy was in Tel Aviv with friends for Shabbat and happened upon my son Levi’s synagogue. As services were wrapping up, she casually glanced over the mechitza and noticed him. Seeing that he was not wearing a tallit, she reasonably concluded that he was likely unmarried and began making a few discreet inquiries. Friends — this is pretty old school, but as it turns out, the classics sometimes endure for a reason.

What followed was matchmaking by way of a decidedly old school network — the kind built on relationships rather than algorithms. Goldy’s father lives two doors down from Rabbi Bomzer’s niece and reached out to ask about the Kovach family. Around the same time, our daughter Bina discovered that she shared fifteen Facebook friends with Goldy, which led to a few more gentle inquiries. References were requested. Connections were compared.

To be clear, this isn’t meant to diminish the many modern paths that successfully bring people together every day. Apps, introductions, and chance encounters all have their place and work beautifully for so many. This was simply a reminder that alongside those approaches, there remains something quietly effective about communities where people know one another, ask thoughtful questions, and take a personal interest.

We’ll leave the story here for now. In the weeks ahead, I look forward to sharing more — about the wedding itself and about experiencing moments of joy, resilience, and community in Israel during an ongoing war.