The Shabbat in Milwaukee; When I Realized Being Jewish Means Family, Not Just Faith

Dina Yellin boarded Flight 1272 to Chicago with one thought in mind: make it home for Shabbat. The plane was full business travelers with laptops, vacationers with headphones, and a few visibly religious Jews: knitted yarmulkes, long skirts, even one man in a shtreimel. No one spoke. “In New York,” Dina thought, “we’re used to being strangers, even if we pray the same prayers.”

But when the pilot announced a long delay, and then an emergency landing in Milwaukee just an hour before sunset, everything shifted. Nervous glances turned into hushed conversations. One passenger called the local Chabad, and minutes later came an invitation: “Come spend Shabbos with us.” Dina, along with fourteen other travelers, stepped off the plane still strangers, but now bound together by something bigger.

What awaited them in Milwaukee wasn’t just hospitality it was home. A long table covered in a white cloth, shining kiddush cups, and glowing candles greeted them. The stress of the day melted away as Dina sat down to a meal that felt almost miraculous.

Over challah and soup, stories began to flow: missed celebrations, families waiting in other cities, and uncanny connections that wove the group together. One had once done business with another’s father; someone else had been roommates with her cousin; another had even worked for years in her hometown. With every story, the sense of being strangers disappeared, replaced by something that felt like family.

As the songs rose and laughter filled the room, Dina realized what this detour truly meant. It wasn’t just weather that brought them here. It was a reminder that being Jewish isn’t only about faith or ritual. It’s about family, wherever you are.