Thank G‑d, this is the story I needed to happen to me.

As I rush out my front door, I glance at my bike helmet. I should really bike there, I chide myself. But the car’s right out front, I reason. I’ll get there quicker in the car. Just take it. But I knew I couldn’t. Because that’d be the easy way out.

The real reason I want to take the car is because it’ll provide an air-conditioned cocoon of safety. Of not having to interact with anyone on the street. And that’s exactly what I had resolved not to do.

Inspired by my brother Rabbi Yehudah Leib Welton and my friend Yitzi Stern, I had decided I would stick my tefillin in my backpack the next time I went biking, just in case I met a fellow Jew who hadn’t put on tefillin. And that time was now.

But I didn’t want to do it. What if I get rejected? What if they think I’m weird? Worse, what if they give me the look? My palms begin to sweat, begging me to hold onto the car keys and preserve my fragile self-esteem. Instead, I grab the helmet.

A minute later, I face my first choice. Which route to take? I sit on the sun-soaked seat of my bike, looking both ways. Head right, it's a quieter block, less likely to meet anyone, a small voice urges me. I swallow and go left.

Why is it that I’m a full-grown adult and yet still afraid of rejection? I pedal faster, hoping I run into a sweet old man or maybe someone who doesn’t speak English. Then I can ask them, discharge my obligation, and relax. Instead, up ahead, I see a middle-aged man with slick trousers and dark hair crossing the street. I pull up behind him, ready to ask the question. He’s wearing a yarmulke. Surmising that he’s already put on tefillin today, I breathe a sigh of relief and pedal past.

OK, OK, I’ll ask the next person. The next person will be the one G‑d has sent me. I race under the shade of some large trees and turn the corner. Is the reason I’m so nervous because of all the anti-Israel haters out there? Am I afraid if I ask someone if they’re Jewish they’ll curse at me and spew poison? I see a figure up ahead. I clear my throat. It’s an older woman in a lacy hijab. I wave and smile. She’s on the phone but smiles back.

I’m almost at my destination. I did it. I almost asked two people. I can relax now. But I know I can’t. My resolution wasn’t for myself. It was for the hostages. I cannot bear to think about the suffering and pain they’re enduring. The breaking of body, mind, and spirit … if they have to suffer that, the least I can do is suffer a fleeting moment of social disdain. My sisters and brothers are fighting. I must help. Even if it’s pathetically small in comparison.

And then I see what I don’t want to see. A young, good-looking guy on the phone. His face says it all: I’m busy. Don’t bother me. I begin to pedal past him. After all, I don’t want to make a bad name for Jews. Then I double back right towards him.

Eleanor Roosevelt said, “Do one thing every day that scares you.” This is my thing. It’s not big but it’s mine. And it’s not for me. It’s for them. The hostages.

“Excuse me, sir. Are you Jewish?”

He looks at me and gives me the look. I feel my entire body tensing up. Then he responds slowly, “Yes, I am.”

“Would you like to put on tefillin?”

He sizes me up. A bushy beard on a bike. And then breaks into a grin. “Yes, I would.”

I don’t believe it. But it’s happening. He’s finishing his phone call. Then, right there on the street, as cars pass by and people stare, he’s rolling up his sleeve and donning the boxes that proclaim the unity of G‑d and the pride of our people. He says the blessings. We say the Shema together. He tells me about the recent bar mitzvah of his son. And the entire time I can’t stop smiling.

Because I did it. I moved past myself for the greater good.

For someone else. And no one else will know this silly battle I fought in my head.

Until now.