A Story Worth Telling: How Water Wears Away Stone

Oren was a sweet, mischievous kid—the kind everyone in the neighborhood knew. From an early age, he won everyone over, while also challenging quite a few people. He had endless energy: like a battery that never stopped generating power and was never replaced.

As the youngest child in the family, the spoiled baby of the house, no one took their eyes off him for a moment. Even the adults assigned to stay close to him all the time needed frequent breaks to recharge. In seconds, you could miss his next move—and barely manage to stop whatever came after it. In preschool, it was somehow forgivable. The teacher often lost her breath, but his charm, his charisma, and that look he knew how to give did their job. Let’s put it this way: the structure wasn’t really binding.

But then school arrived, and the rules changed. Along with the rules came notes home, punishments, and daily phone calls to his parents. The fights with classmates, the teasing, the distractions, the empty notebooks, the upside-down backpack—all of it turned Oren into the challenging kid in his grade.

His parents tried everything, but Oren kept creating a buzz around himself. He had one great miracle: he was born to warm, supportive parents. As far as his mother was concerned, no matter what happened, was happening, or would happen—Oren was the most wonderful child on earth. She did not hide that from the teachers, or from anyone who came to complain about his behavior. His father still tried to maintain boundaries, with a warm and loving heart. His siblings, who often took collateral damage, accepted him as he was too.

But not everyone could handle it. He barely finished his matriculation exams—scraping together the last few points just to pass. And it wasn’t because he lacked intelligence; he was genuinely smart. Maybe that was what his parents regretted most. “What a waste of that mind,” they would say again and again, but there were no ears to hear what the heart would not allow itself to accept.

“The army will straighten him out,” everyone thought. Oren, too, waited like everyone else in his grade to receive his draft notice. But before he even reached the screening process, he was rejected. Someone there had heard about him and his exploits. “The army has no ability to deal with people like that,” they told him.

It hurt him. Deeply.

His parents did not give up and fought back. That was when his uncle entered the picture—a general in the IDF—who arranged what needed arranging and pushed him straight into the screening tests. There, he was assigned to a combat unit. Maybe his temperament would actually help there?

He barely lasted two years. They wanted to throw him out fairly quickly—but once again, his uncle intervened, and he stayed, despite everything. Until neither side could take it anymore. Two years after he went in, he was already out, with an exemption in hand.

His parents hoped that was it—that he had learned his lesson and settled down. That he would open some kind of business with his creative mind. But Oren had time. He wanted to find himself.

*

A friend suggested that he fill in for him for a few days at a large children’s toy store. Oren liked the idea. There was still a child in him who had never grown up, and games—and every new development in the field—fascinated him. And so he found himself sitting behind the counter: hauling boxes, organizing shelves, helping children choose from the selection according to what they needed. It suited him perfectly. The store owner was pleased too, and offered him a permanent position. Oren was happy. His parents—somewhat less so. Still, everyone was glad that at least he had a structured framework.

The store was located on the edge of the city’s *Haredi* neighborhood. Beside the counter stood a large display of children’s audio CDs, featuring stories of righteous sages, ethical teachings, and more—sold for a token price to benefit the public. Who still listens to stories on CDs? he wondered when he first saw them. But to his surprise, there was steady traffic around them. Children would come in whenever new merchandise arrived.

Every so often, when Oren was bored and had finished all his tasks, he would take a CD, put it into the store’s sound system, and listen. To his surprise, he relished every moment. His family observed *Shabbat*, but there was not much real Jewish knowledge in the home. Now he was suddenly returning to childhood, savoring every moment and every new discovery. He did not know many of the Bible stories, or knew them only partially, and he felt that he was filling in the gaps.

Right after Passover, a new shipment of CDs arrived. He found one he did not recognize: “Rabbi Akiva.” He remembered the children’s songs about Rabbi Akiva, but did not really know the story, and it intrigued him. Now, at last, he would hear the full story.

Akiva—the shepherd of Kalba Savua—was a simple man, with good and noble character. He kept to himself, did not stand out, and drew no attention. But Kalba Savua’s daughter saw him. She saw his soul, the strength within him. She knew there was a diamond here that only needed polishing—a diamond worth millions. She married him despite the difficulties and the “what will people say?” She wanted him to study, but he argued: I can’t. I do not know how to learn.

One day, while walking outside, Akiva saw drops of water falling on a stone, one after another. He noticed a hole that had formed in the stone where the drops fell. He was deeply amazed, and concluded: This hole was created by the water. Drop after drop, without stopping—and a hole opened up. So too with me: even if my heart is like an impenetrable heart of stone, it can be opened through Torah. After all, Torah is compared to water.

And he went out, together with his son, to learn the alphabet with a teacher of young children. Yes, a 40-year-old man sat there with all the little children and learned.

Oren listened and felt chills run through him. How uncomfortable it must have been, how embarrassing.

It probably was not pleasant for Akiva either. But he insisted on knowing, on learning. With endless patience, persistence, and determination, he advanced further and further, until he became Rabbi Akiva—the teacher of 24,000 students, the G-dly *Tanna*, transmitter of Torah.

That story gripped Oren. A 40-year-old man who starts from nothing, persists—and succeeds.

The story would not let go of him. He had questions—and he wanted answers.

*

With his characteristic practicality, he headed to the neighborhood synagogue to find someone who knew this story. There he met Rabbi Ari—a young, energetic *avrech*, articulate and knowledgeable. Oren laid out all his questions and all the information he was missing. Rabbi Ari gladly responded. He opened a *Gemara* and showed him sources.

Oren was captivated. He had never seen a full-sized page of *Gemara*. He had never felt drawn to a page filled with letters.

“If Rabbi Akiva began learning at 40, then my dad can too!” he thought. Oren had never seen his father open a page of *Gemara*, but he knew in his heart that this kind of learning would make him happy. With Oren, first you act and only afterward do you think, so he immediately asked Rabbi Ari whether he would agree to give his father a daily class. He would take care of organizing a group.

The rabbi agreed.

Just as Oren had guessed, his father loved the idea. Now all that remained was to organize a group. And Oren got to work. He approached a neighbor from the building across the street and convinced him to join. Then he recruited Ron, the young man who hung around the kiosk downstairs all day, and then Avner, his father’s cousin who lived in the area. And when he could not bring in any more people—he joined himself.

*

Since then, many pages of *Gemara* have gone by. Some participants left, and many new ones joined. The class became established and official. And Oren? Already at the first class, he felt that magic again, that pull. Something stronger than him, something he had never known before.

He plunged into the difficult questions, analyzing profound lines of reasoning. And no—he did not get tired. He did not run away. He did not disappear. He was drawn into it. Deep, deep inside.

It was a great wonder. From the moment he discovered Torah, he could not get enough.

After some time, he asked to go to *yeshiva*. To learn properly. Everyone’s eyes widened. It did not seem natural—not at all, especially for someone like Oren, whom only Hashem knows how he received a matriculation certificate, who had never held a book. But here—he was attached. Drawn in. Filled with endless passion.

His parents may have dreamed that he would become a businessman, but Oren’s happiness, so evident on his face; his softened features; his gaze that had become so pure—they could not say no to it.

Oren went to *yeshiva*. He started everything from the beginning. Like a small child, he learned to recognize the page, the question, the answer. He breathed the holy Torah deep into himself.

He had a precedent—Rabbi Akiva.

And sometimes, when it was not easy, when the letters weighed heavily on him, the song would play in his mind: “...Stones, stones are worn away by water... So too, may the Torah of living water penetrate my heart, my heart of stone...”