From the outside, it looked like Shmuel had everything a child could possibly want.
It wasn’t just that his family was well-off; it was that his life seemed to unfold on a different level entirely. The newest gadgets and toys appeared in his home almost as soon as they were released. While others were still talking about them, Shmuel was already using them, already moving on to the next thing.
His family didn’t “go on vacation.” They traveled. Constantly. One break it was Orlando, the next it was Cancun. Each trip seemed more elaborate than the last, each experience more elaborate than the one before. His world stretched far beyond the classroom walls, into places most of his classmates had never even imagined. He was well-liked, and no one treated him unkindly.
From the outside, it seemed that Shmuel’s life was full in every possible way.
In that same class sat Reuven.
Reuven’s world was much simpler. But it was full in its own way. There were no grand vacations to describe, no steady stream of new devices to show off. His family lived with the basics, and that was enough. There was nothing particularly impressive about his life, at least, not on the surface.
And yet, there was something about Reuven.
During recess, there was always a circle around him. At lunch, someone was always saving him a seat. In class, boys leaned over to talk to him, to joke with him, to share a moment.
Reuven was never alone.
Shmuel, on the other hand, often sat just beyond that circle.
No one disliked him. No one pushed him away. But no one thought to draw him in either. It simply never occurred to them. After all, Shmuel had everything. What could he possibly be missing?
Until one afternoon.
The classroom had settled into a quiet hum. Most of the boys were occupied with their own work. Almost unnoticed, Shmuel stood up and slowly made his way over to Reuven’s desk.
He paused there for a moment, as if unsure how to begin. This was unfamiliar territory.
Reuven looked up, surprised.
For a few seconds, Shmuel said nothing. Then, in a voice far softer than anyone would have expected, he spoke.
“Everyone thinks I have everything,” he said.
He hesitated, searching for the words.
“But I don’t have anyone.”
The words hung in the air.
Shmuel wasn’t asking for anything material. He wasn’t speaking about the things that filled his home or the places he had seen.
He was speaking about something far more essential.
“I feel very alone,” he added quietly. “Could I sit with you?”
And in that moment, everything shifted.
Because having everything does not always mean having what matters most.
Of course, this is only a mashal, many people blessed with wealth live rich, meaningful lives. But in this case, that is how things appeared.
The Mishnah in Pirkei Avos (1:5) teaches: “Let the poor be members of your household.”
We tend to think of the poor in simple terms, those who lack money, those who need financial help. But poverty wears many forms. There are people who lack not possessions, but connection. Not resources, but relationships. There are moments in life when no amount of wealth can fill what is missing inside.
In those moments, even someone who appears to have everything can feel deeply lacking.
The Mishnah is not only teaching us how to give.
It is teaching us how to see.
Sometimes we tell ourselves, “If I had more money, I could really help people.” Hashem gives each person their own set of resources and abilities, one may have wealth, another may have warmth, patience, or the ability to notice someone who feels invisible. True chessed is not limited to what’s in a person’s wallet; it comes from what’s in a person’s heart. A smile, an invitation, a few sincere words, these are things anyone can give, yet they can mean more than anything money could buy.
There is a Shmuel in every class. In every shul. In every circle.
There is always someone who has the power to change that.
