This article originally appeared in Yated Neeman, Monsey NY. and is reprinted here with their permission

Although there were more than 400 talmidim learning in the great yeshiva in Volozhin, each and every bachur was like a son to the Netziv, Rabbi Naftali Tzvi Yehuda Berlin.

Just as a father takes a special interest in his son's learning, so, too, the Netziv was concerned about each talmid's progress. As he walked up and down the long aisles of the Bais Medrash, he would offer words of encouragement and advice to those experiencing difficulties-for he personally knew what it was like to toil hard in the Torah.

It once happened that the Netziv overheard one of his talmidim learning the same sugya that he had learned the day before. It was a particularly knotty problem, and so the Netziv made a mental note to check back the next day to see how the talmid was progressing.

When the Netziv was once again making his rounds, he stood behind the bachur and listened in silence for several minutes. The talmid had not moved forward one inch in unraveling the problem.

Now it sometimes happens that searching for a solution to a difficult problem can be an exhilarating experience. Even the dead ends and the good ideas that prove, in the final analysis, to be wrong, can act in a positive way to spur a bachur on to sharpen his intellectual skills.

But such was not the case with this young man. Like a wagon trapped in a bog and unable to move forward, the unfortunate talmid had now sat for many long hours spinning his mental wheels. The weary expression on his face showed that his efforts had exhausted him, and the Netziv was pained to see the young man floundering so helplessly.

"Why are you not progressing with your learning?" the Netziv gently asked the young man.

"How can I go forward?" the talmid listlessly replied. "I am stuck here with this kasha, and I can't progress until I find a solution to the problem."

The Netziv suggested that the bachur look up a certain Tosfos, and the young man's face brightened at once. He quickly acted on his rosh yeshiva's suggestion, but his hopes for finding an answer to his kasha were just as quickly dashed. He reread the suggested Tosfos again and again, but he just couldn't see any connection between it and what he was learning.

He was now even more dejected than before. As he sat before the open sefer that was like a closed book to him, he began to hear a familiar voice starting up a conversation in his mind.

"Maybe you're just not cut out for learning," the voice whispered to him. "Look around you. Everyone else is making good progress, but you've been struggling with the same sugya for over a day now, and you're no closer to finding a solution than when you began. Maybe your time would be better spent if you left the yeshiva and took up a trade."

Just then this conversation was interrupted by an equally familiar voice-the voice of the Netziv.

"Nu, have you seen anything in this Tosfos that can help you with your kasha?" the Netziv asked the talmid.

When the talmid dejectedly replied that he had not, the Netziv pointed to the concluding words of the section.

"'Tzarich iyun,'" the Netziv read out to the bachur. "That's what the Tosfos has to say to you. 'It requires further research.'"

The Netziv noted the look of puzzlement on the talmid's face, and so he continued with his explanation.

"You see, even the baalei Tosfos sometimes came across a difficulty that they couldn't answer," the Netziv explained. "Yet that didn't stop them from tackling the next question, and the next one. They didn't allow themselves to get stuck on any one problem and give up hope, chas ve'shalom, because they knew that each new day of learning would help solve the problems that had seemed insolvable the day before."

"But I'm never going to be on the level of the Tosfos," the young man replied. "In fact, I'm never even going to be on the same level as the other bachurim in the yeshiva. So why should I keep struggling to learn? Can't I be a good Jew, even if I work at a trade?"

"How do you know what level you can achieve?" the Netziv asked.

The young man had no answer, so he sat in silence.

"Let me tell you a story," the Netziv continued, "a story about myself. When I was a boy I was far from being considered a genius. While I struggled with my studies, there were several students in my class who were quite outstanding. Some of these boys had agile minds and were able to grasp vast amounts of material quickly. Others were blessed from an early age with an ability to delve deeply into the material. But I was considered to be quite an average student.

"Therefore, when I got older," he continued, "it was obvious to all-including myself-what my future would be. In those days only the most brilliant young men could go on to learn at yeshiva, so when my father told me that it was time for me to conclude my studies and learn a trade, I readily agreed. But then something happened that made me change mind. Would you like to know what that was?"

The young man, of course, was eager to hear the rest of the story.

"One night I had a dream," the Netziv said, "and in this dream I seemed to see my whole life passing before my eyes. I had lived out my days as a simple shoemaker, and when the time came to present myself before the Heavenly Court I humbly stated the simple merits I had in my favor. Throughout my life I had davened regularly and given tzeddaka and tried to get in a little learning when I wasn't too exhausted from plying my trade.

"When I was finished speaking, I was handed a sefer and asked to read from the title page. The book was not familiar to me, so I struggled with the words. 'Haemek Davar,' I read out slowly, 'by Rav Naftali Tzvi Yehuda Berlin.'

"I looked at the Heavenly Court in wonder, and said, 'But I am Naftali Tzvi Yehuda Berlin. I didn't write this sefer.' Then I heard a voice speaking to me, and the voice said just two words, 'Why not?'

"When I woke up, my mind was in a great turmoil," the Netziv continued. "I could still see this sefer before my eyes, with my name written in clear letters on the first page. I now knew I had it in me to become a scholar and write this sefer-and I also knew that if I became a shoemaker the book would be lost forever. Yet how could I convince my parents to give me another chance? All I could do was beg them to let me continue learning, and in the end they listened to my pleadings.

"You shouldn't think, however, that from that day on my studies suddenly became easy," the Netziv concluded. "The difference was not in my ability to grasp the material, the difference was in my belief that my struggles to improve and progress were worthwhile. I knew I was on the right path and once I knew that, there was no problem so difficult that it could make me lose hope. With just a little 'further research,' I was sure that I would one day reach my goal."

The Netziv's student gave him an appreciative smile and then went back to his Gemara to do a little "further research" on his kasha.