It’s funny how sometimes a casual comment can help put things in perspective and change the way you look at the world, your life, and your Yiddishkeit. Such a comment was uttered by my wife in the elevator not long ago. I had just returned from Russia, where I was privileged to participate in a most amazing event. Her words echoed in my mind throughout Pesach, and have assumed even greater relevance now, as we approach Shavuos.

I had traveled to Rostov-on-Don to take part in a Hachnasas Sefer Torah (dedication of a Torah scroll) in a yeshivah. Not just any yeshivah, but one that had been re-established seventy-five years after its building was confiscated by the Communists. Sixty of us journeyed from Israel, and we were joined by an equal number of Russians for the celebration. The transcendent joy and holiness of the event are beyond my ability to describe; however, suffice it to say that as I danced, sang, and wrote a letter in the Torah, I continually asked myself, “How did I possibly get here? What have I done to merit such an honor?” This feeling of unworthiness became a refrain accompanying the spiraling levels of simchah and spirituality that pervaded the evening, lasting until four in the morning.

My wife picked me up at the airport; on the drive to the house, I attempted to convey the uniqueness of my journey. Then, as we walked into the elevator, I told her of my refrain — “How did I merit to be there?” She said to me, “Maybe you didn’t. Maybe it’s in the merit of something you have yet to do! Perhaps you will only merit it in the future.”

At first I felt a twinge of resentment; was she questioning the worth of my past accomplishments? (It’s one thing for me to feel that I didn’t deserve this honor; it’s quite another for her to feel this!) But as often happens in my marriage, her words continued to reverberate in my thoughts, eventually finding their mark.

I began to re-examine the purpose of my experience. Somehow I had been chosen as one of only 120 people to be part of a once-in-a-lifetime event that brought inspiration and spiritual uplift to each of us. Had I been given this honor not as reward, but as preparation? And if so, preparation for what? Is it possible, as my wife proposed, to merit something in the present based on what I would accomplish in the future? If so, I would now have to live up to the privilege I had been given.

I began to feel a growing excitement about the possibilities and accomplishments embedded in the future. For certainly, if G-d expects that I will one day merit all that He has given me, then He has provided me with the capability to earn this merit. And since what He gave me at Rostov was so magnificent, then certainly great accomplishment must lie ahead.

Talk about Great Expectations!

I carried this perspective into Pesach, and it accompanies me now, as we near Shavuos.

We are taught that the Jews possessed only a few mitzvos that allowed us to merit the miracles that accompanied our liberation from Egypt and to earn the treasure we received at Sinai. Yet if we were not worthy, G-d would not have employed those miracles to redeem us; nor would He have given us His Torah.

From G-d’s perspective — where past, present, and future merge — our worth is already known. From our perspective, our worth — which must at least be equal to the gift of His Torah — is still in the process of becoming. Our debt is as yet unpaid, our greatest accomplishments yet to be revealed.

This Shavuos I receive G-d’s Torah in wonder and awe (How did I get here? What did I do to deserve this?), along with a sense of anticipation and confidence that if G-d felt me worthy — if He chose me as a recipient of His Torah among the rest of the Jewish people — then I (and all of us) must be capable of the job and trustworthy to earn the merit.

From this vantage point, it appears that the Hachnasas Sefer Torah at Rostov-on-Don, the annual observance of Pesach and Shavuos, and the countless other blessings that I daily receive are all part of an ever-ascending spiral of preparations and rewards for actions that I have not yet taken.

How did I get here? What did I do to deserve all this? The answer seems to lie in the future.

Tomorrow holds tremendous promise.

Jay Litvin lives in Rechovot, Israel. He contributes frequently to this column.