Rabbi Schabes was stunned. He had honestly thought he had lost his kittel and, assuming it was misplaced, had purchased a new one for the upcoming Yom Kippur. Now he had two. Somehow, he brought both with him to Yeshivas Rabbeinu Chaim Berlin, where he would daven. One he wore; the other hung quietly in the coatroom.

As Kol Nidrei began and the beis medrash filled with mispallelim, a good friend of his, Kalman, suddenly approached him. “Tzvi, I forgot my kittel. Any ideas?”

For a moment, Tzvi was stunned. But then he remembered. “Kalman,” he said, “I have one waiting for you in the coatroom.”  And that’s exactly what happened. As if it had been set aside just for him, Kalman’s kittel was hanging there, ready for his use.

Even now, more than twenty-five years later, neither of them can explain why Kalman, in a sea of hundreds of people, walked straight over to Tzvi, or why the original kittel had been forgotten at the cleaners for so many months. But maybe that’s precisely the point. Hashem orchestrates even the smallest details. For one Yom Kippur, two kittels were exactly what they were meant to be: one for Tzvi, and one for a friend.

That’s one of the lessons of Yom Kippur, Hashem whispering through details, reminding us that we’re seen, cared for, and never overlooked.

And then, almost immediately, Yom Kippur slips into Sukkos. The white kittel gives way to the green lulav, yellow esrog and the golden glow of the sukkah. But the message is the same: Hashem not only runs the world in broad strokes, He arranges the details too.

Rabbi Nosson Muller, in his Pirkei Avos: Generation to Generation, brings a mashal with a powerful lesson for Sukkos and beyond.

There was once a wealthy man, Reuven, who though unlearned, merited to marry his daughter to an extraordinary talmid chacham. Eager to impress his new son-in-law, he went to the marketplace a few days before Sukkos with one goal: to buy the most exquisite esrog available. Money was no object. After offering merchants an unlimited price tag, he quickly secured the most perfect esrog in the region.

Reuven was ecstatic. With pride and joy, he set out to deliver this precious mitzvah-object to his beloved son-in-law. But as he walked down the street, his equally wealthy but equally ignorant neighbor, Shimon, noticed his glowing face.
 “Reuven, why are you so happy? And what’s in that white box?”

Reuven could not contain his excitement. He told Shimon all about his purchase of the finest esrog, and how he was on his way to present it to his son-in-law.

Shimon immediately begged to share in the same pleasure. “Let me give my son-in-law a share of this beautiful esrog too!” Reuven resisted at first, after all, this was his mitzvah. But Shimon was persistent. Finally, Reuven relented, on condition that Shimon pay half of the exorbitant price he had laid out. Shimon gladly agreed. The deal was sealed.

Together, they carefully measured the middle of the esrog and cut it perfectly in half. Each man now had “the most beautiful esrog” to deliver proudly to his son-in-law.

One can only imagine the mixture of laughter, pity, and horror when those two talmidei chachamim were presented with their gifts: two perfect halves of an esrog that, halachically, was now entirely pasul. Their fathers-in-law had meant well. Their hearts were in the right place. But in truth, half an esrog, as exquisite as it may be, is not an esrog at all.

The Chofetz Chaim drew a lesson: are we not sometimes like those two well-meaning men? Some of us are extremely meticulous in our service of Hashem, but careless in the way we treat others. Others are warm, generous friends, but forget the obligations that bind us to our Creator. A person must realize: just as the esrog must be complete for its beauty to truly shine, so too, our own avodah must be whole. It’s only when both halves—bein adam laMakom and bein adam lachaveiro—are intact that a heart can be called lev tov.

From the kittel to the esrog, from Yom Kippur to Sukkos, the message flows in a seamless line. Hashem arranges every detail, the garment left behind, the friend who needed it, the mitzvah-object cut in half to teach a lesson that endures.

Because sometimes the extra kittel and the whole esrog remind us of the same thing: life is only complete when Hashem stitches the details together.

Rabbi Moshe Dov Heber is a rebbi at Yeshiva K’tana of Waterbury and a division head at Camp Romimu. He also shares shiurim on Torah Anytime and 24/6, and can be reached at mdheber@ykwaterbury.org.