The children in the forest
The story now turns to flight from an unnamed country. It does not clearly say that this is the prince’s country. People flee, pass through a forest, and lose two small children: a boy from one family and a girl from another, about four or five years old.
The rav evokes images of refugees leaving everything behind to convey the terror and confusion. His contemporary references belong to the recording’s setting; no present-day numbers or event claims need to be supplied to understand the scene.
He reads the boy as daas, holy awareness, and the girl as emunah, faith. Flight without yishuv hadaas, a settled mind, can leave a person cut off from both. These are his symbolic readings of the children, not words spoken by the narrator as literal explanations of them. Likutey Moharan II:10 supplies the closely related teaching: without settling the mind, a person does not stop to consider the purpose of life; joy helps restore that freedom to think.
The children are hungry, alone, and unable to help themselves. They cry for food. A beggar arrives carrying sacks of bread. They draw close and cling to him; he gives them bread, and they eat. The rav stresses that their rescuer does not arrive looking wealthy or impressive. He comes as a beggar.
The printed story continues: he asks where they came from, they do not know, and he refuses their request to take them along. They notice that he is blind; he blesses them, leaves more bread, and goes. These additional details are source context, beyond what the rav reads aloud in this shiur. They clarify that his departure is not a simple abandonment without food. The children later run out and cry again, and another beggar arrives. The rav previews that repeated pattern rather than reading all seven meetings here.
For him, the forest is also an image of exile. Israel has left its home and longs for nourishment. Bread means more than physical food in his reading: it also means Torah, daas, and knowledge of Hashem. The tzaddikim of each generation, the shepherds of Israel, give the people the food that enables them to remain alive in that forest.
The rav again associates the seven beggars with the seven shepherds, Avraham, Yitzchak, Yaakov, Moshe, Aharon, Yosef, and Dovid. That association helps him explain their service to the lost children. It should remain distinct from a claim that the story literally names each beggar as one of those figures.
Why the rescuer is a beggar
Why does the tzaddik appear as a beggar rather than a great ruler or an impressive guide?
A beggar knows he has nothing of his own. The highest tzaddik, in the rav’s explanation, recognizes that whatever he can give is a gift from Hashem. He is not offering the children an independent store of power belonging to himself. His humility is part of what makes him able to nourish them.
This does not contradict the prince’s dignity. The prince’s worth also came from his relationship with the Father. A person can know that he is precious and still know that his strength, understanding, and ability to serve are received gifts. Royal confidence need not become self-importance.
The rav turns to the Zohar’s comparison of prayers. One psalm begins:
תְּפִלָּה לְמֹשֶׁה אִֽישׁ־הָאלוקים א־דני מָעוֹן אַתָּה הָיִיתָ לָּנוּ בְּדֹר וָדֹֽר׃
A prayer of Moshe, the man of Hashem. My Master, You have been our dwelling place from generation to generation. — Psalms 90:1
Another begins:
תְּפִלָּה לְעָנִי כִֽי־יַעֲטֹף וְלִפְנֵי ה׳ יִשְׁפֹּךְ שִׂיחֽוֹ׃
A prayer of the poor person when he is overwhelmed, and pours out his complaint before Hashem. — Psalms 102:1
Zohar III:195a says that the poor person’s prayer takes precedence even over the prayers of Moshe and Dovid because the poor person is brokenhearted and pours out his need before Hashem. The passage also calls on an ordinary person to make himself like a poor person in prayer. The honor given to Moshe’s prayer is not being denied; the comparison brings out the closeness of the one who knows his dependence.
The beggar therefore does more than supply a meal. By giving and then leaving, he teaches the children to ask again. They eventually become beggars themselves. The rav reads this as a tzaddik’s deeper task: to teach a person how to turn to Hashem, rather than leave him only dependent on the teacher’s next piece of bread.
He makes a distinction between a gift and an inheritance understood as an entitlement already possessed. Even a tzaddik who speaks about his attainments can do so while recognizing them entirely as gifts. The danger is the assertion that I have something of my own that makes me the independent source of help.
Asking for what we already have
The rav closes with a teaching he remembers hearing from Rav Brazil before Rosh Hashanah, when he was learning in yeshiva with his brother. Its lesson is to begin prayer with a fresh recognition of dependence on Hashem.
Imagine someone coming to Rosh Hashanah with an inventory: I am married, have four healthy children, a home, two cars, and an income of 120. Next year I would like 140, another child, perhaps a pool or a newer car. The existing gifts are treated as a settled foundation; prayer is merely an application for an increase.
The teaching asks for a different beginning. Health, family, livelihood, a home, understanding, eyesight, hearing, and the ability to eat were never possessions independent of Hashem. Come to prayer acknowledging the need for all of them. The numbers and purchases in the illustration are examples of an attitude, not a suggested standard of living.
Recognizing dependence does not require denying the family or gifts one actually has. It changes the way one holds them: with gratitude and a request for their continued blessing, rather than as something guaranteed by prior ownership.
The rav applies this to a chassan standing under the chuppah, a time he describes as especially open for prayer. Ask for the most basic things, not only for a grand future. He mentions shalom bayis and children, and urges the chassan to recognize every step of life as a gift.
This is where the shiur leaves the children and the learner. In the forest, the bread comes as a gift. In the palace, the kingdom also came as a gift. Remembering the giver enables the fallen prince to rise without pretending he never fell, and enables the hungry children to ask without pretending they can feed themselves.