In a small village not far from Berditchev there lived a simple innkeeper named Mendel who made a modest living serving the many travelers who stopped for a meal or a rest on the side of a country road. Over time, Mendel became restless and began to consider his life’s trajectory. He decided it was time to hand over management of the inn to his son, with the hope that he would then have time for prayer and study, which he had neglected while running his business.

He summoned his son Shia, who was young and energetic, and handed over the keys, saying: “I’ve managed the inn for decades. The time has come for you to take over.”

Shia left the village and moved to Berditchev, where he dramatically overhauled his father’s business, drawing local nobility to frequent the inn, where they also began to host their meetings, parties, and events. From a business perspective, the transformation was an overwhelming success. But the simple passersby, who longed for the warm reception Mendel had always extended, stopped coming. They missed the modest meals and peaceful ambiance. But the inn’s transformation had left it feeling alien and overrun to its former clientele.

When R. Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev heard of the changes, he reached out to Mendel and asked, “Why did you abandon your inn and hand it over to your son?”

“I am not getting any younger, “Mendel explained. “Who knows how many more years I will be granted? With what will I meet my Maker? Shall I remain without any Torah or prayer to accompany me?

“Now that my son is taking care of the inn, I feel better. I rise in the morning, wrap myself in my tallit and tefillin, and pray slowly with concentration. Then I study. I feel I am accumulating at least a small amount of merit that I can take to the heavenly court when my time comes.”

R. Levi Yitzchak took time to consider Mendel’s dilemma and then said, “Our Sages say, ‘A wise man is someone who knows his place.’1 A person ought to know the place that Divine Providence has destined for them. When one knows one’s place, he or she ought to stay there and not try to take the place destined for someone else.

“G‑d places each person at their post. He placed one person in the study hall and another in a small and remote village. You, Mendel, were selected by G‑d to be posted at an inn at a crossroads, so that you could serve up some warm kosher soup to weary travelers on a cold winter night and a cold cup of water on hot summer days.

“No, Mendel, you will not stand before the heavenly court like a poor man. With no shame will you greet the angels. With you will be all the kosher meals you served to the travelers and all the warm beds you prepared. All the friendly smiles and kind words you shared will advocate for you. Return to the inn and fulfill the position that G‑d assigned specifically to you.”

Mendel followed the Rebbe’s instructions and returned to the village. Shortly afterward, the inn returned to serving travelers, and the revelers found other places for their parties.

Mendel returned to his old work, reinvigorated and filled with the satisfaction of knowing he was serving G‑d in alignment with his own unique purpose.2

Each of us has something to learn from the innkeeper’s example, especially today. In a world where causes proliferate and beckon us at every turn, identifying and remaining focused on our particular mission is no simple task. The world is full of well-intentioned souls who devote their lives to good causes, sacred causes, honorable causes, only to end up leading lives that are not aligned with their own Divinely intended purpose.

Herein lies the subtle genius of the negative inclination, which seeks at all costs to sabotage the fulfillment of our life’s mission. Instead of enticing us to do evil or waste our lives in hedonistic pursuits, it seductively directs us toward a mission that is not connected to our soul. As the Rebbe taught:

When the negative inclination sees no other way to test a Jew, it resorts to a particularly cunning method, a special approach. It does not tell the Jew to refrain from doing good, nor does it tell him to transgress G‑d’s will, heaven forbid; rather, it pushes him into something that is not for him. This has two results: The Jew fails to do what he needs to do, and what he does do is not done properly or in the best possible way—even though he performs a commandment in the process—because it’s not his mission.

You Do You

As the following story illustrates, the Rebbe would remind us often that if our mission is truly to serve the will of G‑d, then it doesn’t matter which job or role we perceive to be the most laudable, important, or meritorious in the eyes of the world. From the Divine perspective, the success of our lives is measured precisely by how well we inhabit and fulfill the particular mission that was designed and designated for our unique soul.3

Long before he became dean of the Chabad yeshivah in Los Angeles, when R. Ezra Schochet was nearing his fifteenth birthday, he wrote to the Rebbe to unburden himself.

Having heard stories of how the founder of Chabad, R. Schneur Zalman, known as the Alter Rebbe, wrote the Code of Jewish Law before he was twenty years old, and how R. Aryeh Leib Hakohen Heller wrote a brilliant commentary on the Talmud titled Shev Shemateta before he turned eighteen, and how R. Meshulam Igra had delivered a speech to the public that amazed all the great rabbis of his generation at just thirteen, Ezra felt that he simply could not compare to the accomplishments of these illustrious scholars.

He concluded his letter by saying that compared to them, he was getting nowhere, so why should he continue to learn?

The Rebbe replied: “As for your question regarding what is recounted in writing and orally about those who were geniuses in their younger years, what is the use of asking why all minds are not the same? It is explained in the Tanya that a person’s grasp of Torah is dependent on ‘his ability to understand and the source of his soul on high.’”

The Rebbe went on to cite the Tanya, adding, “The Mishnah states that ‘you should feel humble before all people,’ because each has an advantage over another [in some respect].

“It is the purpose of every person not to try to be greater than someone else but to serve G‑d and fulfill the intention of the Creator, for which he was created.”4

A well-known Chasidic story captures the essence of this perspective. As the last hours of R. Zushe of Anipoli’s life drew near, his students found him crying bitterly as he pondered his life’s achievements.

Puzzled, they asked, “Surely our teacher has led a righteous and worthy life. What does our teacher fear?”

R. Zushe replied, “When I am summoned to heaven, I am not afraid they will ask me, ‘Why were you not like our great leader Moses?’ For if they would ask that, I would respond: ‘Was I blessed with the humility and vision of Moses?’ What I am afraid they will ask me is, ‘Zushe, why were you not more like Zushe?’ What will I answer then?”5

Ultimately, the goal of all human existence, our raison d’être, is to serve G‑d. There are numerous pathways to do so. Some are well suited for one particular path, while others are better suited for another path, but the end goal for all human beings is the same, no matter the path.6

Our unique abilities and life circumstances are G‑d’s way of teaching us which pathway toward that universal goal is right for us.

Lost Souls

In the Hayom Yom entry for 25 Nisan, the Rebbe writes:

“Each individual’s avodah (service of G‑d) must be commensurate with his character and innate qualities. There may be one who can drill pearls or polish gems but works at baking bread. Though baking bread is a most necessary craft and occupation, this person is considered to have committed a sin (The Hebrew word for sin, cheit, can also mean deficiency).7

Here we arrive at one of the great secrets to living a meaningful and fulfilling life—learning how to discern between that which is right and that which is right for you.8

As the sixth Lubavitcher Rebbe, R. Yosef Yitzchak, once taught: “When a soul descends from above in order to be enclothed in a body, it has its shlichut, its mission, but [once it is] here below that person must see to it that he should not be one of the souls that ‘go astray’ [i.e., neglect their mission].”9

The Rebbe elaborated on the folly and danger of diverging from one’s intended path during a talk he gave on 12 Tamuz 5724 (1964), marking the birthday of his father-in-law, the sixth Lubavitcher Rebbe, R. Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn.

“My father-in-law, the Rebbe, related a story in the name of the Alter Rebbe: A wealthy man and his wagon driver were once on a journey to buy merchandise. As Shabbat approached, they stopped off in a village to spend the holy day. As is customary, they both went to the mikveh to immerse themselves in honor of Shabbat.

“On his way back, the wealthy man, having left the mikveh in his Shabbat best, noticed a wagon stuck in the mud. The Torah says, You shall surely help him, so he walked over to help drag the wagon out of the mud. Because he wasn’t used to pulling wagons from the mud—not to mention that he was in his Shabbat clothes—he obviously wasn’t much help. He got himself dirty and was injured in the process. He arrived at the synagogue filthy and battered. The wagon driver also left the mikveh in his Shabbat clothes. As it is praiseworthy to ‘add to Shabbat,’ he arrived early at the synagogue and recited Psalms there. Then he looked around for people in need of a Shabbat meal and invited them to join him at the inn where he was staying at his expense. When prayers concluded, synagogue officials wanted to assign the poor people to join Shabbat meals in the affluent homes of the city. The poor people replied that they were taken care of—the wagon driver had already invited them.

When they passed away, the wagon driver and his boss stood before the heavenly court, which ruled that their souls should return to this world. This time the wagon driver would help his fellow pull the wagon from the mud, while the wealthy man would invite needy guests, which was his true calling.”10

As laudable as both of these men’s intentions and attempts to help those in need in this story were, it is obvious that had they remained focused on their own unique gifts and missions, they could have helped much more. Surely, the wagon driver had more experience and expertise in removing wagons from the mud, and certainly the wealthy man had more resources at his disposal to provide meals for hungry people in the synagogue. When weighing our options to impact and contribute to the world for the good, it is imperative that we consider our capacities to determine if we are truly the best person for a particular job.

Stay on Course

What is true for the individual is also true for institutions and organizations, where mission drift is an ever-present risk.

This was the essence of the Rebbe’s penetrating response to an individual living in a troubled part of the world that was rife with political turmoil who wrote a letter demanding the intercession of Chabad emissaries.

He wondered cantankerously why the Rebbe’s shluchim weren’t doing more about the broader social problems that concerned him. The Rebbe replied:

“…Your questions would be no more logical if you asked a physician why he is not actively involved in a matter related to engineering.

“You should know that Chabad-Lubavitch representatives have a specific mission assigned to them, which is to spread Judaism in the communities designated to them. …Furthermore, there is very little—if anything—they can achieve in the area that interests you most.

“Therefore, to divert their minds and to turn their energies and their time to something not related to their mission will be wasteful and diversionary to the work that they already do superbly.”11

Love Your Life

Time and again, the Rebbe invited those who crossed his path to not only embrace their Divine design but to do so with joy and satisfaction. As he often declared:

“There are many ways to serve G‑d. However, the ultimate way to serve Him is through joy.”12

True joy and satisfaction, the Rebbe insisted, are born of accepting and choosing to love all aspects of our lives—including all elements of our personality, life experiences, challenges, and all.

Indeed, one of life’s greatest joys comes from embracing every part of the life G‑d designed just for you.

It’s not enough to simply thank G‑d for the gift of life, but for the gift of your life, in its entirety.

Put simply: Part of our purpose is to rejoice in our purpose.

As our Sages teach, “Eizehu ashir? Hasame’ach b’chelko—Who is wealthy? He who is happy with his portion in life.”13

On a basic level, this teaching refers to material possessions. But on a deeper level, it redefines what it means to be truly wealthy in life as reveling and rejoicing in the unique portion of the world G‑d gave us to elevate and illuminate—chelko ba’olam.

As we learn from the greatest Jewish teacher, Moses, about whom it says in the Shabbat prayers, “Yismach Moshe b’matnat chelko—Moses rejoiced in the gift of his portion [in life].”14

You don’t need to live up to any standard but your own. It is there—in the all-encompassing embrace of your particular Divine purpose—that you will find your greatest focus and fulfillment, and you will subsequently deliver the greatest measure of G‑d’s love and goodness to the world.

Quiz Yourself

Do the Thought Exercise

One of life’s greatest joys comes from embracing every part of the life G‑d designed just for you. Identify one part of your life that you struggle with, and think of one concrete step you can take towards finding joy and satisfaction in it.

Take the Challenge

Like Reb Zusha, stop comparing yourself to others and get into the habit of asking yourself regularly, “Am I the best me I can be? Am I doing my utmost to fulfill my unique mission?”