I wasn’t born Lubavitch. I came from a traditional home and expected a life filled with children. But years passed—four, then eight—and our home remained silent.
One Shabbos, I made a decision to live a more modest Jewish life. Soon after, I encountered Chabad and began volunteering. It wasn’t easy—seeing babies everywhere while longing for one of my own.
One day, a picture of the Rebbe entered my life. Every time I passed it, I felt strength.
Suddenly, I knew—I had to go see the Rebbe.
Against all odds, visas, flights, closed consulates—everything fell into place. I arrived in Crown Heights just before Lag B’Omer.
On that rainy day, I overheard two women talking about getting a bracha for children. I ran through the storm to Union Street, heart pounding.
When the Rebbe arrived, I cried out:
“Rebbe, I want children!”
He smiled and blessed me.
After Lag B’Omer, the Rebbe gave me four dollars—twice as many as the others.
A year later, after a difficult pregnancy, the doctors discovered I was carrying twins.
A boy and a girl.
Sometimes miracles take time.
Sometimes they begin with one desperate prayer.