Making It Warm and Light 

I grew up surrounded by immigrant relatives whose Yiddish flowed as naturally as their laughter. English was for the outside world; Yiddish was for home for comfort and for secrets. Whenever a detail wasn’t meant for children’s ears, they’d slip into Yiddish. I’d ask, “What does that mean?” My father would shake his head. “You just can’t translate it,” he’d say. 

But languages seep in. Little by little, “machers—influential people,” “seichel—common sense,” “koch leffels—those who stirred up information” and even the occasional “shande—shameful” became part of my mental vocabulary. These phrases captured people and situations with a precision and humor English often couldn’t touch. Even now, long after my beloved relatives have passed, their expressions still surface unbidden, carrying their warmth with them. 

Recently, at a shiur by Rebbetzin Nechamy Simon, rebbetzin of the Chabad of Teaneck, I learned a new phrase that belonged to that same old world: “machen varem un lichtig—to make things warm and light.” 

Rebbetzin Simon spoke about those inevitable detours in life—the ones we never plan for—and how we can still infuse those moments with light. 

She shared the story of a rabbi whose flight to Ohio was unexpectedly diverted to Nashville, Tennessee. Stranded and frustrated, he wondered how to “machen varem un lichtig.” The rabbi looked at his watch and saw that it was time for Maariv, so he shouted out, “Who wants to pray?” A few people joined—including several who had long been disconnected from their Jewish roots. A detour became a moment of connection.

There are some people who amazingly bring warmth into places most of us can’t imagine.   

I’ve had my own versions of that story. Last year, while traveling home from visiting my sister in Boca Raton, Florida, my flight was rerouted to Norfolk, Virginia. I was stranded, alone and anxious. What do you do in that situation to make it “varem un lichtig”? Instinctively, I looked for a friendly face. That’s how I met Rachel—also rerouted, also alone. We struck up a conversation and quickly discovered that Rachel’s aunt and my sister lived in the same neighborhood and were friends.  

We spent hours at the airport, sharing pieces of our lives. Later, we decided to split a ride home to New Jersey (Rachel lives in Lakewood, and I live in Teaneck). We’ve kept in touch, and every time I board a plane, I think of that unexpected friendship. 

There are people who embody “machen varem un lichtig” even in the darkest places.

There are some people who amazingly bring warmth into places most of us can’t imagine.  

Omer Shem Tov has spoken publicly about his captivity in Gaza—more than 500 days underground. Omer describes the hunger, cruelty, fear and terrible darkness of the tunnels. It was so dark that he feared he had gone blind. However, his faith gave him strength to endure. Omer prayed Modeh Ani each morning and tried to keep Shabbat. 

After his release, he had spoken out tirelessly on behalf of those who were still captive, bringing light wherever he could. 

Warmth and light can also be found in small, daily gestures. It can be as simple as greeting the cashier by name, thanking the person who sorts your mail, acknowledging someone’s presence with kindness. It shows up in how we speak to nurses caring for a loved one or in the gratitude we offer those helping us through vulnerable moments. 

We all pray for “varem and lichtig” times in our lives, but we’re not only waiting for them. With small acts of connection, faith and kindness, we can help bring those moments into being. 

Esther Kook is a reading and learning specialist and freelance writer. Her work has appeared in Hadassah Magazine and the Jewish Standard.