מצווה

Israel has a trash problem. More specifically, the shuk, also known as my home. We never know where to put our full trash bags, which has led to problems in the past. Our meat-peddling downstairs neighbors don't want us to put them near their stand, and for whatever reason, the guys who actually collect the trash in the shuk don't want us to put them in their trash carts. Go figure.

So last Friday night, after I had just lit Shabbat candles on my own (Amalia was away), I took the latest full trash bag downstairs to deposit it on my way to synagogue. Luckily, there was a man with a cart, coming through to pick up the remnants left behind from a bustling day at the shuk. As he was conversing with a woman in Arabic, I casually dropped my bag in his cart and began to walk away. Suddenly I heard an "Alo, Alo!" from behind me and turned around. What I got out of the short conversation that followed in guttural Hebrew was that even though I lived in the shuk, I could not put my trash in his cart. Fine, I thought, there were plenty of other places I could put it on my way to the synagogue. As I continued on my walk, I heard a small voice behind me asking if he wanted me to give him the trash. Confused, I turned around to see a young boy, no more than 9 years old, wearing a kippah and carrying a small bag of drinks, presumably on his way home for Shabbat. I told him I was fine, I would find a place to put it, but he insisted. As I handed the bag over to him, I asked him why he wanted to take it. He responded with a simple word, "mitzvah," as he quickly shuffled away to rid himself of my bag and celebrate Shabbat with his family. I let off a proud "Shabbat Shalom," and as I watched him just a few steps in front of me, I couldn't help but smile.