In the Lamdeinu learning center at The Talmudical Academy of Baltimore, Miriam (Fink) Mintz’s imprint is everywhere—not only on the chairs and desktops where she worked with students for a decade, but in the minds and hearts of those students–all with various educational needs–to whom she was devoted. Then there are Miriam’s coworkers, alongside whom she learned and sometimes trained. Even the center’s hard drive is packed with material that Miriam created. She herself, however, is no longer there.

Just a few weeks ago, Miriam Mintz, a master special educator,  tragically passed away at age 30 due to complications during a fertility procedure.

Miriam, the third of five children in a family who are part of the Ner Yisrael community, was born with spondyloepiphyseal dysplasia congenita (SED-C), a form of dwarfism; at her full height, she was 2 foot 10. “When she was born, the doctor told us to treat her like everybody else, because she is,” said Miriam’s mother, Elisheva Fink. “So I took my cues from her. Miriam acted like a regular girl, and that was how [we] parented her.”

Miriam attended Bais Yaakov of Baltimore, where she excelled academically, and after high school, she insisted on attending Me’ohr Bais Yaakov seminary in Jerusalem—despite the warnings of naysayers. “People told her it would be hard in terms of managing and getting around. What would she do on tiyulim? They said going for a year was too much. Miriam went for two,” said Elisheva. “When she got there, the light rail had just been built, so it was a non-issue. She got on and off just like everyone else did. Everything was walkable [for her].”

When she returned to the States, Miriam started an internship at the NSA (National Security Agency), where her father worked. He hoped Miriam would stay beyond the summer and work her way up the ladder—“It was a well-paying job, and Miriam certainly had the brains for it,” her mother said—but Miriam wasn’t interested.

“She didn’t want to sit behind a computer all day. She wanted to do something meaningful.”

That need was a large part of her decision to go into teaching, but there was more to it than that. Throughout her life, Miriam had learned to navigate a world built for people much taller than her, reaching light switches and driving a car on her own. She overcame these challenges without complaint and built a vibrant, busy life like any other 19-year-old girl. But dating was a different experience. While her friends got married, Miriam remained in shidduchim for years.

“The only boys who were willing to give her a chance were well below her cognitively,” Elisheva recalled. Miriam preferred to stay single rather than marry someone who was not right for her, and she came to accept that marriage and a family might not be in her future. Without a husband with whom she could build a Jewish home, “Miriam wanted to stay in a frum environment to keep her grounded,” said Elisheva. “It was important for her Yiddishkeit.” Teaching was the natural choice because she could work in the warm, Jewish environment of a school and experience the joy of loving children, even if they weren’t her own.

“Miriam spoke very frankly about her personal challenges, about the fact that she might not get married, might not have children,” said Mrs. Rivky Danziger, director of the Lamdeinu learning center and Miriam’s supervisor and friend for a decade. “But she still made sure she had a full life. Her students and her siblings’ kids, they were her children. She would talk about them like that.”

Miriam got her first teaching job as a kriah teacher at the Talmudical Academy, a school for boys in Pikesville, helping the young students practice reading Hebrew. “She b’davka wanted to work with boys,” said Elisheva. “She felt that boys who struggle with learning are at higher risk. As she taught them to read, she’d say, ‘One day you’re going to have to make Kiddush. Maybe you’ll lein at your bar mitzvah and learn Torah one day.”

From the first day, Miriam showed passion and creativity in her job, and she soon began studying for a master’s degree in special education. “Working with her, seeing her progress from a high school graduate to a skilled special educator, was amazing,” said Mrs. Danziger. Anytime she was confronted with something, she looked at it as an opportunity to learn, analyze, and ask questions. She always wanted to understand more deeply. She never stopped.”

Even after completing her master’s, Miriam constantly sought new learning opportunities, taking professional development courses outside of school hours to add to her skills. Whatever new information she acquired, she happily gave away. “Miriam was collaborative with teachers in the learning center, sharing her ideas,” Mrs. Danziger said.

But having a mind full of knowledge isn’t all that’s needed to be an impactful teacher; there’s also the heart. “Miriam’s ability to connect with kids was very impactful,” Mrs. Danziger added. “She embodied what it means to be a special educator in a way you could never capture if you had to write a job description. She loved her students. She’d work with them for one year in third grade but stay connected to them, then go to their bar mitzvahs when they were 13. She made sure to be there to hear them lein—and Miriam was not a morning person.”

The secret of Miriam’s success was in her ability to connect with the students, and which they reciprocated in spades. “There’s so much more that makes students love a teacher. She was like another aunt or sibling,” Mrs. Danziger said. “You saw it when she worked, in those daily interactions with her students. It was in the way she talked to them and remembered what they cared about. She’d come up with a mnemonic device for a shoresh, but it wasn’t the same for every kid. If they had a pet or a [special interest], she empowered the students to make up their own clues so they could remember.”

“The way she taught and how she interacted with her students were intertwined,” added Rabbi Hexter, menahel of the Talmudical Academy. “She always made it personal, mixed stories and anecdotes, and snuck in the learning to make it fun for the kids.We once had a boy in fourth grade who refused to get extra support. Mrs. Mintz was the only one who was able to work with him. She had the patience to convince him to come out and learn.

“Not long ago, I had a meeting with some parents who said their child was anxious about the new year and wanted to learn with Mrs. Mintz. When they heard that their son could learn with her, everyone relaxed. They knew he would be taken care of in a loving, caring way.”

Zahava Kimelfeld, Miriam’s coworker in the learning center, shared, “Miriam was able to captivate even the most challenging and toughest boys. She was never intimidated by any personality; she presented herself with a strong confidence, love and wit that attracted the students. She was once teaching one of our math groups how to read and interpret a thermometer. She was able to sustain their attention so well that one of our very challenging boys suddenly jumped out of his seat, glowing with excitement, and burst out, ‘That’s so interesting!’”

Miriam had subtle ways of empowering her students and building their confidence, often asking them to get papers from the printer or supplies from high shelves. “She asked them in a very matter-of-fact way, as if it was part of their regular routine, and it didn’t seem like a big deal for the students. Then Miriam would follow it up with a compliment,” Mrs. Kimelfeld said.

Miriam’s power as an educator was not only academic but practical. Just by living joyfully and without fuss, she set an example for students and coworkers alike that her life wasn’t defined by her disability.

“It wasn’t in my face that her world was different from mine,” said Mrs. Danziger. “And then she’d jump up onto a chair in my office; talking proportions, if I had to jump on a chair that high, it would not be an easy feat. Or we’d walk up the steps and it would hit me—the daily things she needed to do, and she made it seem so effortless. The workout just to get from her car to her office, or if she was going to a simchah and it was a buffet... She had to navigate these things. But she didn’t dwell on it; it was a part of her life. I never wanted to say that to her; somehow it felt disrespectful. But really, wow.”

“Her impact on the school is hard to put into words,” said Rabbi Hexter. “For students to see her walk up the four flights of stairs, to drive and come and go and be part of our faculty... When people saw her, they saw a woman who was happy and smiling. Her physical appearance did not play a role in any interaction with her students, peers, or anyone in the building. That chinuch is irreplaceable.”

It was natural, of course, that the students would notice Miriam’s height and comment on it. But she welcomed questions like “Are you a mommy? Why are you so small?”

“Even when the kids were new and they stared at her, it didn’t bother her. It bothered her more when the parents told the kids not to stare, not to say anything. She liked the kids’ purity and honesty. She said, ‘They just want to know.’ And she had all the answers for them,” said her husband.

The life Miriam built for herself—expanding her education, waking up each day and going to a job she loved—was her port in the storm during her painful dating years. She threw herself heart and soul into her work with her students, and into her relationships with the nieces and nephews she adored and about whom she bragged constantly to her coworkers. “She was obsessed with them,” said Mendel. “Even this summer, she learned twice a week with her nephew, who’s going into first grade. She’d wake up excited and say, ‘Today I’m going to learn with Moshe Zalman.’”

In 2022, Miriam was introduced to Rabbi Mendel Mintz, a Lubavitcher from Crown Heights who also uses a wheelchair. He organizes large Chabad events.

The challenge, however, was that Miriam hadn’t grown up Lubavitch and had never had an interest in marrying someone Chabad. She had questions about whether or not it would work. “Miriam wasn’t shallow; she thought about everything she did deeply and logically,” Mendel said.

Miriam began listening to Chabad shiurim and watching videos. The more she learned, the more she became interested in Chabad chasidus. She and Mendel got engaged in March of 2022 and married a few months later. “It was a dream come true for both of us,” said Mendel. “We had something very special between us. I know it sounds cliché, but we knew it wasn’t regular.”

Elisheva added, “Miriam used to say, ‘My fear is that I’m going to get engaged and everyone’s going to be happy except for me. It’s not crazy that I’m engaged; it’s crazy that I’m so happy.’” Naturally, Miriam invited all of her students to the wedding with a personal handwritten note, and they all sat in the front. “She liked to joke afterward that the kids thought the wedding was all about them,” Mendel said.

After their wedding, Miriam and Mendel set up their home in Baltimore. Everyone at school breathed a sigh of relief that she wouldn’t be leaving town. During school breaks and summer vacations, the new couple traveled back and forth to Crown Heights, where Mendel continued his Chabad work; Miriam began to enjoy these trips more than Mendel did. They also visited destinations across the US, Israel, Denmark, Panama, and Mexico, going to Chabad houses along the way.

“Miriam really glowed [after she got married],” said Mrs. Danziger. “I would always have described her as a happy person, but this was a different level of happiness. There was just an enjoyment. You could see that adoration and respect. It was beautiful.”

For Miriam, this new stage of life was the beginning of a shift in direction both spiritually and as an educator. While she continued working at Lamdeinu, she and Mendel began pursuing a dream of working as shluchim.

“While we were dating, I told Miriam I had a dream to go on shlichus,” Mendel recalled. “I said, ‘Marriage comes before anything, so it’s not a deal-breaker.’ At first, Miriam thought that shlichus just meant having tourists for Shabbos and cooking and hosting meals for dozens of people—something she knew would be a struggle for her because of her disability. But Mendel assured her that the heart of shlichus was being an educator, Miriam’s true gift, only now it would be for Jews who hadn’t been privileged to have a Jewish upbringing. Miriam was also assured that she and Mendel could hire a cook so she could focus on connecting with their guests.

After deep consideration, Miriam told Mendel that he didn’t have to forgo his dream; she wanted to be his partner in shlichus. “I look at that as extremely heroic for Miriam,” said Mendel. “It was so out of her culture. But Miriam wasn’t shallow; she thought it through and believed in it. She wouldn’t do anything unless she held to it.”

After their wedding, the couple became involved in shlichus work, traveling to Grand Junction, Colorado, to arrange a Seder for the local Jewish community. On Chanukah and Purim, they visited senior centers in Maryland to celebrate with the residents.

They also began the journey of creating a family. Because they both had genetic conditions, it took almost two years of going from doctor to doctor, meeting the top professionals in the world, before they could find a team that would assist them.

“She’d say that we’re the shortest couple in the world,” said Mendel. “We were unique. Our struggles weren’t the typical struggles a couple has. But we were there for each other. We built our lives around this.”

This summer, the Mintzes accepted a shlichus placement in Pasadena and Glen Burnie, Maryland. For Miriam, it was an exciting time. “She got a new lease on life; she was a new person,” said her mother. “Those last few months, she had so much to look forward to. Her dream of building a family, her husband’s dream of shlichus, it was all coming together.”

Around this time, the couple attended a bar mitzvah in Annapolis for one of the Chabad shluchim they would be working with—an experience that opened Mendel’s eyes to his wife’s power as an educator. “Here’s the difference between me and Miriam. When we got to the bar mitzvah, I went over to the frum people and sat at their table. As we were leaving, Miriam said that she sat at a table with ten non-frum women, talking to them, uplifting them. She was energized by the conversation. That’s when I said to her, ‘You’re going to be the shluchah who will be mekarev everyone. I’ll handle the logistics and the arrangements, and fundraise.’”

Fueled by excitement, the Mintzes scheduled a meet-and-greet with their community for August 25.

Early in the morning on Monday, August 5, Miriam and Mendel went to Penn Medicine for a fertility-related medical procedure. “It’s supposed to be a 40-minute procedure,” Mendel said. “I didn’t even bring my tefillin from the hotel; I thought I would just daven afterward.”

However, time ticked by, and Mendel was unable to go back to see Miriam until long after the expected time. When he was finally allowed into her room, “I was in shock. She was lying in bed with oxygen on.” Soon Miriam was admitted to the ICU and put on a BIPAP machine to help her breathe while Tehillim groups and minyanim at the Ohel davened for her speedy recovery.

“It went from bad to worse,” said Mendel. On Thursday evening, Miriam passed away. “At our chuppah, they sang the Alter Rebbe’s niggun. Every time she heard that niggun, it would remind her of the wedding. As her neshamah was leaving her body, we played the same niggun, and I felt as if Miriam was going around me again.”

Miriam’s sudden passing was a shock to everyone who loved her because her life expectancy had been the same as that of the average person. “We were planning to be together for a lifetime,” Mendel said.

Extended family, friends and students flooded the levayah and shivah, offering stories and memories of the many ways Miriam had touched them. “Most moving was when the students came. These were the students she would come home and tell me about,” said Mendel. At the shivah, he learned that during Miriam’s recent shlichus training in Crown Heights, she had filled out a survey describing what she hoped to gain from the class. “Everyone [else] had sophisticated answers,” said Mendel. “Miriam’s was ‘How to genuinely love and care about a stranger just because they’re Jewish.’”

The TA community is also reeling from the loss. “It’s a very heavy time for our school. Then there’s the nuclear family of Lamdeinu within the extended family,” said Mrs. Danziger. “We’ve lost someone in our lives who was so much more than just a teacher. She has left this incredible legacy, and at the same time, it’s so painful to think, how can she not be here?”

While it is easy to remember Miriam as an incredible educator, the one thing she did not want to be was an “inspiration.” “She didn’t like it when people made a big deal out of the fact that she drives,” said Mendel. “She said, ‘Every 16-year-old drives.’ That’s not the way she identified. That’s not who she was. Nothing stopped her. She set a goal; she was determined.”

“Everything she achieved was that much greater [because of her disability],” said Elisheva. “At the funeral, Rabbi Zweig said that lions are afraid of humans even though they can rip them to pieces. You have to be aware of your strengths in order to use them. Miriam always emphasized that not every disabled person could do what she did. She had the kochos—and she also knew her own limitations.”

Mendel recalled what Miriam had once told an amputee who hated the stares she got on the street: “You’re not going to change them. They’re going to look and ask questions. But Hashem gives us the strength to muster up the courage and change ourselves.”

That mindset was what enabled Miriam to lead an indelible life, defying odds and exceeding expectations—both others’ and her own. “The word ‘unrealistic’ had to leave our vocabulary,” said Elisheva. “If we were realistic, she wouldn’t have achieved half of what she achieved. Miriam fulfilled her tafkid in 30 years. I wish she wasn’t such an overachiever.”

Though she was only married for two years, Miriam was a role model for what it means to be a dedicated wife. “The rav at the levayah said our marriage was like Hashem took all the glorious shalom bayis of a whole life and condensed it into two years,” Mendel said.

But that didn’t mean she didn’t challenge her husband when the need arose. Recently, Chabad was planning an event at the Barclays Center to mark the 30th yahrtzeit of the Lubavitcher Rebbe. But then the event fell apart. When she heard what was going on, Miriam told Mendel, “Everyone else can have excuses from today until tomorrow. If you have the ability to take initiative and make something happen but you don’t, then it’s your fault.”

In the end, Mendel did arrange a large event, and he says, “It was really Miriam who made it happen.

“We made our house into a smart home so that we could control the lights and temperature with Alexa and Google Nest,” said Mendel. “Every few months, an issue came up where we had to get them to reconnect to Wi-Fi, but it was high up for us. I schlepped out the three-step ladder, but as I was climbing up, Miriam said, ‘You have brittle bones. Let me.’ When she got to the third step, she fell and hurt herself. She said, ‘That’s why I climbed up, so it was me who fell and not you. So you wouldn’t break your bones.’ Miriam took the hurt for me.”

Miriam’s great dedication was what set her apart, whether in the classroom or among non-religious Jews. Mrs. Danziger said it best: “She was a role model for everyone for what it means to be in chinuch.”

This article first appeared in Ami Magazine, www.amimagazine.org