I work in the transportation industry as a commercial truck driver trainer—riding with and coaching new drivers who have recently obtained their commercial driver’s license. That essentially means I end up in places most people have never heard of, let alone places where you’d expect to find other Jews. Living in a truck on the road comes with its challenges, especially when it comes to Judaism.

Purim night was a bust. My student, due to commercial vehicle regulations, didn’t have sufficient driving hours to make it to the Atlanta area as I had planned, and just like that, my original Purim plans fell apart. I was down—but far from out.

I woke up on Purim morning knowing my window to fulfill the main mitzvahs of the day was shrinking. With the tight constraints of my job, everything and anything could either make or break the day. I started making calls—five or six in total—to various Chabad centers, just putting out feelers and hoping something might work. Seconds before I was ready to throw in the towel and call the holiday a total loss, I received a call back from Rabbi Berl Goldman of Chabad at the University of Florida.

I explained the situation: the limitations of my schedule, the fact that the load my trainee and I were about to pick up was a high-priority FedEx shipment with an extremely tight delivery window, and how unpredictable everything felt. Rabbi Goldman laid out a few options. None were perfect. Hearing the hesitation in my voice, the rabbi immediately said, “If you’re late to the 2:30 Megillah reading, we’ll hold it and wait for you.”

I didn’t even know if I’d be able to get my truck off the highway and into his area. I felt like I might be biting off more than I could chew. Without hesitation, he said, “Just come. Don’t worry—I’ll make Purim happen for you.”

That was it. From that moment on, I was determined to get there—if not to check every box, then at least to meet this incredible man and have some kind of Purim experience. Throughout the day, while he was running around managing an entire Chabad center on one of its busiest days of the year, Rabbi Goldman stayed in touch with me. He reassured me that I would arrive in time and even told me exactly where I could park my truck—right in front of the Chabad center.

Fast forward a few hours. Around 3:05 PM, I pulled up. Walking in, not knowing what to expect, I instantly felt at home. I made a l’chaim, washed my hands, and had a quick meal. I was able to give whatever food I had in my truck to a few fellow Jews—fulfilling mishloach manot in the most unexpected way. And most importantly, we went into the library to read the Megillah.

In that moment, my job and everything else completely blacked out of my mind. I was ready to fulfill the mitzvah. To my surprise, I was asked to recite the blessings—not just for myself, but on behalf of a few students there as well. I was honored.

Purim is about hidden miracles. In the Megillah, G‑d’s name isn’t mentioned once, yet His hand is everywhere. What felt like setbacks—the missed plans, the tight schedule, the “coincidental” phone call at the last second—were clearly anything but random. The right rabbi called back. The load timing worked out. The parking spot was waiting. The Megillah reading was held.

My Purim was saved thanks to Rabbi Goldman and his incredible team. This year, I learned that miracles still happen. Sometimes they don’t look like splitting seas—they look like a truck detour, a delayed reading, and a rabbi who says, “Don’t worry, we’ll wait for you.”

Being a Jew means having family in all the right places at the right times—even in towns you’ve never been to before. In just 40 minutes, Rabbi Goldman and everyone at Chabad at the University of Florida demonstrated to me what it means to be loving, kind, and welcoming. They didn’t just help me fulfill mitzvahs—they reminded me what Purim is really about: unity, joy, and the hidden hand that makes it all come together at exactly the right moment.