The cabdriver shifted in his seat and surveyed his passenger with a look of deference. The old man radiated a kindness and wisdom that could only be the result of a lifetime of good deeds and Torah study. “Where is your home?” the cabbie asked. When the man didn’t respond, he repeated the question in a louder tone of voice, thinking that perhaps the sage was hard of hearing. “Where would you like me to take you?” This time the man immediately responded with his address. But as the cab sped into the Jerusalem night, the great Rabbi Aryeh Levin turned to his companion and said with deep sadness, “When he asked where my home was, I could not answer him. For ever since my wife passed away, I have not had a home.”

What makes a home? It is difficult, if not impossible, to say. A comfortable dwelling makes a good setting for a home, but a physical house is sometimes not even necessary. That indescribable quality, homeness, may be embodied in the person of a single individual, a mother or father, grandmother or grandfather, permeating the atmosphere wherever he or she may be.

Certainly, a home is always greater than the sum of its parts. Nevertheless, all homes must possess two main ingredients: a home cannot exist without love, and a home must be a place of peace—not necessarily quiet, but peace—a truly harmonious coexistence. Both these ingredients are the products of tremendous effort, and neither can be taken for granted.

Join us this week as we take a closer look at what it takes to build a home, confront controversy head-on, and celebrate the redeeming power of peace.

Sarah Ogince,
on behalf of the Chabad.org Editorial Team