My wife cuts coupons.
Twenty years ago, that involved scissors. Today she downloads.
And it was twenty years ago, as she unloaded a trunk full of groceries, that Dana asked me to put up something in our laundry room where she could store non-perishables. I built my first cabinet, with doors.
This wasn’t just any cabinet with doors. The Guinness World Records came to see it; it was the world’s ugliest cabinet with doors. I was overjoyed. Woodworkers call it a “bug,” and once you catch it, you’re addicted. Soon came ugly bookcases, end tables, floating shelves, side tables, cutting boards and, eventually, a dining room table.
As my interest expanded, two concurrent dynamics slowly evolved. First, as word got out in Highland Park/Edison, New Jersey, where I live, more and more friends and neighbors had requests for furniture. Second, I found myself increasingly gravitating toward Judaica projects.
Challah board? Check.
Mezuzah cover? Check.
Menorah, shtender, bimah . . . check, check, check.
Marrying woodworking to my Jewish beliefs and identity took on meaning beyond expectation. What began with a prayer that two pieces of wood could stay together with a gallon of glue evolved into a more philosophical belief that taking G-d’s raw material and fabricating something for religious expression was sacred.
The late Sam Maloof, one of the “gedolim” of twentieth-century woodworking, put it this way:
“A craftsman must respect his material. How much more meaningful it becomes if one wears a bit of humility that allows him to acknowledge that it is truly G-d who is the Master Craftsman. He uses us. Our hands are His instruments.”
Over time, I began to notice that the strongest connections I was making didn’t involve glue but involved clients such as Cindy.
What began years earlier as a hobby with tools and piles of wood has evolved into a sacred calling to help others in our Jewish community.
Cindy was thirty-one, and a recent convert to Judaism. She needed a bookshelf where she could place her ArtScroll Shabbat and Festivals Siddur. It needed to be a big bookshelf. And it needed to be sturdy as well because Cindy is blind and the Braille version of the siddur is composed of over twenty large volumes. The bookshelf I crafted for Cindy was more than just a bookcase; it was a home of faith.
Meeting Mrs. Unger was just as meaningful. At a yom tov meal where both of us were guests, Mrs. Unger turned to me and asked me to build for her a “cabinet mit a lock.” She wanted a lock so that her superintendent couldn’t gain access to her papers. Admittedly that sounded bizarre . . . until I learned more.
Mrs. Unger, ninety-one, was a survivor. She was a woman of tremendous integrity, who came to shul dressed impeccably. Never would I nor anyone else have had the temerity to ask about the scar on her left cheek. But when I asked my son Sam to help me carry the new cabinet into Mrs. Unger’s apartment, that changed.
She told Sam her story. As a young girl, she was on a cattle car to Warsaw. It was unbearably hot for days. During the trip, her father kept pulling on a floorboard beneath them and was eventually able to pry it up. As he pushed his daughter through the opening, a nail gashed her cheek. She ran into the forest, never to see her family again.
My most meaningful project, however, was for someone I never met nor will ever meet.
Jewish law dictates that a person be buried in a modest, simple casket. It must be made from material that will disintegrate in the ground, enabling the physical body to return to the earth as quickly as possible, granting the soul true peace. In America, the prevailing custom is to use a casket made of wood.
One day, while at a family funeral, I found myself sitting up front and staring at the pine box. I admit—my curiosity was piqued. I had to ask. “What did they charge for the casket?” I whispered to a close family member.
“About $1,100,” he told me. I almost keeled over.
The next day, I went to Home Depot and walked out with $179.76 worth of pine. For $5 on Etsy, I bought a simple wooden “Star of David.” Two days later, when all the glue dried, I had an aron—a traditional Jewish casket.
I felt accomplished, but my wife was clear she wanted it out of the house! I donated it to a local Jewish funeral home that was more than happy to take what they called “an Orthodox box.”
Five months passed. On a quiet Sunday morning, I received a call from the funeral home. They told me they were contacted earlier in the week by a Jewish family in New Brunswick. The family was desperate. Their young relative with severe disabilities died suddenly. The family had little money. They asked the funeral home if there was any way an inexpensive burial could take place. The funeral home said yes—because they had my “Orthodox box.”
I was deeply moved.
What began years earlier as a hobby with tools and piles of wood has evolved into a sacred calling to help others in our Jewish community.
Best of all: Dana no longer complains about the plethora of random bookshelves, tables and shtenders around the house.
At least mostly.
Jeffrey Korbman is the chief development officer of OU Israel who on occasion spends time with exotic lumber.