One of the most intriguing—and sensitive—aphorisms in last week’s Pirkei Avos exhorts us to be as careful with our friend’s money as we are with our own.
Technically, the Mishnah does not use the term “be careful.” Instead, it says (Mishnah 12): “Rabi Yosi would say: The money (or perhaps property) of your fellow should be as choviv, i.e. precious to you, as your own.”
Precious is an interesting term for money or even possessions, especially in rabbinic evaluation terminology. Yet, the Mishnah chose choviv, a term of endearment. For gelt?
“Other people’s money” has even become a catchphrase in the business world, often abbreviated as OPM, and the amounts referred to are usually far more than a few shekels.
It’s easy to understand this when it comes to major investments. Obviously, if you’re watching someone else’s portfolio or entrusted with their funds, you treat it seriously. But I began to wonder how this holy adage plays out with something far more subtle. What if it’s not money at all? What if it’s the classic scenario where one man’s trash is another man’s treasure—and sometimes what we think is trash is actually a treasure? A treasure is indeed treasured. It is choviv. But is every piece of property cherished?
I was walking down Central Avenue in Cedarhurst not too long ago when I noticed a fellow digging through his pockets for a quarter to feed the ever-hungry meter. As he pulled out his hand, a scrap of paper fluttered to the sidewalk.
I hesitated. It was windy, the paper was small, and for all I knew, it was a gum wrapper or an old receipt. But something about the way it floated caught my eye. So I picked it up and jogged after him. “Excuse me! I think this fell from your pocket.”
He looked at the paper and stopped cold. His face changed.
“Oh wow,” he said, almost under his breath. “Thank you so much! I needed this number badly. When the guy gave it to me, I just scribbled it down on the only paper I had. If I had lost it, it would’ve set me back a week.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant exactly, but he pulled out his phone, snapped a picture of the cryptic numbers on the paper, and stuffed it back into his pocket. He turned to me again and said, “Really, thank you. I would’ve torn the house apart looking for this.”
It was a three-second interaction. No speech. No dramatic music playing in the background. But I walked away thinking how something so small—something most people wouldn’t even bother with—could mean so much.
And that got me thinking about other little things that aren’t so little. My little things.
We usually define value in monetary terms, but maybe that’s the mistake. Because then there’s stuff. Maybe it can’t be quantified on a spreadsheet, but there are items, documents, doo-dads—whisps of paper, codes, numbers—that are the keys to locked archives of memory, access, or connection.
To someone else, they mean nothing. To you, they mean everything.
That scrap of paper might be the one extension number to reach a specific corporate person without being placed on hold for 45 minutes. It might be the Wi-Fi password you finally figured out. It might be the ID code or serial number that took you two hours to locate. To someone else, it looks like a coffee-stained shred of junk. But to you, it’s gold.
And the things you judge as irrelevant may be dear, vital—even sacred—to someone else.
Because it’s not always about the money.
You don’t always realize the weight of these things when they happen. Sometimes it’s instinct—something nudging you to say a kind word, offer help, or pause for someone else’s need. And sometimes it’s…a phone call that wasn’t even meant for you.
That brings me to Mrs. Coyle.
It was Shabbos afternoon quite a few years ago. We were in the middle of the seudah when the house phone rang, a rarity these days, now that telemarketers mostly target our cell phones. Even when it rings, we never hear the message. Usually, it’s a robocall that hangs up halfway through the greeting.
But this time, the answering machine picked up, and for some reason, the message was loud enough for all of us to hear from the dining room.
A nervous, urgent voice came through, full of sincerity.
“Hello? Is anybody there? This is Mrs. Coyle! I haven’t received the paper for two days! Friday’s edition didn’t come, and neither did Saturday’s! I really expect the paper on Sunday!”
After Shabbos, I played the message again. Something about her tone stuck with me. She’d left her number on the machine, so instead of ignoring the Irish-sounding caller, I figured I’d call back and let her know that unless she was missing her Yated, she definitely had the wrong number.
So I called.
When she picked up and I introduced myself, she was sharp, almost confrontational. “How did you get my number?”
I said, “Well, I heard your message. I have good news and bad news. The good news is that someone got it. The bad news is…that I don’t work for the New York Times, or any other paper for that matter.
“You must’ve misdialed,” I said. “And I just didn’t want you to be disappointed when tomorrow’s paper doesn’t show up either.”
Her tone immediately softened. She laughed. And then, with perfect comedic timing, she asked:
“So…you’re not bringing my paper?”
Her response reminded me of the classic story:
A young Jewish mother, overwhelmed, calls her mother in a panic: “Ma! The baby’s crying, the toddler’s smearing yogurt on the curtains, the cleaning lady quit, the house is a disaster—I can’t take it anymore! And Shalom comes home so late from work and doesn’t help at all!”
A calm voice replies: “Shalom? Who is Shalom?”
“Ma?”
“I’m sorry, dear, this isn’t your mother. You have the wrong number.”
There’s a pause. And then, quietly: “So…you’re not coming over?”
No, I didn’t bring her the paper. But to me, that misdialed message may have been as insignificant as the paper that fluttered out of someone’s pocket. To her, it might have been her husband’s one connection to the outside world, the thing he waits for every morning. Who knows?
To you, it may be trash.
To them, it’s a treasure.
Sometimes, you have to cherish things on their terms.
It may go a long way.
