We pulled out of Hattiesburg, Mississippi, right on schedule for our 3:30 p.m. meeting with a reporter from the Vicksburg Post, who was due to interview us at a local coffee shop. For no particular reason we’d chosen Highway 61 Café, a little shop with a hip touch, and the unofficial meeting place of local townsmen.

Strangely, the usually clear highway became cluttered with traffic due to an accident, and we realized we were inevitably going to be late for our appointment. We were able to minimize the delay to a mere 20 minutes, and at 3:50, after apologizing for our tardiness, we sat down with the journalist and her young assistant.

The café is owned by Daniel and his wife, Leslie. Daniel approached the table, greeted us cheerfully and chatted for a few minutes. We discovered that his wife was Jewish, but unfortunately she was out of the town for the day.

We settled in and began answering the reporter’s questions. She was interviewing two chassidic rabbis for the first time in her life, and we spoke very candidly. When the formal questions were finished, we continued talking, and the journalist told us that to the best of her knowledge, the man sitting at the table behind us was Jewish too.

Ellis, as we came to know him, spoke Yiddish fluently, just like in the old country. A jolly conversation ensued, and soon we had the whole shop looking on in pleasant surprise as an elderly and rather sad Ellis spoke Yiddish fluently, just like in the old countryman (his wife had passed just a month before) reconnected with his Jewish roots, speaking in his mother tongue, and sharing sweet memories of his childhood in a world so distant from our own.

If the story were to end here, it would already be more than enough for one day. But Ellis wasn’t sitting alone, and the man he was sipping coffee with became our next unexpected friend.

Bob, it turns out, is also Jewish. And Bob and Ellis meet consistently every Thursday at Highway 61 Café, where they chat over mugs of hot coffee. We sang a few traditional Jewish songs and old Yiddish melodies with our newfound friends, and listened as they shared tidbits of their lives with us.

Suddenly, we understood why the usually clear highways were clogged, making us 20 minutes later to our appointment. Had we been on time, we might never have met! Our interview was scheduled for 3:30 p.m., but Ellis and Bob meet up only at 4:30 p.m. We could have easily been finished and out the door before they ever entered the café.

Ellis shared with us that he hasn’t spoken Yiddish with anyone in over forty years, but thanks to our unexpected—but obviously divinely planned—meeting, his neshamah was reignited. We feel so fortunate to have been the messengers.

Check out time at our motel was at 11:00am and our first appointment for the day was scheduled for two hours later. We decided to spend our extra time in the mall. As we were pulling into the parking lot, the lady we were going to meet called to tell us that she would not make it, so we had plenty of time until our next appointment which was not until 3:00pm.

We found some good deals in a men's clothing store. At the checkout, the salesperson asked me to verify my zip code. When I gave my Brooklyn code, the guy behind the counter told us that he too was from New York!

"You see," he said, "I am originally from Westchester County, just north of NYC. But when we moved to Mississippi, we lost contact with the Jewish community. My sister and I live together here, and it was just the other day that we were discussing how we missed having a connection to our Jewish heritage."

He asked his boss for a lunch break and we went out to the parking lot together where he put on tefillin for the first time in his life. We gave him some literature and passed on a pair of Shabbat candles for his sister.

We still had time before our meeting, so we drove there to make sure that we would be able to find the house and zipped into a gas station to use the restroom and purchase some mayo to add to our salad-and-wraps lunch.

As we walked in, a voice called out, "Shalom! The bathroom is in the rear." I thanked the owner of the voice for her help and told her that I also needed some mayo. She replied, "I am not even hassidic and I know that mayo is not kosher!"

After I got the mayo from the shelf, I showed her the symbol on the jar attesting to its kosher status. We then got into a conversation all about being Jewish in Mississippi.

By the time we got out of the gas station, we had to rush to make it to our 3 o'clock appointment. There we met an elderly gentleman who told us all about his colorful and interesting life and purchased a mezuzah for his door.

Steve grew up attending church and celebrating Christian holidays. But he felt that he never really fit in. For some reason, the worship seemed foreign and hollow. But everyone went to church in Jacksonville, MS, so he did too.

One day, his mother told him something he never knew: she and her entire family were Jewish. "By extension," she explained, "that means that you are Jewish as well!"

Excited with this new revelation, Steve began searching the internet trying to learn what Judaism was all about. He also took to visiting the local temple. Many of his google searches took him to Chabad.org. One day, he decided to take advantage of the Ask the Rabbi service to make sure that he was really a bona fide Jew in spite of his father's not being Jewish and the fact that he grew up going to church.

Rabbi Yisroel Cotlar, of Chabad.org, and Steve became good friends. Yisroel suggested that since we would be in town, Steve should take advantage of the opportunity to meet with us in person, so that we could answer some of his many questions about his new-found faith.

We met Steve, his parents, and a friend. They proudly displayed Steve's grandma's ketubah and other evidence of their Jewish background. Our conversation ranged from why Jews wear tzitizit to the meaning of Jewish identity and the rudimentary concepts of Chassidic philosophy.

With regret, our meeting ended all too soon as we left for our next appointment.

A cold call led us to Mrs. Bernstein, who lives in a seniors' residence. As we walked into the ornately furnished lobby, a familiar hospital odor washed over us. A stooped old woman greeted us and led us, albeit very slowly, to her apartment.

"Sit down boys," she almost commanded us.

There is something awesome about old people. Sitting in the presence of someone more than three times your age commands deference. They talk and reminisce of a world bygone, of a yesteryear not so distant in time, yet so foreign in concept. Listening to their stories is history coming to life.

"What brings two good Jewish boys like you to Mississippi?" she inquired.

"We're part of the Chabad Lubavitch movement - "

"You're Lubavitchers?” she interjected, “My grandparents were Lubavitch!"

"I'm 94 years old," began her fascinating narrative, "I was born in Milwaukee to Russian immigrants. My father immigrated as a youngster; his mother sent him off alone, seeing no future for him as a Jew in Russia. His family never made it out of Russia. They were all killed.

My mother came to Ellis Island as a very little girl with her parents. Their name was Dachevsky. Upon arrival, they changed it to Cohen. They moved to Milwaukee. My grandfather never really adapted to the American culture, and his English, although better than my grandmother's, was never really impressive. Like many Jews back then, my grandfather would peddle wares to make a living. I remember every Shabbat he would walk to the Lubavitch synagogue. I didn't know Lubavitch still exists!"

She spoke of her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, inviting us to browse through the pictures and cards they had sent her.

"I am now ready to pass away, knowing that I've done all I can to ensure that my children and their descendants will grow up as proud Jews.”

Walking out of her apartment felt like leaving the cobblestone streets of the shtetl and landing in the modern world. Her life story, a testimonial to Jewish determination and continuity, left us deeply inspired.

Moshe – not a common name in Mississippi!

We were in our hotel room in Jackson, MS. We had just had a very hard day and were relaxing and makings some phone calls for the next day’s appointments. One of the names on our list was Doctor Moshe R.

After introducing ourselves and exchanging pleasantries, we asked about scheduling an appointment. "Sure,” he said, “why don't you come over now?"

Pulling up to a ranch style house about fifteen miles out of Jackson, we parked in the driveway and knocked on the door. Moshe opened the door and with a sweeping hand gesture cordially invited us in.

"Would you like to make a l'chaim (toast)?" he asked. "Sure," we replied. A warm conversation ensued. Turns out he is a South African Jew. In 1973, after things began to heat up in Johannesburg, he moved to Mississippi.

He reminisced about his South African Jewish childhood, going to a cheder (Hebrew School) where his teachers were all Lituanian shtetel Jews. His memories of Yom Kippur, seeing the men weeping and praying for forgiveness, left an indelible impression on him. He spoke with a genuine fondness and warmth for Judaism.

Meeting Jews in Mississippi is exciting. Meeting a Russian Jew who speaks Yiddish is even more refreshing. We met David at a hotel near his office. Walking up to the hotel lobby, he welcomed us with a warm Shalom Aleichem and a firm handshake.

We were mesmerized as he told us about Jewish life in Moscow back in the fifties and sixties. He told us about the famous Archipova Synagogue and about the Shabbats of his youth. We told him about the Jewish renaissance that is taking place there today.

He told us how much he appreciates Chabad's work. "It's like what my Aunt Frieda would do back in Russia, she would call us together and make sure we met with this cousin and that relative, always making sure that the family stays close."