tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6653855998536819342024-03-14T04:50:19.519-04:00Mystery WomanMystery Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06261372717440893787noreply@blogger.comBlogger65125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665385599853681934.post-47144359448560318642013-10-30T13:35:00.000-04:002013-10-30T13:35:59.376-04:00The Right Moment<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; line-height: 25px;">We spend so much of our time waiting. Waiting on line, waiting for the bus, waiting for appointments. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; line-height: 25px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; line-height: 25px;">Waiting for the phone to ring. </span><br />
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 25px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 25px;">There's a purpose for the wait. We are meant to be exactly here, at exactly this moment. Waiting. Making the most of this moment, giving it meaning.</span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 25px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 25px;">My daughter is engaged.</span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 25px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 25px;">So many people are taking credit for making this happen. They davened, and arranged for forty women to take challah, and went to the Kosel for forty days, and visited the Zhviller Rebbe's kever on Monday and Thursday and Monday. I am grateful for all of it. I am grateful to everyone who thought of her and cared about her. Every tefillah helped. But, ultimately, it happened at the moment it was meant to happen. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 25px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 25px;">She could have been married a year ago, some people said. Maybe even two or three years ago. If the shadchan had been more aggressive...if his parents had considered it when it was first suggested...if things would have moved faster... </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; line-height: 25px;">But she couldn't have. It wasn't the right moment. The person you marry is bashert, but so is the moment. This is her moment. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14px; line-height: 25px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 25px;">The wait was frustrating, sometimes. But while she waited, she lived fully. She grew, and matured, and blossomed. And I can say now that I am so grateful she didn't get married four or five years ago. I'm even grateful she didn't get married a year ago. She spent those years becoming the beautiful person she is today. She is ready now for this next stage in her life. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 25px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 25px;">At exactly the right moment. </span></span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Mystery Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06261372717440893787noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665385599853681934.post-38458112301473590062013-06-20T10:20:00.000-04:002013-06-20T10:20:54.092-04:00Keeping Them SafeWhen my big girl was little, about six or seven years old, she went with her brothers and her father to watch Simchas Beis Hashoeva in Crown Heights. I stayed home, with whoever was the baby at the time, to prepare for Yom Tov.<br />
<br />
It was crowded and hard for little ones to see. So my big girl and one of my boys climbed up one of the police barricades that lined the street. She loves music - she sang before she talked - and she was thoroughly enjoying herself.<br />
<br />
I don't remember the details - it was so long ago. There probably weren't very many details. My big girl was standing on the barricade, when she felt someone touch her - inappropriately. She turned around, but didn't see who it was, and assumed she imagined it or that someone brushed against her by mistake. She turned back to watch the dancing, and someone touched her again. Again, when she turned around, she couldn't see who it was, and she turned back. When it happened a third time, she climbed down and went to stand near my husband.<br />
<br />
She didn't think to say anything about it until they were driving home, and then she just mentioned it casually. It didn't seem to be a big deal to her.<br />
<br />
My normally mild mannered husband was livid. He wanted to turn around and go right back there and kill the guy who touched her. He didn't. He was still able to think clearly enough to realize there was no way he'd find him. And kill him.<br />
<br />
My kids were so surprised at his reaction, they still talk about it sometimes. They couldn't understand it. In their minds, it was a tremendous overreaction. They <i>still</i> think he overreacted. All these years later, all those conversations about good touch and bad touch...about personal safety, all those stories they've heard over the years - they <i>still</i> don't fully get it.<br />
<br />
<br />
My little boy loves seforim. He collects them, buys them whenever he has any money, and spends hours in the local seforim store. When his friend told him about the very large library of seforim in his shul, my son couldn't wait to check it out.<br />
<br />
Last Shabbos afternoon, he headed out to the shul.<br />
<br />
"Don't stay there if you're the only one there," I warned him. "Or if there's only one other person."<br />
<br />
"Or two people," my husband added. "Come home if there are only two other people there," <br />
<br />
My big kids snickered. Here were their parents overreacting again.<br />
<br />
"You'd think I was going to a dangerous place," my little boy laughed. "I'm going to <i>shul</i>."<br />
<br />
They all laughed.<br />
<br />
<br />
This summer, my little boy is going to camp for the first time. I'm worried. I always worried when I sent my kids to camp. Sure, I'll talk to him before he goes. It won't be the first time we've had that conversation. I've talked to him about all of this many times. As I have with all of my kids. But I really don't think he gets it. I don't think he can. I don't think any of them did, and I wonder to what extent they do - even now.<br />
<br />
If they can't understand why I don't want my little boy alone in a quiet shul, how much do they really understand? If they think a father's anger at the person who touched his little girl is an overreaction, how much do they grasp? Do they really get it?<br />
<br />
And if they don't get it, how safe are they? I can talk and explain and tell him everything I am supposed to, but will that protect my little boy? Will anything protect him? If he doesn't really grasp it...if he can't understand the seriousness...how safe is he?<br />
<br />
I will do my part. I will talk to him. And I will overreact when I feel it is necessary. But it's not enough.<br />
<br />
I am asking You, Hashem - begging You - please watch my little boy, and all the other sweet and innocent little boys and girls. Please protect them and keep them safe. I am sending my little boy away from home, away from my care, and I am entrusting him to You. Only You can keep him safe. Only You can protect him.<br />
<br />
He is Your child - these are Your children. Don't let anyone harm them - please.<br />
<br />
<br />Mystery Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06261372717440893787noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665385599853681934.post-51400196431438866292013-02-20T12:08:00.000-05:002013-02-20T12:08:50.481-05:00Happily Ever AfterI don't like suspense. <br />
<br />
For as long as I can remember, whenever I'd read a book, as soon as I'd get to a part that was even mildly suspenseful, I'd flip to the back just to make sure everyone was alive and well. As long as I knew that, I could relax and enjoy the book. It's how I read A Little Princess and Little Women and even the Little House books. It's how I read everything. I needed to know that everything would turn out happily ever after. I didn't want to go through the entire book worrying.<br />
<br />
I still read that way. I still flip to the back to make sure the character I am getting to know doesn't get sick or die or get divorced. I just need to know.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, the character <em>does</em> die. Sometimes she <em>does</em> get sick...or lose her baby. It's not always all happily ever after anymore. But I still flip to the back to check. I still need to know. I don't like it, but at least I <em>know</em>. <br />
<br />
Real life has enough stress. I don't want more of it when I read.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I wish I could do that in real life. I wish I could flip to the back - just to make sure it all ends happily ever after. Just to make sure everything turns out okay....to make sure that everything I worry about - everyone I worry about - turns out fine at the end. I just want to know.<br />
<br />
But what if it doesn't? What if it's <em>not</em> all happily ever after? Would I still want to know? <br />
<br />
<br />
Hashem directs Moshe, "כְּתב זאת זִכָּרוֹן בַּסֵּפֶר, וְשִׂים בְּאָזְנֵי יְהוֹשֻׁעַ." Write this as a memorial in the book and place it in the ears of Yehoshua. The Gemara explains that this refers to, among other things, the Megillah. <br />
<br />
According to this, Moshe wrote the Megillah long before the story actually happened. He was instructed to tell it to Yehoshua, and it was passed on to the leader of each generation - until, and including, Mordechai.<br />
<br />
<em>U'Mordechai yada es kol asher na'asa...</em><br />
<br />
Mordechai knew.<br />
<br />
Mordechai knew what was going to happen. Mordechai knew the end of the story. He knew how it would all turn out. He knew that it would all end happily ever after. While Esther was wondering why she was chosen...while the Jewish people were worrying about Haman's decree...Mordechai knew.<br />
<br />
<br />
I was talking to a woman whose 31 year old daughter is getting married. I wonder...all those years of worrying and waiting, would they have wanted to know? When she was 21, would it have been easier for them to have known that she would not get engaged until she was 31, or would they rather not have known - and kept hoping that it might happen any day? Would <em>I</em> want to know?<br />
<br />
If things do not turn out exactly as I hope...if it's not all happily ever after...would I want to know?<br />
<br />
I don't know the answer to that. If I was given that option...if I had to decide...I don't know what I would choose.<br />
<br />
I just want happily ever after. I want to flip to the end and see that it all turns out happily ever after.<br />
<br />
Like the story of Purim. Mystery Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06261372717440893787noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665385599853681934.post-78322476971874038612013-01-30T12:31:00.000-05:002013-01-30T12:33:28.764-05:00Matchmaker, Matchmaker<em>A Roman noblewoman asked Rabbi Yosi ben Chalafta, "In how many days did G-d create the world?"</em><br />
<br />
<em>"In six days," he replied.</em><br />
<br />
<em>"What has He been doing since?" she asked.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>"Since then," Rabbi Yosi replied, "He's been matchmaking."</em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>"That's ridiculous!" the noblewoman exclaimed. "Why, even I could do that!"</em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>To prove her point, the noblewoman took one thousand of her male servants and one thousand of her female servants and matched them together as husband and wife.</em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>The next morning, men and women came to her with broken bones and wounds, pleading, "I don't want this one! Please get me out of this!"</em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>The noblewoman immediately called for Rabbi Yosi ben Chalafta. "There is no god like your G-d!" she proclaimed. "It is all true, your Torah is indeed beautiful and praiseworthy, and you spoke the truth!"</em><br />
<em><br /></em><em>Rabbi Yosi replied, "It seemed easy in your eyes, but it is as difficult before G-d as the splitting of the Red Sea."</em><br />
<br />
<br />
Shidduch suggestions for my daughter do not come often, and as unlikely as some of them seem to be at first glance, I can't afford to easily dismiss them. But sometimes the suggestions are so completely inappropriate, they would be insulting, if not for the fact that the people making these suggestions do not know my daughter at all. <br />
<br />
It's hard to excuse, though, when the caller knows her well. <br />
<br />
This time it is someone my daughter was friends with in high school. She asks what my daughter is looking for. <br />
<br />
It's an interesting question, coming from her. I know she has a pretty good idea of what my daughter is hoping for. She and my daughter are not in touch as often as they once were - she is married and has a little boy - but they were close friends for years. Long enough for her to know the answer to that question. <br />
<br />
I answer it anyway. I describe some of the qualities my daughter would like to have in a husband. I tell her that she would like to marry someone who is seriously learning and hopes to continue to do so for a little while. I know she knows all this. I know these are not foreign concepts to her. It is what she, too, was hoping for and who she married. I know she understands exactly what I am saying, and I'm not sure why she is asking.<br />
<br />
"I spoke to her about two years ago," she says, "and she told me all of this. I was just wondering if anything changed - if she still wants the same thing."<br />
<br />
"Yes. Absolutely." I am a little annoyed. I do not like her superior tone of voice. Yes, she is married for two years, and I am happy for her. But my daughter is still young. Too young to give up on her dream of the kind of person she wants to marry and the type of home she hopes to build.<br />
<br />
She hesitates. Maybe she senses my annoyance.<br />
<br />
"The boy I have in mind was seriously learning full time. But -" she pauses, and then rushes on, "he's already 23, so he joined his brothers in their business."<br />
<br />
I thank her for thinking about my daughter, I explain that this is not what she wants, and I hang up.<br />
<br />
"What chutzpah!" I tell my husband.<br />
<br />
"Such chutzpah!" I tell my daughter later.<br />
<br />
I can deal with inappropriate - even ridiculous - suggestions, when I can justify it because the caller doesn't know my daughter. But not this. Not from someone who knows my daughter well enough to understand that her suggestion was not suitable.<br />
<br />
I am highly insulted. Angry, even. <br />
<br />
<br />
<em>The splitting of the sea was an entirely supernatural event. Why did Rabbi Yosi believe that matchmaking is as hard as splitting the sea?</em><br />
<br />
<em>To the Roman noblewoman, everything makes sense, including marriages. She sets out to prove herself. She doesn't just match haphazardly. She takes into account height and weight, disposition, likes and dislikes. Everything makes sense, and so all the matches should work perfectly.</em><br />
<br />
<em>But they don't. Because marriage is not a sensible act. Marriage is not the result of natural order or logic. Marriage is the result of a voice from heaven declaring, "So and so is to marry so and so." </em><br />
<br />
And that is where the shadchan comes in. <br />
<br />
Intellect does not have the power to complete a match. Shidduchim don't fit into any pattern. They follow no law or logic, and sometimes make no sense at all. Matches are made by turning nature upside-down. The shadchan, sometimes, resorts to strategies that are less than honest. She sometimes suggests matches that are inappropriate and insulting. <br />
<br />
But she is doing her job. I see that now.<br />
<br />
I am now thankful for the work they do. And I am thankful when they think of my daughter. Even when I don't like their suggestion. Even when they employ mistruths. <br />
<br />
Shidduchim sometimes don't make sense. And sometimes, the only way they happen is through the strategies of the shadchan. <br />
<br />
Because shidduchim are as supernatural as the splitting of the sea.<br />
<br />
<br />Mystery Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06261372717440893787noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665385599853681934.post-43869118790600270642013-01-09T10:28:00.000-05:002013-01-09T10:28:18.904-05:00Answered PrayersMy Friday afternoons are full. But a small part of them belongs to my son. He needs to get back to yeshiva, and we talk while I battle the pre-Shabbos traffic. It's when I get to hear about what is going on in his life and in his thoughts. It's when I get to hear the things he doesn't normally share - the things that boys his age don't seem to feel a need to share. There is something about this quiet time - just me and him - that gets him to open up. I wouldn't give it up for anything.<br />
<br />
It is late this time, and I am in a rush to get back home. I wait impatiently for the light to change, as I watch a man in a wheelchair cross the street and struggle to get up on the curb. No one seems to notice. He tries two or three times. People hurry by, oblivious to his struggles - all but one man who stops to help and waits to make sure he is okay before he goes on. <br />
<br />
I point it out to my son. <br />
<br />
"Do you see that?" I ask. "That was really nice of him."<br />
<br />
He looks at me, surprised. "Why is that even worth mentioning? It's not nice - it's normal. It's how it <em>should </em>be. It's what anyone would do."<br />
<br />
I know it's not what anyone would do. I just watched people walk right by and ignore it. I see it all the time. <br />
<br />
But I know without a doubt that it's what my son would do. I know it wouldn't even occur to him to do any different. I know he'd notice when someone is struggling or needs help. I know he'd notice when someone is lonely or hurting. And I know he'd never just pass them by without offering his help. I know this because I know the kind of person he is.<br />
<br />
I look at him, and as he talks, I am struck by how much he's grown, by how much he's matured. It happened so gradually that I could have missed it. He is my child, but he's an adult now. A sensitive, generous, giving adult. An adult I am so proud to have had a part in raising.<br />
<br />
I know that who he is...who he became...is not to my credit. I know that we parents can do all the right things, but we have no control over the end result. And I know that I did not always do all the right things.<br />
<br />
I don't know why I am so lucky, why I am so blessed.<br />
<br />
The Baal Shem Tov taught that every prayer is answered, but the answer may not be what we expect, when we expect it. <br />
<br />
I've been through challenges and hardships. I know pain. And I've prayed. <br />
<br />
Sometimes those prayers were answered. But often, they were not. And I've wondered...where did those prayers go? Where are those tears?<br />
<br />
My son is turning into a beautiful adult, following in the path of his older siblings. They are everything I could ever have wished for. They are all my hopes and dreams come true. Maybe this is where all those prayers went. Maybe this is the result of my tears. Maybe I was not meant to have whatever it is I prayed for. But those prayers were not wasted.<br />
<br />
And...if this is where they went, if this is how my prayers were answered, if this is what I was given instead of what I prayed for...I am grateful. If all my prayers and tears were gathered and saved just for this...I am blessed. I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world. It is worth all the pain...all the anguish...all the tears - it's worth it all. <br />
<br />
It is the answer to my prayers.Mystery Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06261372717440893787noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665385599853681934.post-77061964615053297932012-11-27T12:08:00.001-05:002012-11-27T12:08:03.448-05:00The Gift of Fading MemoryThere are occasions in our lives, when our emotions are so powerful, our pain so strong or our work so difficult, that we are certain we will remember it forever. Every detail is etched on our minds and hearts, and we know we could never forget. <br />
<br />
We do remember for a while. And then the memory fades, allowing us to put the experience behind us - perhaps to even grow from it - and move on with our lives.<br />
<br />
It's a blessing, really.<br />
<br />
During one such time in my life, we were asked to temporarily host a ten year old boy with some serious issues. He stayed with us for three weeks before he had to be placed in the psychiatric ward of the hospital.<br />
<br />
I don't remember a lot about those weeks. I don't think I want to. But I do remember that it was more physically and emotionally draining than I ever imagined it could be, and that it took a tremendous toll on everyone in the family and turned our lives upside-down.<br />
<br />
I remember how I felt so sad that he ended up in the hospital despite all our efforts to keep him out; and at the same time, so relieved to have my life back.<br />
<br />
And after it was all over, I remember telling a friend how this was the most difficult three weeks of my life.<br />
<br />
Looking back, I don't know that it was. I've had other challenges that were at least as difficult, if not more so. But time passed. I forgot...and I healed. And those other things didn't seem so hard anymore. <br />
<br />
With time, the same thing happened with this. I thought I'd never undertake anything like this ever again. But when I was recently asked to have a boy in my son's class stay with us for a few days, I agreed. The memories of that ordeal have faded, the hardships have dimmed. I can hardly remember why I found it so excruciating. <br />
<br />
Meanwhile, those few days are stretching into weeks, and he's still with us.<br />
<br />
It's a funny thing, the mind. <br />
<br />
The heart, too.<br />
<br />
There are times I've been so hurt...in so much pain...I didn't know if I could ever heal. <br />
<br />
But time passed. The hurt faded. And sometimes, when I look back, I almost can't remember what it was that hurt so intensely. Almost. <br />
<br />
When that happens, I am finally able to judge favorably; to try to see things from another point of view. Maybe even forgive. <br />
<br />
It's a blessing.Mystery Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06261372717440893787noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665385599853681934.post-16042539293262315572012-11-20T11:41:00.001-05:002012-11-20T11:41:51.817-05:00One Step At A TimeI couldn't do it. I just couldn't.<br />
<br />
I've been with the chevra kaddisha for a while, and there is very little that fazes me. I've seen a lot. And most of the time, I get down to work and do what I am there to do. It never becomes routine, and I never get used to seeing the pain that people suffer, but I can put my feelings aside while I get the job done.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, though, I can see at first glance that it will be difficult, and for a minute, I get a feeling of dread. Only for a minute. The feeling quickly passes, as I start doing whatever needs to be done. <br />
<br />
This time, I was prepared in advance. I knew it would be difficult. But I had no idea how difficult until I was there. I took one look, and I knew I couldn't do it.<br />
<br />
I looked around at the women who were there with me. I was the most experienced of the group, and they were watching me and waiting for my direction. It was up to me to get them started, to tell them what needs to be done and how we were going to do it. They were counting on me.<br />
<br />
"I can't do this," I told them. "<em>I can't do it</em>."<br />
<br />
I saw the look in their eyes turn to panic. One woman removed her apron.<br />
<br />
"It's impossible," she said. "She's just going to have to buried the way she is. There's nothing we can do."<br />
<br />
I was tempted to agree. I felt so overwhelmed...I had no idea how to accomplish what needed to be done. I didn't know where to start. But I knew this was my responsibility.<br />
<br />
"No," I said, sounding more confident than I felt. "We can do it. We <em>have</em> to do it. Let's get started."<br />
<br />
Thinking about the whole process and the ultimate goal was daunting, but I <em>could</em> think about the first step. We could start with one step, and worry about the next step when that was done.<br />
<br />
We could do it. One step at a time.<br />
<br />
It's like life, kind of.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I look at my life, and I'm overwhelmed. There are so many things I need to fix, so much to do, so much I want to be. I look at my role models, and I know that this is how I would like to be some day. But it's daunting. I don't know where to start. It's too hard. I just want to give up. <br />
<br />
But I know I can do it. One step at a time. <br />
<br />
This is a lesson of the Chanukah menorah. We light one small flame at a time, representing small steps, but we aspire to ultimately kindle all of the candles. <br />
<br />
The ultimate goal may be drastic change, but it has to be accomplished taking one step at a time.Mystery Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06261372717440893787noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665385599853681934.post-68144719111153851722012-11-05T16:22:00.001-05:002012-11-05T16:48:44.344-05:00To Give Or Not To Give<span style="font-family: inherit;">I spent my day yesterday getting gas. </span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">All day. Seven hours. </span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">I didn't even come prepared. I didn't bring anything to do or read while I waited. I had no idea I would wait that long. Had I known, I would never have gotten on that line. I wasn't even that desperate for the gas. </span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">So I had plenty of time to watch the people outside my window. I got to know the drivers of the cars around me. I watched how people who started the day smiling became irritable as the day wore on. I witnessed the fight that broke out when someone cut the line and patience was wearing thin. I observed the man two cars ahead of mine who got out and pushed his car every time the line inched forward so as not to use whatever gas he had, and who, after waiting five hours, chose to leave.</span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Then, about three hours into my wait, I watched a man and his little girl walk from car to car offering candy and chocolate. And suddenly, the mood lifted, and there were smiles. People got out of their cars and talked to other drivers.</span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">One small act of kindness, so much light.</span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Why did he do it? </span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Last week, my son and his friends drove to Sea Gate, an area that was hit hard by Hurricane Sandy, and helped some of the residents pack their belongings and load the trucks so they could leave. </span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Why?</span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Why did they leave their comfortable, dry yeshiva building to go help some people they didn't even know? </span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Why do we give? </span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">In this week's parsha, Eliezer asks Rivka for some water from the well. She notices that he is leading a whole caravan of thirsty camels, and she voluntarily brings enough water for Eliezer and all of his camels. She had one motivation - to give to someone else with kindness. </span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Giving leads to caring. Every time we give, we invest ourselves in the lives of others and we become deeper and richer for it. </span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">But the more we give, the more we care, and the more we open ourselves up to hurt.</span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">The <span glossary_item="7529" onclick="Co.Tools.Content.Glossary.CompleteShow(this);" onmouseout="Co.Tools.Content.Glossary.Hide(this);" onmouseover="Co.Tools.Content.Glossary.Show(this);">Chasam Sofer</span> once did an enormous favor for someone, who later asked him, “What can I ever do to repay you for your kindness?” The Chasam Sofer replied, “One day, when you get upset and angry with me, please remember what I have done for you today. And, rather than pelting me with big rocks, please throw small stones instead.” </span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">I don't give in order to receive. I don't give because I want the appreciation. A thank you can feel so rewarding, but it is not the reason I give. </span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">But I am human. </span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">I don't need the thank you, but when I am pelted with rocks, it hurts. </span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">I sometimes think about protecting myself, about being more careful with how much I give and not opening myself up to hurt. I'm only human.</span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">But...is this the kind of person I want to become? Is this who I want to be?</span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">So when I find myself faced with the opportunity to do someone a favor, and a little voice inside me says, "She doesn't appreciate what you do for her," I won't listen and I will do it anyway. And when the voice says, "He will pelt you with big rocks," I won't listen and I will do it anyway. </span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">When I have the opportunity to give, I will give. </span><br />
<br /><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">I will do it because it is the right thing. And because that is the kind of human I want to be.</span>Mystery Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06261372717440893787noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665385599853681934.post-7936242874501870652012-07-04T15:57:00.000-04:002012-07-04T15:57:58.211-04:00A Year Later...My daughter is late. <br />
<br />
I don't worry. Maybe she stopped at some stores on the way home. Maybe she's walking with friends and lost track of time. Maybe she stayed at school late.<br />
<br />
But...it's getting later. And she's still not home. It's a short Friday afternoon. She usually comes straight home. I'm still not worried. Not really. But there is that tiny, familiar fear inside me. <em>What if she meant to come straight home, but something happened? What if she's not okay? What if she never even got to school?? </em>My chest feels tight. I imagine the worst. <br />
<br />
I call a few friends. They don't know where she is. It's really late now, and I'm worried.<br />
<br />
By the time she walks into the house, I am frantic. She doesn't seem to understand why. I'm not sure I understand it, either. I could have thought of a hundred plausible explanations for her lateness. I <em>did</em>. But I also thought of a hundred frightening possibilities. <br />
<br />
Because, for some people, those things really happened.<br />
<br />
This week marks the first yahrtzeit of Leiby Kletzky.<br />
<br />
I spent most of last summer driving my very independent little boy to and from camp. He would not be walking himself anymore. It was too dangerous. There were monsters waiting to prey on little boys who walked home alone. No monster was going to get <em>my</em> little boy. I would make sure of that. <br />
<br />
Life goes on. And eventually, I allowed him to walk himself. I needed to let my little boy grow up. It was time.<br />
<br />
But something changed for me. I am no longer the same calm, easygoing mother I once was. I worry now. When my little boy walks home himself, I worry. When my kids go swimming, I worry. When they go on school trips, I worry.<br />
<br />
Bad things happen. I know that now. Not somewhere out there, to someone I don't know and don't relate to. Right here, to someone in the same camp as my little boy, walking the same route home. And it scares me. <br />
<br />
May we soon merit the fulfillment of the prophecy: "I will turn their mourning into joy and will comfort them and make them rejoice from their sorrow" <br />
<br />
May Leiby's neshama have an aliya. <br />
<br />Mystery Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06261372717440893787noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665385599853681934.post-84756082791092659722012-05-22T13:53:00.000-04:002012-05-22T13:59:35.058-04:00The Giver of LifeThe first thing I noticed was her French manicure.<br />
<br />
And then I saw her arm. <br />
<br />
I've seen a lot in my work with the chevrah kaddisha, but this unnerved me, and I had to look away.<br />
<br />
At the age of 69, she decided that life wasn't worth living, and she jumped to her death. Out of her third floor apartment's window.<br />
<br />
And I, together with 3 other women, were left to clean up the mess and prepare her for burial.<br />
<br />
I was shaken up after I was done with that tahara. It wasn't about death. I've seen enough of that. And it wasn't even about the condition of her body. It wasn't the worst I've seen. It was about <em>how</em> her body came to be in this condition. About what she did.<br />
<br />
Taharas don't scare me. Death doesn't scare me. It's the way of the world. We are born, we grow old and we die. <br />
<br />
But this....this is not the way of the world. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Life has its ups and downs. And I've had my fair share of them. I know pain. But I don't know the feeling that life is not worth living. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">How much pain does it take to make someone want to just end it all? How much suffering must one go through to make them decide to end their life? What does it take to make one feel that their life is not worthwhile?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">The Gemara says that Hashem never challenges us with more than He has empowered us to handle. So how can we explain a pain so unbearable that it causes one to take her own life in such a violent way? </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #990000;"><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">Honestly...sometimes we <em>do</em> get more than we can handle. It happens. Sometimes it's just...<em>too...much</em>. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Sometimes, for some people, the pain is so sharp and overwhelming that people suffering from an onslaught of it are hardly in control of themselves. They just want the pain to stop. </span><br />
<br />
According to Judaism, we do not own our soul or body, and we are not free to end life when we want. Life belongs to the Giver of Life. And the consequences for taking one's life are severe.<br />
<br />
But there are those who commit suicide out of extreme distress and emotional agony. We leave it up to the Giver of Life to know whether this person really had any free choice left in his soul. It is not our job to judge.<br />
<br />
So she received a Jewish burial and we performed the tahara. The most unsettling and heartbreaking tahara I ever did.<br />
<br />
May we always remember how precious and valuable life is.Mystery Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06261372717440893787noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665385599853681934.post-29356839778523884962012-04-17T16:30:00.002-04:002012-04-17T16:33:04.834-04:00A Million Pieces"He seems smitten," the shadchan tells me after the third date. <br />
<br />
"He's smitten," I repeat to my daughter. She grins, and I know she is equally smitten. It is all moving so fast, I can barely catch my breath. <br />
<br />
"What does smitten mean?" my little boy asks. <br />
<br />
"You know...like the firstborn in Mitzrayim were smitten," my daughter explains. "Like...hit hard." My daughter is laughing, and my little boy is not happy with her explanation. <br />
<br />
It's good to see her so excited. So this is how it is, I think. Just when it all seems so hopeless, along comes the right one. All those dry months, waiting for the phone to ring. And then it does ring. And they seem so right for each other. She likes him. He likes her. Everything falls into place. <br />
<br />
It all just seems so...<em>right</em>. <br />
<br />
And then it's over. <br />
<br />
As quickly as it started, it's over. <br />
<br />
<br />
I would die for my children. I knew that instantly, the moment they were born. I hope I am never tested, but I wonder sometimes if seeing them in pain and knowing there is nothing I can do to take it away isn't harder, in some way.<br />
<br />
I want to be able to tell her that it'll be ok. That this wasn't bashert. That someone more wonderful will come along soon. But I don't know that it's true. How can I know?<br />
<br />
My heart aches for her. I wish I could fix this somehow. I wish I could take the pain away. I wish I could feel it for her. Instead of her.<br />
<br />
But I can't. I see her anguish and it's breaking my heart into a million pieces.<br />
<br />
And there's nothing I can do.Mystery Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06261372717440893787noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665385599853681934.post-66806227967152419072012-03-13T14:14:00.001-04:002012-03-13T14:15:48.101-04:00When It Doesn't Make SenseThey were sitting around on Shabbos afternoon, when the conversation turned serious. The boy who was hit with a bat before Purim is the nephew of my son's friend. He is in critical condition, and my son was upset. <br />
<br />
"Imagine how the boy who hit him feels," my daughter said. <br />
<br />
There were sighs all around as that thought sank in. <br />
<br />
"It's like Suri Brisk's chosson," she continued. "Imagine how <em>he</em> feels."<br />
<br />
I couldn't even begin to imagine. <br />
<br />
"I can't believe she's gone." She sighed deeply. "She was just a couple of years older than me. Just a regular girl from a regular family. It doesn't make sense."<br />
<br />
<br />
Someone I've been working very closely with every day is now fighting for her life. She was fine just a short time ago. She's just a regular woman with a regular family. With a husband and children who need her. <br />
<br />
It doesn't make sense.<br />
<br />
<br />
As I write this, I wonder if I spend too much time focusing on the things that don't make sense to me - on the times I don't see Hashem - the times when He is hidden.<br />
<br />
<br />
"Why didn't you make kreplach this year?" my little boy asked me on Purim. Kreplach are traditionally eaten on Purim because the hidden filling is reminiscent of the hidden nature of the Purim miracle.<br />
<br />
"I made stuffed cabbage," I told him. "It's the same idea. The meat filling is hidden inside the cabbage."<br />
<br />
"Right," he agreed, "hamantashen too."<br />
<br />
"Not really." I wasn't sure. "The filling in hamantashen isn't hidden. It's peeking out a bit."<br />
<br />
"Like the Purim nes!" He smiled as he explained. "Hashem wasn't completely hidden. He was peeking out a bit."<br />
<br />
<br />
There are times I do see Him, of course. There are times when the miracles are so obvious. I only need to look at my sweet granddaughter, at each of my children, at all the good I'm blessed with, to see <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Him peeking out. It's easy to see Him then.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">But I need to take the message of Purim and discover Hashem even when He is concealed. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Even when it doesn't make sense.</span>Mystery Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06261372717440893787noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665385599853681934.post-82854868409207592162012-02-08T11:45:00.000-05:002012-02-08T11:46:07.266-05:00Instant LoveI look back at photos from when my kids were little, and it seems like a lifetime ago.<br />
<br />
My presence is just as necessary to my kids these days as it was when I was getting up in middle of the night. It is still emotionally and intellectually demanding to have these people in my life – children whose world has become so complex – children who have reached an age where their heartbreaks can no longer be repaired with a hug. <br />
<br />
But I miss those days. The days of endlessly pushing a child on a swing. Of rereading One Fish Two Fish for the millionth time. Of tantrums and spilled milk. <br />
<br />
Sometimes, I'd give anything to return to those days.<br />
<br />
<br />
Maybe that's why we are given grandchildren.<br />
<br />
As I hold this beautiful new baby, I am filled with such happiness and love. She turns my heart upside down and gives me so much joy that it brings a lump to my throat and makes my heart want to burst. And I could wish for nothing more at this moment in time. <br />
<br />
Instant love.<br />
<br />
It takes me back to the time when I held my own babies, looking into their eyes with wonder and awe. <br />
<br />
Once again, I can live through the joy of watching a baby grow. I have been given a second chance to experience that first step…those first words…that first tooth - this time with more wisdom and experience. <br />
<br />
I received the blessing of life and love and so much sunshine. And I'm so grateful.<br />
<br />
Welcome, my sweet little granddaughter, to the world and to my heart.Mystery Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06261372717440893787noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665385599853681934.post-50013632255640395012011-12-27T11:50:00.001-05:002011-12-27T12:52:38.070-05:00Miracles<em>Chanukah doesn't go by in my home without a discussion of the Bais Yosef's question. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>The Bais Yosef asks, since the untainted flask contained enough oil to burn for one day, nothing miraculous happened on that first day. The miracle was only the following seven days. So why is Chanukah celebrated for eight days?</em><br />
<br />
<br />
I sit near my friend at the Bar Mitzvah. Her baby is with her. He always is - it's hard to find someone to stay with him. As always, the conversation revolves around him. His doctors and therapies, his surgeries, his progress, his needs. And her guilt. What she could have done...what she should have done. <br />
<br />
She is tired. And sad. And overwhelmed. And so alone. She waited so long for this baby, and she just wants him to be okay. Is that so much to ask? <br />
<br />
But he's not okay. And he never will be. There will be progress, hopefully, but he will never be okay. And some days, that is too much for her to bear. <br />
<br />
I play with him while we talk. He's so sweet. He looks at me with big, blue eyes, and smiles. He's almost two, but he looks about half that age. And as I listen to her, I hear strength beneath the pain. She tells me that she was told that before a person is born, he is shown his entire life, with all its challenges, and he agrees to it all. She agreed to <em>this</em> challenge. She knew, and she agreed. And, more importantly, <em>he </em>agreed. He agreed to be born with these special needs. And, somehow, that is a comfort to her. <br />
<br />
<br />
I went to visit my sister and her new baby in the hospital. He is alert and beautiful and so cute. And he's <em>healthy</em>. And I am aware of how much there is to be grateful for. I know that there is so much that can go wrong, and I understand how miraculous it is when everything is right. <br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Every year, my children offer new answers to the Bais Yosef's question. But my favorite answer is so simple.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>We celebrate for eight days to teach us that even natural events take place only because Hashem wants them to. The burning of oil is no less miraculous than would be the burning of water. The first day's lighting is to remind us that even the normal burning of oil is a miracle. </em><br />
<em></em> <br />
<em>Even natural events are miraculous. </em>Mystery Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06261372717440893787noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665385599853681934.post-27289559561670768292011-12-07T13:25:00.000-05:002011-12-07T13:28:58.956-05:00When Children DieI was in eighth grade when I discovered that children die. I must have known before, but I didn't really know. It was something that happened somewhere. Not here. Not to anyone I knew. <br />
<br />
The girl who sat behind me in class came home one day with a headache, and fell into a coma. She died a few days later. I couldn't accept it. Children don't die. Children shouldn't die.<br />
<br />
But they do.<br />
<br />
And as I grow older, I become more familiar with death. People die. Children die. They die suddenly. They die because of illnesses or accidents or murder. Sweet, innocent children. And I can't accept it. I can't understand it. <br />
<br />
And I cry. I cry for them. I cry for their mothers and fathers. I can't even begin to imagine their agony, but I cry because I share their sadness. <br />
<br />
But I can't accept it. And I don't understand it. <br />
<br />
My sister's kitchen window overlooks a cemetery. A baby cemetery. So many little gravestones marking tiny graves. I don't look out the window when I'm there. In my mind, looking is some sort of acceptance. And I don't want to accept it.<br />
<br />
Last week, I was asked to do a tahara. I rarely decline when I'm called for a tahara. But this time it was for an eight year old little girl. I didn't do it. I couldn't. I couldn't deal with it. Little girls shouldn't die. <br />
<br />
I want to understand why this little girl died. Why all those little girls and boys died. I <em>need</em> to understand.<br />
<br />
Someone once told me, in Heaven there are no questions. All our questions will be answered when we get there, and we will understand everything that we were not able to understand down here. <br />
<br />
But I am not rushing to get there. <br />
<br />
I don't understand, but I am not in a rush to understand. For now, I will try to accept that what Hashem does is good.<br />
<br />
Even if I can't understand.Mystery Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06261372717440893787noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665385599853681934.post-21240542533313799552011-10-31T13:00:00.000-04:002011-10-31T13:02:01.095-04:00A Mother's WorryThe phone call shook me up.<br />
<br />
My little boy walks home from school. Himself. It was hard for me to let go again after the horrific events of this summer. But he is old enough to do it, he is ready for it, and it's what he wants. So, despite my uneasiness, I understood that this was the right thing. <br />
<br />
The woman on the phone introduced herself. She saw my little boy standing on a street corner looking confused and she offered her help. She described where they were, and my heart stopped. <br />
<br />
It was a spot so many of us became familiar with as we watched Leiby Kletzky, lost and alone, finally walk off with a monster. <br />
<br />
It's a confusing corner. My little boy was ok. He would have figured it out on his own. He was never in any real danger.<br />
<br />
But I couldn't stop shaking.<br />
<br />
<br />
From the moment my first child was born, I promised myself that I'd keep him safe. I'd protect my children forever. I'd shield them from life's harshness.<br />
<br />
I can't do that, of course. <br />
<br />
But I can worry.<br />
<br />
I worry when they leave the house in the morning. I worry about them crossing the streets. I worry when I see cars speeding around a corner. I take a mental count of all my children when I hear a siren or a short stop. I worry if one of them looks pale. I worry about them making friends. I worry about shidduchim.<br />
<br />
And then they grow older, and they move out on their own. <br />
<br />
And I still worry.<br />
<br />
<br />
My son and daughter-in-law came for Succos. I love seeing them. I love seeing my son in this new role, and I love seeing how happy they are.<br />
<br />
My daughter-in-law was not feeling well one morning, and we had a bit of a scare. She was ok, but I worried for the rest of Yom Tov.<br />
<br />
<br />
One of Chava's punishments is tzaar gidul banim – the pain of raising children. She will be tired and stressed and overworked. There will be the daily pressures and the inevitable crises. <br />
<br />
But it's deeper than that. Her curse is her mother love. She will spend all her days worrying about her children. There is pain in that love. <br />
<br />
But along with the pain, there is beauty. It is a unique love. <br />
<br />
<br />
I realized that I will never stop worrying. <br />
<br />
My children will grow up and leave home. There will be new people joining our family. And every new family member is another person to worry about.<br />
<br />
And another person to love.Mystery Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06261372717440893787noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665385599853681934.post-55693281919229332072011-08-15T14:41:00.001-04:002011-08-15T14:42:40.787-04:00Shidduch TumultThe photos in Hamodia intrigued me, and I scanned them carefully, hoping to see my son. I found the concept of chavrusa tumult fascinating. The photos show thousands of boys milling about outside of the yeshiva, and somehow, by the end of the week, most of those boys are paired up with a chavrusa.<br />
<br />
The system is pretty simple. Anyone in need of a chavrusa participates. If Chaim needs a chavrusa, he would talk to several people and describe what he's looking for. Someone he approaches might have a suggestion for him. So if, say, Shimon was suggested, he'd seek him out, they'd talk for a bit, and decide if they are right for each other. If they are, a match is made. If not, Chaim would move on and try again, until he finds the right match.<br />
<br />
Kind of like speed dating.<br />
<br />
I'm sure others before me have suggested shidduch tumults. But, of course, that can never happen. We can't have the boys and girls milling about on the streets of Lakewood now, can we?<br />
<br />
There's another way to go about this, though. We can have the thousands of boys and thousands of girls in need of shidduchim milling about - separately. And then the <em>parents</em> would be the ones asking the questions, listening to suggestions and talking to any potential matches. Give me five minutes with a boy, and I can tell whether he's a good possibility - or not even in the ballpark. <br />
<br />
I'm not sure what would happen when we find one, or even several, good possibilities. Realistically, we can't get the boy and the girl to talk for a few minutes, although I like that idea. We'd probably have to give the names we have to a shadchan and then go the regular route. <br />
<br />
So what do we gain? For the boys and their parents, probably not very much. But for the girls, a lot. <br />
<br />
Anyone with sons in shidduchim knows how often the phone rings. They know about the lists of girls. They don't need any changes in the system. The system will work for them. <br />
<br />
But for anyone with daughters in shidduchim, the experience is usually very different. The phone doesn't ring as often, and when it does, you can't imagine how anyone could have come up with something so wrong. When an appropriate suggestion finally does come up, your daughter becomes a name on someone's list. <br />
<br />
And that's the problem.<br />
<br />
A shadchan once called me with a name that sounded promising. I asked her to talk to the boy's parents first, and I will do my research if they are interested. They were not. There was some issue they couldn't get past. <br />
<br />
Several weeks later, the shadchan called me back. They changed their minds. They're interested now. <br />
<br />
I was confused, and wondered about the issue. <br />
<br />
Apparently, it was no longer an issue for them. The mother had seen my daughter somewhere and she liked what she saw. My daughter went from being a name on the list - on paper - to being a real, live person. And suddenly, those minor "issues" didn't matter anymore. <br />
<br />
And that is why a shidduch tumult seems like such a good idea. <br />
<br />
It would be kind of like the <a href="http://mysterywomantome.blogspot.com/2011/02/my-daughter-cow.html">cattle sales</a>, where a mother comes to a wedding to check out a girl, only this would be like some mass cattle sale, with hundreds of mothers participating.<br />
<br />
Can this actually work? Probably not.<br />
<br />
Would I want it to work?<br />
<br />
I don't know.<br />
<br />
Just a short while ago, I objected to sending a picture of my daughter to a shadchan. I caved on that one. And then I even allowed the cattle sale. Now this? <br />
<br />
I guess I'm not desperate enough yet...Mystery Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06261372717440893787noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665385599853681934.post-49218133547114449182011-07-26T10:55:00.002-04:002011-07-26T10:58:48.890-04:00The Forty Challah BakersThere are two sides to the segulos debate. There are the firm believers in the effectiveness of segulos, those who believe in their mystical, magical power. And there are those who deny their validity, and will not participate in any segulah events.<br />
<br />
I am somewhere in the middle. The sources of many of our commonly practiced segulos are found in seforim and go back hundreds of years. I have no problem with those. But there seems to be new segulos every day, with no known source, and I'm skeptical. <br />
<br />
So when a friend called me late Thursday and asked me to join a group of 40 challah bakers, I agreed because she needed that favor from me. But I was worried. I hoped I wasn't ruining anything by not fully believing in what I was going to do.<br />
<br />
I'd heard about the 40 challah bakers segulah. Each of the 40 women would make the bracha on the challah in their own homes, usually for the refuah shleima, or some sort of yeshua, for a specific person. <br />
<br />
This was a new twist to that segulah. This time, all 40 women would get together in one person's home, bringing their own dough, and taking challah together.<br />
<br />
I prepared my dough in the morning, and drove to the address I was given. I parked nearby, and sat in the car for several moments, watching women stream towards the house, lugging huge towel covered bowls of dough. I wasn't quite sure that there was any merit to what I was about to do, but the sight moved me. <br />
<br />
We began by lighting candles. The woman who organized this gathering spoke for a few minutes. She spoke about her passion for the mitzvah of challah baking, and how she took that passion to another level. She spoke a little bit about the woman in whose merit we were doing this. She is a young mother battling cancer. She recently had to be put on a respirator, and her prognosis seemed bleak.<br />
<br />
We took turns taking challah and reciting the bracha aloud, with everyone answering amen. The first woman broke down halfway through her bracha. Women sobbed openly. Something stirred inside me.<br />
<br />
Then we said Tehillim. The entire Tehillim was divided between the 40 women, so that the entire sefer was completed.<br />
<br />
I looked around me. I don't know if the number 40 has any meaning, but there is power in numbers - whatever the number is. All these women left their homes on a busy Friday morning - on the hottest day of the year - to daven for a woman most of them do not even know...to beg Hashem to spare her...to plead with Hashem on behalf of the children who still desperately need their mother. The emotion was palpable. I don't know what we were accomplishing. But it was powerful. <br />
<br />
I heard the next day that the woman we davened for was taken off the respirator late Friday afternoon.<br />
<br />
Coincidence?<br />
<br />
I don't know. Maybe.<br />
<br />
Am I sold? Did I join the ranks of the firm believers? <br />
<br />
No. I'm still a skeptic. I still believe in the power of tefillah over the power of segulos. I am still curious about the sources, and wonder where these segulos were 20 years ago.<br />
<br />
Would I do it again?<br />
<br />
Absolutely. In a heartbeat.Mystery Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06261372717440893787noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665385599853681934.post-17971704261757576562011-07-18T11:41:00.006-04:002011-07-18T11:45:24.620-04:00Moving OnI can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes, Leiby is there...walking home by himself, happy and carefree as only a young child can be...and then so scared when he realizes he is lost. I feel his fear, and my heart hurts. <br />
<br />
I force myself to think about something else. I don't want my mind to go any further. I don't want to imagine what he must have felt later. I try to think happy thoughts. But everything leads back to the same thing. <br />
<br />
And somehow, in my half asleep/ half awake state, that little boy becomes my little boy, and I am jolted awake, my heart pounding, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps. <br />
<br />
I close my eyes, and I visualize how "he fought back a little bit", according to the killer's confession. I see him struggling, fighting for his life, and of everything I read, that is what causes me the most anguish, and I am tormented by nightmares. I can't bear to think about that sweet little boy's terror and feeling of helplessness. And I can't sleep.<br />
<br />
I get up and go to my little boy's room. I kiss him gently, careful not to wake him. And I'm grateful that he's safe in his bed. <br />
<br />
I think about Leiby's mother. How is a mother supposed to go on after this? How can she cope with the pain? How will life ever return to normal?<br />
<br />
I can't sleep. I am afraid to close my eyes. I am sad. <br />
<br />
And yet...this morning I smiled. <br />
<br />
I don't remember what it was that made me smile. But it bothered me. How can I smile? How was I able to forget for that moment...and smile? <br />
<br />
And I know that I will smile again tomorrow. Laugh, even. All of us will. The pain will dull...the memories will fade. Time heals. Life will go on. That is the way of the world. <br />
<br />
And I'm sad.Mystery Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06261372717440893787noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665385599853681934.post-31120931547974974832011-07-13T10:53:00.001-04:002011-07-13T10:54:26.957-04:00Why?I woke my little boy up this morning, and I had to tell him the news. <br />
<br />
How do you tell a child something like this? How do you explain it? How do you even understand it? <br />
<br />
My son walked out of the same camp building on Monday, at the same time as Leiby. Maybe he even walked in the same direction. My son came home. Someone else's little boy did not. <br />
<br />
I'm a mother. I can't possibly feel the indescribable pain his parents must be suffering. But I can't stop crying. He's our child. We're one family, and their pain is our pain. <br />
<br />
I want an explanation. I need to understand. Why, Hashem...why?<br />
<br />
Perhaps there is a reason. Maybe I'm just too spiritually weak to understand. Maybe I don't <em>want</em> to understand. Maybe I don't want to hear that there can be something positive in this kind of horror - that I am merely seeing things from my small perspective, and I am unaware of a larger picture, of why this might be necessary.<br />
<br />
I drove my son to camp this morning. As I will do every morning for the rest of the summer. I don't know if I'm doing the right thing. He's old enough to walk. He's ready for that little bit of independence. I don't want to hover. I want to raise a secure child. I want to prepare him for adulthood, and keeping him tied to me is probably not the best way to achieve that. But I'm going to be selfish now. I'm scared. It could have been him. It could have been anyone.<br />
<br />
I just have to believe that ultimately what Hashem does is good. Even if my small mind can't comprehend it. <br />
<br />
So I wait. I wait for the day, some day in the future, when my questions will be answered. When my human mind will understand and appreciate. And meanwhile...I struggle.Mystery Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06261372717440893787noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665385599853681934.post-59510334818189541172011-06-29T11:33:00.001-04:002011-06-29T11:34:40.684-04:00If OnlyI met her for the first time shortly after I got married. She was old - late eighties or early nineties - and she suffered from senility. But she had a wonderful sense of humor and she was smart, and I liked her a lot.<br />
<br />
She'd ask me my name every time I saw her, as though we were being introduced for the first time. And she'd make the same comment and give me the same compliment every time. She seemed so happy when I had my first child. She asked me his name and how much he weighed. She held him and rocked him and sang to him. And then she asked me his name again, and how much he weighed. And then again a few minutes later.<br />
<br />
She couldn't remember what happened yesterday. But she remembered what happened seventy years ago.<br />
<br />
I heard about Yankel almost as soon as I met her. And every time I visited her. It was just bits and pieces each time and it was hard to make out the complete story. Yankel was the man she could have - or should have - married. I don't know why she didn't. I don't know if she spent her life regretting her decision. Her family seemed embarrassed by it and were reluctant to fill in the details. But I was drawn to the romance and so saddened by the longing in her voice. <br />
<br />
She married someone else - the person she'd ultimately spend the next seventy years with. They raised a large family, and, at least from her family's point of view, she had a good and happy life. <br />
<br />
But at the end of her life, she never forgot Yankel. <br />
<br />
Years later, I remember this woman. And I remember Yankel. And what saddens me most is the regret...how she lived the last years of her life regretting what could have been.<br />
<br />
<br />
Sometimes I find myself doing the same thing. I look back at my life - at things that happened, things I've been through - and I wish I could relive it. I wish I could go back and do things differently. I wish I knew then what I know today. I could have saved myself so much heartache...so much pain. <br />
<br />
But I don't want to be a ninety year old woman, looking back at my life with regrets. <br />
<br />
I couldn't have done things differently. Everything happened the way it was meant to. The decisions I made and all that I've been through contributed to the person I became. My life experience is a part of me. A part of who I am. <br />
<br />
And I don't regret that.Mystery Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06261372717440893787noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665385599853681934.post-18670199838687508052011-06-21T12:10:00.001-04:002011-06-21T12:13:54.866-04:00MoonlightMoonlight is gone. And my heart is aching.<br />
<br />
I'm not a big fan of animals. I can tolerate them - at the zoo or on a leash, but I don't find them cute or cuddly. My kids always knew not to bring home so much as a goldfish, and other than some passing phases, they mostly accepted that and inherited my distrust of anything on four legs.<br />
<br />
Well...except for my little boy. He plays by different rules. And he loves animals. <br />
<br />
A couple of months ago, he brought home a goldfish. I went on my well rehearsed rant about how this is a people house, and only humans live here...and how we don't have the right equipment or the know-how and it'll die and then what are we going to do with it. <br />
<br />
And then I let it stay - to my other kids' surprise and my little boy's delight.<br />
<br />
It lived for about a week. And when it died, I felt sad. For my little boy, mostly. But also for the loss of something that became a part of my home.<br />
<br />
Two weeks later, I was introduced to Moonlight. My little boy was walking home from school, when he passed a grocery. Apparently, a mama cat living in the store, had some kitties, and the grocer was giving them away. My little boy happily carried one home, never stopping to wonder about what his mother might think.<br />
<br />
While I am somewhat prepared to deal with the occasional carnival goldfish, nothing in my parenting experience prepared me for this.<br />
<br />
My little boy cried and pleaded.<br />
<br />
"I need to take care of her." He looked up at me through tear filled eyes. "She doesn't have a <em>mother</em>!"<br />
<br />
I watched my little boy as he held her protectively against him, and I let her stay.<br />
<br />
We settled her comfortably in the back yard, in a house my little boy built with his friends. He spent every spare minute out there with Moonlight, feeding her, holding her, playing with her, and I privately hoped she'd wander off one day soon and join some family of stray cats somewhere. <br />
<br />
I'm not sure how or when it happened, but at some point, Moonlight began to occupy some space in my heart and mind. Just a tiny space, at first. I'd drive down the block at night, and worry about her wandering into the street and getting hurt. I'd hear a kitten crying, and wonder if it's Moonlight, and hope she's okay. I'd see her curled up in the driveway, under the wheels of a car, and I'd call my little boy to come and put her somewhere safe. <br />
<br />
The worry was for Moonlight, too, but it was mostly for my little boy. He loved his kitten. And I loved how it brought out a sweet, gentle, nurturing side of him.<br />
<br />
Moonlight lived in our yard for about a month. And then she disappeared. <br />
<br />
We combed the neighborhood, looking for her. I knocked on doors. I talked to anyone who might have some information. We suspect that the crazy cat lady at the corner took her. But there's no way to verify it, and it's unlikely that she'd return her. <br />
<br />
So Moonlight is gone now. And my little boy is heartbroken.<br />
<br />
A tiny part of me is relieved. But most of me is mourning along with my little boy. I don't like cats, but I love my little boy. And his heart is broken. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdQh9j4iLIlyVDd7p9WEBuOjU5AVehiJUrfgI3JLNlc9C8wSbtvujHHsd16doHucbmHltHLttBDNMy7MaZUjtxnXtIdp6QoxU4DBPHZbQJ2D2H2qsKs-jlzXFDq9qLhNQ6gt9KnBIJIrs/s1600/picture+166+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" i$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdQh9j4iLIlyVDd7p9WEBuOjU5AVehiJUrfgI3JLNlc9C8wSbtvujHHsd16doHucbmHltHLttBDNMy7MaZUjtxnXtIdp6QoxU4DBPHZbQJ2D2H2qsKs-jlzXFDq9qLhNQ6gt9KnBIJIrs/s320/picture+166+%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Mystery Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06261372717440893787noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665385599853681934.post-5852346810894484752011-06-06T12:15:00.003-04:002011-06-06T12:20:39.571-04:00Bursting With PrideMy anonymity is very important to me, and I go to great lengths to protect it. My real life friends do not know I have a blog, and my blog friends know me only as Mystery Woman. <br />
<br />
So when something significant happens in my life, something that may give some clues to my identity, I won't share it here, or I'll wait some time before I do. <br />
<br />
But...I'm bursting.<br />
<br />
And I can trust you, O Internet, not to make any connections between the real me and the blogger me, right?<br />
<br />
So...please allow me to share a personal moment here.<br />
<br />
My little girl is valedictorian!<br />
<br />
I am so very proud.<br />
<br />
It is an acknowledgment of her efforts and accomplishments, her middos and her maturity, and a recognition of the sweet, good-hearted human being she is. <br />
<br />
And it's just another reminder of how my life as a mother is an answered prayer...a dream come true, and one of the greatest pleasures that exists.<br />
<br />
This is what it must feel like to kvell. <br />
<br />
I am blessed.Mystery Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06261372717440893787noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665385599853681934.post-3158427742665618612011-05-31T09:43:00.001-04:002011-05-31T09:44:20.291-04:00Unity In Diversity<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">I am raising my children in Boro Park - a community that evokes strong feelings in many people. It's a neighborhood that is touted as the epitome of chessed, and maligned for its rudeness and unfriendliness.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">There are great benefits to living where we do. My children are growing up surrounded by people whose homes are similar to ours, who dress the way we do, and who share our values.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">But there are also drawbacks. Living all your life with people who are just like you puts you at risk of developing an intolerance of people's differences, of contrasting and judging.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">It's not what I wanted for my children. I wanted them to learn to see past the clothing. To notice each person's special value. To appreciate the differences. And I was determined to teach them.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">It wasn't quite as easy as I thought it would be. They were used to seeing everyone wearing identical yarmulkas and similar clothing, and anyone who dared to be different was suspect. Stripes on a man's shirt set him apart. He was less frum. And I wanted them to understand the misconception.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">Some of my kids were able to grasp it pretty quickly. Others took a bit longer.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">My daughter was in high school, when we went to the mall one evening to shop for shoes. A man was sitting at the side, waiting, while his wife tried on one pair of shoes after another. He was dressed in a colored polo and a suede yarmulka, an open sefer on his lap, learning while he waited for his wife.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">Here was a lesson to be taught, and I grabbed the opportunity. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">"Look," I whispered to my daughter, "look at that man. Does it make any difference that he isn't wearing a black hat and a white shirt?"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">My daughter was impressed. She understood my point. But she didn't quite get it. In her mind, this was a rare exception.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">It wasn't until a little while later that she was finally able to really appreciate what I'd been trying so hard to get her to see. She switched to a different camp that summer - a camp that attracted girls from a variety of backgrounds and communities. Her close friends, from different states, were just as frum as she was. Maybe more so. And meeting their parents on visiting day, looking decidedy un-Boro Park, was incredibly eye-opening.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">Recently, an Ami Magazine article about Brisk featured a picture of the Brisker Rav with two sons. In the picture, one of his sons, R' Dovid Soloveitchik, is wearing a light gray suit and matching gray fedora, a common enough mode of dress at the time the photo was taken.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">"It used to be that one could wear a light gray hat and still be considered <em>choshuv</em>, I guess," my daughter said. "When did that change? And why?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">Why, indeed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
<span style="color: #444444;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #444444;">The giving of the Torah took place in the month of Sivan—the third month. In fact, the figure three is a constant motif<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"> in everything connected with the giving of the Torah.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: HE; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Why the number three? Surely the Torah was intended to be unique and to reveal the oneness of Hashem. The number one is what we would have expected.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">The giving of the Torah in the third month teaches us that Torah values diversity and individuality.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">The purpose of the giving of the Torah was indeed unity. But true unity is when a person recognizes the One in the many. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: inherit;">When he perceives unity in the midst of diversity.</span>Mystery Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06261372717440893787noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665385599853681934.post-10191512696790668672011-05-19T13:09:00.001-04:002011-05-19T13:10:46.301-04:00Letting GoIt was a beautiful Chol Hamoed morning, which was quickly turning into afternoon, as we spent hours on the phone deciding how to spend our day. We were in our late teens, getting ready to take our first tentative steps into the real world - too grown up for rides and amusement parks, but not quite ready to give them up. We finally settled on a trip to Astroland, where we'd hold on to our childhood for just a little bit longer. <br />
<br />
The park was crowded and the lines were long as I waited for my turn on the water flume. I watched a family climb into a boat, and I smiled in anticipation as I saw the boat begin its plunge, its occupants screaming in delight, their arms waving in the air. <br />
<br />
And then I watched in horror as the boat suddenly flipped over, spilling all who were in it into the water and onto the tracks. I watched in a haze as they stood up, blood running down their faces. All around me, people were screaming and running to help, while I stood frozen, numb, unable to move. <br />
<br />
I never talked about what I saw. I couldn't. I just wanted to bury it somewhere deep inside me and never think about it again. And I was successful - during the day. At night, the images haunted me, robbing me of my sleep. Every time I'd close my eyes, the scene would replay itself in slow motion. For weeks - maybe months - I was afraid of going to sleep. Afraid of the flashbacks and the nightmares. <br />
<br />
And I promised myself that when I'd have children, I wouldn't allow them on these rides. I'd protect them. <br />
<br />
Years passed. I got married and had children. And I didn't keep my promise. <br />
<br />
My little boy's day camp sent a DVD of last summer along with the camp application. He happily relived the excitement of camp as he watched the video. He showed me the carnival and the magic show and the trips. He was thrilled every time he caught sight of himself. And then he showed me the major trip. <br />
<br />
My older boys are more cautious, but my little boy is fearless. There is no ride big enough or wild enough to scare him. He'd try anything. Until now, I naively believed that the height requirements would keep him from riding all but the tamest of rides. Apparently, he'd grown past those requirements a while ago. I was uneasy as he showed me the rides he'd been on and told me about the new amusement park they'd be going to this summer, with even bigger and better rides. But I put aside my anxiety and smiled as I shared his excitement. <br />
<br />
I made a promise to myself many years ago, but it is a promise that would be unfair to my children. I may be uncomfortable with some of the things they do, but I can't let my fears deprive them of a normal childhood. <br />
<br />
Sometimes letting go takes more strength than holding on. <br />
<br />
I can't always protect them. I need to let go...to let them fly....and let Hashem take over.Mystery Womanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06261372717440893787noreply@blogger.com7