She Needed a New Camera: Then Came an Unexpected Gift

There are moments in life when a decision made years earlier suddenly takes on new meaning. For one photographer, the choice to begin giving maaser as a child became the beginning of a lifelong lesson in tzedakah, siyata d’Shmaya, and trusting that blessing does not always arrive in the way we expect.

This is one of my favorite stories to tell my students. I am a photographer and photography teacher, and whenever my courses reach the subject of managing the financial side of a photography business, I share it. By now, all my students know the story.

As a child, I did not know the world of Torah and mitzvot the way I was fortunate enough to discover it later in life. I grew up in what might be called a “religious-lite” family. We observed certain traditions, but our religious commitment was limited.

Most of my parents’ extended family lived abroad, and it was very important to my grandfather and parents that we know our relatives and maintain those relationships. So every year, a different grandchild would travel to America with Grandpa.

The cost of the flight was divided between Grandpa and the child's parents. Because we generally knew when our turn was approaching, we also had plenty of time to save spending money for the trip.

My parents did not have much money, and they believed there was educational value in having us save for ourselves. Looking back as an adult, I think it was a brilliant lesson in financial responsibility.

Throughout the year before my trip, every shekel I received went into my savings.

And I knew exactly what I wanted to buy.

My Dream Was a Camera

There is a reason I became a photographer.

I had loved photography for as long as I could remember. I was an artist at heart, instinctively noticing composition and framing before I even knew those terms existed.

This was the era of film photography. Developing a roll of film was expensive, and you could not simply take dozens of photographs until you captured the perfect shot.

As my trip with Grandpa approached, my excitement grew. I would finally meet my cousins, travel, have adventures, and spend precious time with my grandfather, who was a fascinating and delightful person to be around.

But I was especially excited about one thing.

I had saved enough money to buy a camera in America, with some left over for treats and other expenses during the trip.

Finally, the big day arrived. I hugged my family goodbye at the airport, boarded the plane, and sat beside Grandpa.

Grandpa was friendly and approachable, and before long, people around us began talking to him. One of them was a man named Rabbi Aryeh.

He explained that he ran a nonprofit organization helping struggling families in Israel. He had regular donors in the United States and traveled there periodically to raise additional funds.

I was bored, so despite knowing I was not supposed to listen to adults’ conversations, I found myself paying attention.

Rabbi Aryeh told Grandpa about one community where many families kept a collection box for his organization and regularly placed their maaser money inside.

That word caught my attention.

Maaser?

I knew vaguely about tithes involving agricultural produce, but what did maaser have to do with money?

A New Mitzvah, Somewhere Between Heaven and Earth

When their conversation ended, I asked Grandpa what monetary maaser meant.

There, somewhere between heaven and earth, Grandpa introduced me to a concept that was entirely new to me.

He explained the practice of setting aside a portion of one's income for tzedakah. He spoke about the blessing associated with giving generously and told me how he had personally seen blessing through it. He also shared stories about others who gave with an open heart.

I was fascinated.

I kept asking questions, and Grandpa patiently answered them.

Then he told me about chomesh—giving one-fifth rather than one-tenth.

Something about the idea spoke deeply to me.

By the time our plane landed in America, I had made a decision.

I wanted to give maaser from the money I had saved.

Grandpa was delighted and encouraged me. Together, we calculated how much I would set aside.

Then another thought entered my mind.

Why not give chomesh?

If I was going to do it, I wanted to go all the way.

Grandpa made it clear that I did not have to. He encouraged me to think carefully rather than make an impulsive decision.

He had a strong philosophy about what he called “unnecessary regrets.” Once you had carefully considered something and made a decision, he believed, you should stand behind it rather than torment yourself afterward.

So he wanted to make sure I truly felt comfortable with my choice.

I did.

I gave chomesh.

Suddenly, I Couldn't Afford the Camera I Wanted

My savings were now significantly smaller.

I still had enough to buy a camera—but not much else.

For a moment, I panicked. Then I reminded myself that I had made my decision willingly, and I was going to stand behind it.

I spent several wonderful weeks with my aunts, uncles, cousins, and extended family.

The day before we returned to Israel, Grandpa took me to a large mall with exactly what I had been waiting for: a professional camera store.

The selection was enormous.

Fortunately, my limited budget made things simpler. I knew exactly what price range I could afford.

There was one model I particularly wanted.

It cost more than I had.

I will admit that, for a brief moment, a thought crossed my mind about the money I had given away.

But I immediately pushed it aside. I had made my decision.

The salesperson suggested another model. It was slightly less advanced than the one I had wanted, he explained, but not dramatically so.

And I could afford it.

I bought the camera.

The Camera That Seemed to Carry a Special Blessing

I returned to Israel filled with memories and excitement. I had already taken photographs on the final day of our trip, and several days later, I picked up the developed film.

I opened the familiar paper envelope and began looking through the photographs.

They were beautiful.

They looked professional.

Everyone who saw them was impressed, and it was clear that I had bought an excellent camera.

The camera served me faithfully for years. Friends saw my photographs, asked what model I was using, and went out to buy the same one. In Israel, it was considerably more expensive than what I had paid in America.

Yet something interesting happened.

Their cameras did not seem to last as long as mine.

Mine kept going.

Eventually, I was even able to sell it secondhand for a good price. With only a little additional money, I upgraded to another camera.

As I studied photography and became increasingly professional, the pattern continued. I would sell one camera, add a relatively small amount, and upgrade to the next.

Throughout my professional life, I felt an unusual siyata d’Shmaya surrounding my photography equipment.

And throughout those years, I continued to be careful about giving maaser.

The Story I Told Every Photography Student

Eventually, I became a professional photographer and began teaching photography courses, which gained wonderful momentum, baruch Hashem.

As part of my courses, I included a bonus lesson on financial management for self-employed photographers.

Naturally, I told my students this story.

I wanted them to understand that alongside responsible financial planning and professional effort, the first thing we need is siyata d’Shmaya. And for me, giving maaser had become an important part of that outlook.

“Give a tenth so that you may prosper” had become a way of life.

And then, after all those years, something happened that challenged the story I had been telling.

My camera broke.

For the First Time, There Was Nothing to Sell

This time, the camera was beyond repair.

For the first time in my life, I could not sell my existing camera to help fund the next one.

I simply needed to buy a new professional camera.

By then, I was married and had children. Our expenses were enormous, and professional photography equipment could cost tens of thousands.

Where was I supposed to find that kind of money?

Then another thought sent a shiver through me.

What was I going to tell my students?

They all knew my story about maaser. I had told it again and again.

But I had time to think, and I understood that this was a test.

I decided not to ask questions.

Then the Phone Rang

Two weeks later, I received a phone call.

A representative from a large organization was on the line.

I had won a Chinese auction.

And the prize?

A professional, expensive, high-quality camera.

Exactly what I needed.

I was stunned.

There was only one problem.

I did not remember entering a raffle for a camera.

Then I discovered what had happened.

My beloved niece was a representative for the organization and had taken responsibility for selling a certain number of raffle tickets. Naturally, she recruited the entire family.

At some point, she called me.

Unfortunately for her, she caught me during an especially hectic moment. I was distracted and tried to end the conversation quickly.

I told her I would buy a ticket.

But my niece is persistent.

She explained that there was a special promotion if I bought a certain number of tickets. Desperate to get back to what I was doing, I finally told her to purchase them for me, gave her my credit card information, and ended the call.

She was thrilled.

As far as I was concerned, that was the end of the story.

Except my niece had forgotten to ask me one important question:

Which prize did I want my tickets entered for?

There were countless possibilities.

So she chose for me.

In her mind, the answer was obvious.

What could a professional photographer possibly want?

A camera.

She put every one of my tickets toward that single prize.

And here was the remarkable part: When she entered those tickets, my old camera was still working perfectly. I had no reason whatsoever to think I would soon need another one.

Then my camera unexpectedly broke.

And two weeks later, the phone rang.

I had won its replacement.

Now I Had an Even Better Story to Tell

For me, it felt like a gift straight from Heaven.

But there was something else hidden inside that gift.

For years, I had told my students about the siyata d’Shmaya I felt had accompanied me since that childhood decision to give chomesh. Then, for the first time, the story appeared to have broken down.

Instead, another chapter was being written.

Long before I knew I would need a new camera, the tickets had already been purchased. Long before the old camera broke, someone else had already decided where to place them.

I could never have planned the sequence of events myself.

And suddenly, I had a new ending to the story I had been telling my students for years.

Now, I have had the privilege of telling it to you, too.