By Dr. Alexander Avrohom – professor of law, Quebec, Canada
From a presentation at the Kinus Hashluchim Melava Malka

Before I say anything else, I want to tell you all that whatever strength I have today, whatever light I still carry, is because of the shluchim of the Rebbe. You brought me comfort when I was drowning. You brought me faith when my world collapsed. You reminded me that a Jew is never alone.

It was Shabbos Vayera in November, 2017.
Two days earlier, the doctors had said the words that don’t belong in any parent’s world: brain tumor.

From that first moment, time stopped.
Ari, my son, was in intensive care, with machines breathing for him.
And I? I was breathing for reasons I didn’t understand anymore.

That Shabbos, in that white hospital room, he began to cry out in pain. “My head hurts … my head hurts so much.”
And then … silence.

Chaos erupted.
Doctors, nurses, alarms.
Someone shouted, “Adrenaline!”
And I just stood there, frozen, whispering the only words that still lived inside me: Shema Yisrael…

But then, a movement. A breath. A heartbeat.
My son was back, and the world began again.

That night, after Shabbos, I called my rabbi and told him everything: The diagnosis. The pain. The panic. The breath that came back.

He listened quietly and asked me, “Do you know what the haftarah was today?”
I didn’t.
“Open it,” he said. “Read it. Slowly.”
So I did. And I froze.

It spoke of a little boy who said, Roshí, roshí, “my head, my head.”
He collapses in his mother’s arms.
He stops breathing.

And the prophet Elisha comes, lies upon him, mouth to mouth, eyes to eyes … and life returns.

That was the haftara of that very Shabbos. The same words my son had spoken. The same moment I had lived.

There are no coincidences in Torah, only Divine conversations we haven’t yet learned to hear.

Whatever happens in your life is written in that week’s parsha.
The Torah doesn’t just tell stories; it tells your story.
That Shabbat was mine.

The Rebbe teaches that the prophet Elisha didn’t perform a “miracle.” He revealed the Divine spark, the nekudah Elokit, that can never die.

Because life is not something that flickers in and out. Life is G‑dliness itself. But sometimes, the concealment is so deep that only total helplessness can break it open.

When Ari came back that day, it wasn’t only he who returned. Something inside me did too. A spark that had gone numb suddenly remembered that G‑d hides not to punish, but to invite us closer.

But Ari didn’t stay.
The tumor came back, and 16 months later, my son returned to the One who had given him life.

People ask, “Did you lose your faith?”
No.
Because Chassidism taught me not to look for answers, but to look for connection.

The Rebbe’s words, his maamarim, his talks, and his Hayom Yom, became my oxygen. They didn’t erase the pain, but they gave it a voice. They taught me that tears are also avodah, Divine service, that when a heart breaks, a doorway opens for Hashem to enter.

And so I learned to live again. Not by forgetting, but by remembering differently.

Every year, when Shabbat Vayera comes, I open that haftarah again. And I see it clearly now: The child of the Shunamite woman, my child, every child—all threads of the same story. The story of a world that falls silent and then breathes again.

Miracle doesn’t mean death is cancelled; it means life never ends.
Love doesn’t disappear; it changes its form.

So when people ask me, “Did you witness a miracle?” I say yes.

Because my son lived. Because he still lives in every verse of Vayera, in every father whispering Shema by a hospital bed, in every moment when darkness trembles, and light quietly answers: “I am still here.”

To my dear brothers, the shluchim, I want to end with this:

If I can stand here today and speak about light after darkness, and faith after loss, it is only because of you—because of the Rebbe’s army and the way you carry his fire into every corner of the world.

When Ari was fighting for his life, and when he left this world, I learned something I had never understood so deeply: A Jew never stands alone. A father never cries alone. A soul is never forgotten.

You taught me, not with speeches, but with presence, that the Rebbe’s work is not only about building centers, organizing programs, or teaching Torah. It is about entering another Jew’s pain without fear. It is about bringing warmth where the night feels endless. It is about whispering, even in the ICU, even at the graveside: “There is light here. There is purpose here. There is G‑d here.”

You carried me when I could not carry myself.

You restored my breath when my heart had no strength left.

You reminded me that Ari’s neshamah, his soul, is eternal, that a Jewish child never disappears, that his light continues to illuminate our life and the lives of others, in ways we cannot yet see.

So I want to say thank you. Thank you for living the Rebbe’s message with courage and humility. Thank you for refusing to surrender to despair. Thank you for believing in the power of every single Jewish soul, including mine, when I felt broken.

And most of all, thank you for teaching me what life truly means: Not to chase miracles, but to be one.

May G‑d give you strength, health, joy, and the unwavering confidence that every moment of your work touches eternity.

Ari’s light shines because of you.