“Nachamu, Nachamu, Ami”.

Stranded just outside the city limits at 7:56, they welcomed Shabbos as they trudged over the rivers and through the ‘hoods through a town they didn’t know. And at 11:00 this past Friday night they burst into my house in the person of five wet, sweaty, smelly, desperate and singing Yeshiva Boys.

Their car was broken-down, their possessions abandoned and their muscles aching, but they were able see the comfort in it all as they danced and sang and davened in a way that would have made Shlomo Carlbach and Yirmiyahu Hanavi proud. After Maariv, we welcomed the malachim with Shalom Aleichem and enjoyed a sumptuous seudah punctuated with Divrei Torah and Niggunim. It was well into the morning hours when we took to the streets, armed with pillows and blankets to finalize the boys’ sleeping arrangements.

The Jews have traveled a long journey through many tough neighborhoods and stormy nights. It’s not always easy, but we’ve learned to dance and sing anyway.

Is Shabbos a burden? Not if you ask the old man with gold teeth by the tunnel into Norfolk. You see, his mother was Jewish.