Fishin’ for the Truth

Fishin’ for the Truth -- this story was published in my book,  Bridging the Golden Gate, purchasing details on top of page. 

This is a true story, as told to me by Judy. Today, Judy is happily married and the mother of a large family. She lives on a small moshav north of Jerusalem. Her parents – very dear friends of mine -– moved to the same moshav after they retired. George and Roberta were brutally murdered late one night by a marauding raccoon (yes, you read that right).

It all began while I was studying at a prestigious college in Southern California. I wasn’t exactly what you would call the studious type, and I probably gained more from the dorm experience (and believe me, it really was an experience) than from my college classes, which, on the whole, consisted of such courses as “The Political Aspirations of the Indians in the Late 1800s” and “Understanding the Id Within You.” It would have been more advantageous for me to have taken “Basic Basket Weaving” or “Home Economics II,” but at the time, I imagined myself to be somewhat of an intellectual.

It was around two o’clock in the morning and I had just fallen into a deep sleep when my roommate, Marge, started shaking me and yelling in my ear. “Judy! Judy!” she screamed.

I rolled over and opened half an eye. “What’s the matter?” I mumbled.

“The pond in front of our dorm,” she gasped. “There’s a large machine there, sucking out the water. It looks like a gigantic Dracula.”

“Were you were planning to go swimming tonight?” I asked incredulously, before pulling the blanket over my head and turning to face the wall.

“Judy, WAKE UP. This is an emergency!” She was shouting directly into my ear.

“What’s the matter?” I was beginning to realize that I would not get anymore sleep that night.

“Those poor fishies in that pond; they'll die if we don’t do something to save them. This is our chance to really do something meaningful with our lives, Judy. Don’t you see? We’re the only ones who can save those poor animals from extinction. This is our chance; it’s up to us,” she concluded passionately.

I jumped out of bed, ready to save the world.

Within seconds, we raced out of our dorm and stood opposite the workers, who were coldly obeying orders and destroying the homeland of those poor innocent fish.

I tried addressing their sense of right and wrong. “Sirs,” I began, remembering the importance of always being respectful and tolerant, especially when trying to show another person that what they are doing is absolutely immoral. “I understand that you have families to support, and cannot afford to lose your source of income, but just think of those poor innocent fish who are also trying to survive. Couldn’t you show some compassion and STOP REMOVING THE WATER FROM THE POND?”

Although I tried to remain calm, I was so upset that I almost clobbered the workers as I screamed the last sentence at the top of my lungs.

The men just shrugged their shoulders, smiled (that really infuriated me) and continued with their job.

“Marge,” I said, all the while staring pointedly at the workers, “I don’t think we really have any choice at this point. We’ll just have to wait for them to finish and then save whatever fish manage to survive this … this …” I had no idea what word I could use to describe this horrible deed. But I was enough of a Jew to realize that the term “holocaust” was inappropriate.

Both Marge and I plunked ourselves down on the grass overlooking the pond and between wiping our tears with the backs of our hands and shooting cold glances at the heartless workers, we kept a what-was-left-of-the- night vigil. Every once in a while we quietly started humming “We Shall Overcome.” We felt extremely righteous. 

The workers left at around five o’clock in the morning. Marge and I inched our way down to the now-empty pond, expecting to see dozens of dead or dying fish at the bottom. Instead, there was only one rather large carp lying perfectly still on top of the damp rocks.

“I think we’re too late,” sobbed Marge.

“It certainly looks that way,” I whispered.

The fish chose just that moment to flip into the air. 

“I think she’s dying,” I gasped.

“We’d better do something quick.”

“But how can we pick her up?” I asked.

“We’ll have to use our hands.”

“Ugh.”

“Remember, this is our chance to really make a difference. If we don’t save this fish, then no one will,” Marge explained passionately. “Perhaps, well, I know this is going to sound a bit superstitious, but Judy… maybe… maybe this is the reason that God decided to put us into this world. I’m not religious, so I really don’t believe in such things, but something deep inside of me, something deep in my soul, is telling me that each person must have a purpose in life. Perhaps this is it.”

“To save a fish?” I asked incredulously. But when I saw the pained look on Marge’s face, I realized that my words had been inappropriate. Marge had shared her deepest feelings with me, and I had not taken her seriously.

“You know,” I continued in a gentle voice, “you really do have a point there.” And with that, I slithered into the depths of the pond and grabbed the slimy fish with my bare hands.

“I’ve got it!” I yelled triumphantly.

We raced across the lawn and bounded up the two flights of stairs to our dorm room. “Quick, get it into the bathtub!” Marge whispered frantically.

Trying to be as quiet as we possibly could -– after all, it was not yet six o’clock in the morning –- we ran into one of the bathrooms and locked the door behind us. I was more than happy to release the fish while Marge filled the tub with water.

Within minutes, the fish was contentedly swimming up and down the length of the tub.

“We’ve done it!” screamed Marge, hugging me exuberantly. Her eyes brimmed with tears of joy. “We’ve actually done something meaningful with our lives,” she whispered in awe.

The two of us left the bathroom in a state of euphoria. We hoped to catch a few more hours of sleep before classes.

But it was not meant to be.

Fifteen minutes later, we were rudely awoken by the sounds of hysterical screaming coming from the far end of the hall. “The fish!” we both gasped simultaneously as we jumped out of bed.

Within seconds we were standing in the bathroom staring at the fish -- which had jumped out of the bathtub, skidded under the bathroom door and was flipping back and forth along the white tiled hallway.

I quickly scooped up the fish (with my bare hands – ugh) and unceremoniously dumped her back into the water.

“The show’s over,” Marge announced while wiping all traces of water from the floor.  The girls slowly started to disperse. The two of us dashed back to our room in an attempt to catch a few more minutes of precious sleep.

But as I realize now, that was simply not bashert. Instead of attending classes (no great loss, believe me), we ended up spending the entire morning sitting in the bathroom, picking up the fish and returning it to the water each time it jumped out of the bathtub.

“Marge,” I began, after I had scooped up the fish for the umpteenth time. “We just can’t go on like this. I absolutely must get some sleep.”

“I know,” she yawned, barely able to keep her own eyes open. “You’ve really got a point there. If we don’t get some sleep, we’ll collapse. So I guess I'll climb into bed while you take care of the fish. When I get up, you can go lie down.”

Something about what she said didn’t seem quite right, but I had no energy left to argue, and besides, she was already trotting off in the direction of our room.

Later that night, I decided that Marge and I must have a heart-to-heart talk. We had to come to a decision. “I think the fish misses its natural habitat. A bathtub will never do,” I began.

“You’re right,” Marge mumbled, still half asleep.

“My parents have a pond in their backyard. Tomorrow morning, let’s drive to their house and let our dear Fishie spend the remainder of its time on this earth enjoying the good life in my parent’s pond.”

My parents owned an enormous mansion set among Redwood trees of Northern California. I knew that if our fish got bored in the confines of our pond, it could enjoy itself in our swimming pool or Jacuzzi.

I left Marge to stand guard while I ran to the public telephone to call my parents. I asked them if it would be possible for me to bring a friend for the weekend. “Oh, and by the way,” I continued, trying to sound nonchalant, “we’re bringing along a fish.”

“A fish?” my mother asked, puzzled.

“A fish to put in the pond behind our house,” I replied, before regaling my mother with the heroic story of how we had rescued Fishie from extermination.

My mother didn’t say another word.  

The next day we set off on our historical journey to bring the fish to its new home.

“But how are we going to transport the fish?” Marge asked.

It occurred to me that lack of sleep was having an effect on Marge’s problem-solving abilities.

“That shouldn’t be difficult,” I smiled self-confidently. “I’ll fill my laundry tub with water, and we’ll put the fish inside. I’m sure it won’t even realize that anything unusual is going on.”

And so we set out on our journey. I drove, while Marge sat in the back, holding the laundry tub steady and gently pushing the fish back into the water every time it tried to jump out.

The first hundred miles passed without any difficulties. But just as we were about to pat ourselves on the back, a truck suddenly pulled in front of the car, forcing me to jam on the breaks. Everything went flying, including the tub with Fishie in it.

“She’s dead!” Marge wailed.

“I am not!” I pointed out indignantly.

“Not you,” she explained. “But look at Fishie.”

I decided to wait for a more auspicious time to have a serious discussion about the lack of concern Marge had shown for her best friend.

Fishie was flipping back and forth, desperate for more water. The two inches of liquid covering the bottom of the car was obviously not enough to sustain our beloved fish.

We realized that finding water was a matter of life and death.

I drove to the nearest exit and started searching for a gas station, while Marge hovered over the fish, wringing her hand and urging me to hurry. “If we don’t get her into a bucket of water, she’ll die,” Marge cried.

I pursed my lips and pressed harder on the gas pedal.

Even before the car came to a full stop, Marge had jumped out of the back door and was running frantically towards the gas station attendant. “Water! Quick! It’s an emergency!” she panted.

The attendant looked at my car and then at Marge. There was no smoke bellowing out of the engine. “The hose is over there,” he mumbled, walking away.

Marge dashed to the hose, while I carefully placed the fish in the laundry tub and gingerly carried it out to where Marge was impatiently waiting for me.

“Hurry up or she’ll die.” By now, both the attendant and his friends had stopped whatever they were doing to stare at us, wide-eyed. 

With as much dignity as we could muster, we filled the tub with water and lugged it back to the car. I still don’t understand why it didn’t occur to me to drive the car over to the hose. Perhaps the lack of sleep was taking its toll. But at least the fish didn’t try any more acrobatics. It was probably too exhausted.

Marge and I arrived at my parent’s house on Friday afternoon, less than an hour before sundown. My parents had mentioned to me something about how they had met a rabbi and that they had started keeping something they called Shabbos. I assumed that it was some passing fad to keep them busy while they went through the trauma of middle age.

When I opened the front door and saw my parents racing madly around the house, I just looked at my friend with bemusement and whispered, “I’ll put the fish in the pond and we’ll stay out of everyone’s way.” But the moment my mom caught sight of me, she stopped whatever it was that she was doing and became my mother again. “At least that hasn’t changed,” I thought.

Looking back at that first Shabbos, I realize how difficult it must have been for my parents as they tried to find their way in the spiritual desert of Northern California. They tried to share their enthusiasm for keeping Torah with Marge and me, but we just rolled our eyes and politely listened to their explanations. We were far more interested in the fate of our fish than the fate of our souls.

But still, when I heard Dad sing “Shalom Aleichem" with George and Roberta (George and Roberta were my parent’s pet cockatoos. My father had taught them how to sing “Shalom Aleichem” and “Eishes Chayil” and now they joined him – although slightly off-key -- every Friday night.) I felt something that I could not define. Today I realize that I had sensed kedusha -- holiness.

Of course my mom’s food was, as always, delicious, even if it was kosher. I even partook of her homemade gefilte fish with gusto, without once thinking about the fate of the poor fish that gave its soul for my gastronomical pleasure.

That Saturday night, my parent’s synagogue had planned a special melaveh malkah with a well-known guest speaker. My parents asked Marge and me if we would join them, and for lack of anything better to do, we agreed.

For me, that evening was the beginning of something that I can only describe as revolutionary. Perhaps it was the combination of the rabbi’s inspirational words after having experienced the beauty of Shabbos, or maybe it was the result of a vague feeling of emptiness that had been slowly gnawing at my insides. After all, Marge did have a point when she said, “Something deep inside of me, something deep in my soul, is telling me that each person must have a purpose in life.” I couldn’t imagine that it was just to save some fish from extinction.

After that weekend, I made a point of coming home as often as possible to spend Shabbos with my parents. After all, I couldn’t allow Dad to sing with only George and Roberta to accompany him! I enjoyed those Saturdays so much that within a few months, I, too, had become hooked on Shabbos.

A year later, we found Fishie floating belly-side up in my parent’s pond. But by then, I was not terribly upset. I had found my purpose in life and I didn’t need to rescue a fish to give my existence meaning.

Oh, and what ever happened to Marge? Last I heard, she was crusading to save the whales. But I really haven’t had much time to stay in touch with her. I’ve been much too busy taking care of my even-by-Israeli-standards large family, thank God. And no, none of my children are named Fischel.

Hand in Hand wwith Hashem, an interview with Devorah Leah Kievman

Just thinking about my friend Devorah Leah Kievman brings a smile to my lips. She is a person brimming with simchah — not that wild, unbridled euphoria that is often a camouflage for a broken heart, but a feeling of pervasive joy that comes from a sense of purpose.

The first time I met Devorah Leah, she welcomed me graciously into her living room and, without batting an eyelash, introduced me to her thirteen year old son, Shlomo Zalman, who at that exact moment was throwing all the toys off the shelves. "My son is extremely creative," she smiled, as she firmly put a stop to his destructive activity.

Her second son was sitting in a wheelchair next to the sofa. Lightly placing her hand on his shoulder, she continued, "This is my very special Chayim Yitzchok. He absolutely loves company. That's why, in honor of our guest, we're going to bring out some delicious nosh!" Chayim Yitzchok broke into a dazzling smile. "That's right, your favorite: chocolate chip cookies."

From the kitchen, I heard a voice call out, "Finally! I wondered how long we'd have to wait before we could eat those cookies."

"That's my Eli," Devorah Leah chuckled. "He's ten."

A few minutes later, Eli came out of the kitchen, carrying a tray laden with goodies. As he and his mother exchanged a few jokes, I looked around at the simple furnishings and at the two rambunctious children.

Devorah Leah, a single mother raising three very challenging children alone, , exudes a sense of calmness and self-confidence. Though I am old enough to be her mother, I immediately knew that Devorah Leah is one woman I would like to befriend.

Text:

I'm a single mother with three absolutely delicious children: Shlomo Zalman, age 14; Chayim Yitzchok, who will be 13 in Iyar; and my youngest, ten-year-old Eli. Each of my boys is special and unique. My oldest, Shlomo Zalman, has Pervasive Developmental Disorder (PDD) and attends Shtilim, a school for children with autism. He's a delightful young man, who has difficulty communicating, and expressing his emotions or needs. For example, he and his younger brother, Chayim Yitzchok, are best friends, but instead of telling Chayim Yitzchok that he wants to play with him, he might sit on him, or even do something dangerous; and rather than tell me that he's hungry, he might empty the kitchen cabinets. He might dump all the clothes from the closet onto the floor or throw our things into the tiny space between the top of the closet and the ceiling!

My second son, Chayim Yitzchok, arrived six weeks early. In addition to not getting sufficient oxygen at birth, he had meningitis. Although we knew he would have problems, we had no idea how they would affect him. For the first six months of his life, we treated him as a healthy, developmentally ordinary child. I really believe that those six months were a present from Hashem to give me an opportunity to totally bond with my baby, without having to worry about potential developmental issues. When he was six months old, and still hadn’t learned to turn over, he was diagnosed with cerebral palsy (CP).

My youngest son, Eli, is deliciously normal, extremely precocious and challenging in his own ten-year-old way. After having two children with serious developmental issues, I cannot describe the excitement I felt at Eli's every milestone. I was delirious with joy when he took his first word, his first step, and appreciated and rejoiced in these seemingly simple moments.

There is a lot of work involved in taking care of two disabled children, so every once in a while I send them to the Refuah V’Yeshuah Nofshon (in English it's called a hostel, but that word is inadequate to describe their home away from home) so that Eli and I can enjoy an "off Shabbos." Once, after having gone through a very difficult medical crisis with Chayim Yitzchok, I felt that Eli needed some special time alone with me. I surprised him with a trip to England to spend Shabbos with his Bubby and Zeidy. You should have seen the look on that kid's face when, after buying him a new sweater, I asked, "How'd you like to wear that in England?" and then took him directly from the store to the airport! We had a blast, and of course all my relatives spoiled the poor kid rotten!

 Family Support

When I look at my three children, I am grateful that Hashem charged me with taking care of such wonderful neshamos. People often ask me how I manage, where I find the inner strength to do what I do. I owe much of who I am to my parents. They inculcated me with a positive feeling of self. I always felt good about myself, and I'm able to pass that attitude on to my children.

As a child, due to a medical condition, I suffered from repeated infections and spent a lot of time in the waiting room at the doctor’s office. My parents were always matter-of-fact about it. They never let me feel sorry for myself. Perhaps that is why I am so matter-of-fact about my own children's challenges.I don't view my kids' developmental difficulties as tragedies. Yes, they have to be dealt with and yes, it can make life challenging at times, but then again, isn't that what life is all about — facing challenges, overcoming them, and then growing from them? And besides, with the love I feel for my children, the difficulties are just that — small challenges that make my life’s work a bit harder. The love I get in return from my children makes it all worthwhile.

When Hashem gives a nisayon, He spreads a security net to help us get through it. In my case, that security net is my siblings. I have their unwavering support. From the four corners of the globe, they always make themselves available, no matter the time of day or night. At times, when I felt so overwhelmed I had no idea how I could possibly continue, they stretched themselves to the nth degree to give me the support I so desperately needed. I have no doubt that Hashem will repay them for all their love and support.

Aliyah to Eretz Yisrael

My two older children were born in England. We moved to Eretz Yisrael when Chayim Yitzchok was almost two so that he and Shlomo Zalman could receive more intensive intervention. In England, Chayim Yitzchok received just an hour a week of physiotherapy; we were on the waiting list for occupational therapy; and let's not even begin discussing speech therapy! Shlomo Zalman was in an integrated kindergarten for only three-and-a-half hours a day, and that was it; nothing more!

In Eretz Yisrael, children with special needs attend school from a very early age, and are there from eight o'clock in the morning until at least four o'clock in the afternoon. During those hours they are given a multitude of therapies, so that throughout the day they are getting the help they need to develop to their full potential.

Three years after moving to Eretz Yisrael, we discovered that Chayim Yitzchok had epilepsy. The truth is, he had had two seizures in England, but they were both very minor and occurred after an airplane journey, so the doctors didn't take them seriously. But after we moved to Eretz Yisrael, he began to have seizures regularly. We were in and out of the hospital, often spending time in the ICU.

Trust in Hashem

The situation was unsettling; I never knew where I'd be the next night. During that time, I really understood that I was not in control of my life, and as strange as this might sound, it was during this very unstable time in my life that I really learned to trust Hashem. We all learn about emunah and bitachon in school, but I always had a cognitive understanding of it, not a deep, all-encompassing knowledge. Now it was the anchor I held onto as I integrated those lessons into my real life.

A couple of years ago, Chayim Yitzchok had a very severe seizure right before Rosh Hashanah. The doctors spent hours trying to stop it. It got to the point at which they told me there was nothing more they could do to help him. That morning, as I davened Az Yashir, the relevancy of the words jumped out at me. If Hashem could take the Jews out of Mitzrayim and split the Yam Suf, it was obvious to me that He could, and He would, take care of my child, in whatever way is best (we never really know what is the best for us). The knowledge that Hashem is in charge became very real, and extremely comforting.

One night, after I tucked the boys into bed, they started jumping all over the place and acting extremely wild. I was exhausted and almost in tears. I felt so alone and sorry for myself; it was just me and the kids, and I had no one to turn to for help. I began to daven. The tears were flowing down my face as I asked Hashem to help me. Within less than three minutes, the boys were all sound asleep — snoring, actually! What a beautiful sound. Now, when things get tough, I think back to that night. It was so obvious that Hashem was there, helping me. I speak to Hashem all the time.

I once heard that the longest distance in the world is the distance between our intellect — and our emotions. At that time of real challenge, when I was too drained to cope with my children’s shenanigans, I was able to internalize what I had learned, to make it an emotional reality. I have no doubt that the difficult medical challenges that Chayim Yitzchok experiences is just one tiny part of a much larger picture. Someday, perhaps, I'll completely understand how it all fits together, but until then, I know there's a reason for everything, and that Hashem is operating with incredible kindness.

Bar Mitzvah Celebrations

Last year, we made a beautiful bar mitzvah celebration for my oldest son, Shlomo Zalman. Despite his PDD, he puts on Tefillin every day, davens, and really feels love toward Hashem. He is very excited that Chayim Yitzchok will soon have a bar mitzvah, and constantly asks me if he will also have the zechus of putting on Tefillin. The answer is yes, of course! Although Chayim Yitzchok has the mental capacity of a two-and-a-half-year-old, he can say Shema, so although I won't be buying Tefillin for him, he will put them on when he turns thirteen, iy”H, and hopefully on other occasions as well.

I've been giving a lot of thought to how our family should celebrate Chayim Yitzchok’s special day. A regular bar mitzvah reception would mean absolutely nothing to him. He loves music, so I considered making a kumsitz. For my older son, Shlomo Zalman, in addition to the standard bar mitzvah reception, my extended family held a beautiful kumsitz on a rooftop overlooking the Kosel. But although Chayim Yitzchok would enjoy the singing, he would never understand that it was all about him.

This past Tishrei, Chayim Yitzchok was hospitalized for two- and-a-half weeks. The situation did not look good. His health is continually deteriorating, and he often aspirates food (the doctors are considering putting in a gastric tube to avoid this problem). It's obvious to me that this precious child of mine is in real need of a zechus.

My sisters and I were brainstorming about what we could do to celebrate Chayim Yitzchok’s bar mitzvah in a way that would be meaningful for him, while at the same time, be a zechus for his refuah. "He gets excited every time he sees a sefer Torah,” I told my sister. “And he loves to sing Toras Hashem Temimah at the top of his lungs!"

Even as the words came out of my mouth, it occurred simultaneously to both of us that we should donate a sefer Torah in honor of his bar mitzvah. He would love to participate in the hachnasas sefer Torah celebrations.  

As my sisters and I continued to speak, the words seem to topple one over the other.

"He would be so excited."

"I can almost see him clapping to the music!"

"What a zechus — for him and for our entire family!"

My siblings and I started to get the ball rolling. We decided to donate the Sefer Torah to the Refuah VeYeshuah Respite Care Center, my sons' home away from home. I can almost picture Shlomo Zalman and Chayim Yitzchok's excitement when they will, iy"H see Chayim Yitzchok's sefer Torah being taken out of the aron kodesh on Shabbos for kriyas Hatorah! We recently hired a sofer, and are watching the dream turn into a reality. 

Shlomo Zalman is very excited. He constantly talks about how he's going to dance through the streets of Yerushalayim at our future hachnassas sefer Torah. Eli understands the importance of what we're doing. He is looking forward to so many people joining together with us to celebrate Chayim Yitzchok's Bar Mitzvah, and of having the zechus of a sefer Torah leaving from our house. As for Chayim Yitzchok, he gets excited whenever we talk about the haknassas sefer Torah, he sings hachnassas sefer Torah songs all the time, and realizes that it has something to do with him. But he doesn't understand what it really means, or that that this will be a huge zechus for him and, b'ezras Hashem, for his future refuah. As for me, whenever I think about my father and brothers dancing through the streets of Yerushalayim carrying my son's sefer Torah, I become teary-eyed.

Musing on the morning of Bedikas Chametz -- or Isn't Procrastinating Fun?

Erev Pesach is an exercise in minimizing At first, the chametz takes up a small folding table in the hall, plus the top of a rolling cabinet, then, as we finish using the microwave for the very last time and it gets cleaned and put away, together witht the toaster and sandwich maker, we're down to a small corner of the folding table. Soon I'll be cleaning the hot water cooker, and it will join the last two coffee mugs, and chametzdik coffee in the milchig chametz cabinet. Lunch -- chicken cooked in a Pesachdik pot, together with bread rolls. And as for breakfast tomorrow, it's rolls, what else? And then the feasting begins....

Pesach really is an incredible holiday!

Erev Pesach

Erev Pesach -- you gotta love it. The men are outside, washinng the cars, or making barbeques, 'cause the kitchens all turned over for Pesach. Picnics in the park, or in the parking lot, or the garden, and more often or not, in the building lobby. The ladies greet each other with a weary smile and a look of relief. We're almost there! The hard part is over; now-- it's all those little details (where did I put the peices for the Pesachdik mixer?) and learning to cook in a what is a brand new kitchen!

Each year, there are two, or three days where I don't think I'll ever finish, where all I want to do is curl up in bed and forget about Pesach. And then, suddenly, the kitchen is done, the dishes are put away, and the house that I've been spring cleaning for the last two weeks looks like a tornado hit it (actually, even worse than that)-- and I can sit back for a while, relax, write, read a book, because I know that slowly but surely, everything will be  put away, the furniture will be dusted until it shines, the floors will get washed, the silver polished, and the table set to greet  the magic of  Yom Tov.

I feel like I just left Mitzrayim. The sea split, and somehow, I'm on the other side. Yes, I still have a long way to go (don't we all, no matter where we are in this journey) but for now, I can concentrate on the potato kugels and beet salads, and rejoice.

Many years ago, we all left Mitzrayim together, and then stood together as one to accept the Torah on Mt. Sinai. B'ezras Hashem, this year, may be all come together to Yerushalayim to bring the Korbon Pesach -- may it happen quickly and speedily, in our days.

KISVEI YAD as published in Inspiration Magazine

 

“It’s an incredible level of Torah learning, a rare and precious opportunity to meshamesh –serve- talmidie chachamim – real gedolei HaTorah – of a previous generation. Through making a gadol’s work available to the public, I will have no choice but to become his talmid, immersing myself in his derech halimud, and become intimately familiar with his shitos through an in-depth study of all of his other works, whether published or not. Only after such intensive preparation am I able to start preparing the gadol’s manuscript for publication.” 

Rabbi Dov Shorr* (*footnote; assumed name) is one of many talented avreichim devoted to making manuscripts written by gedolim of previous generations available to the talmidei chachamim of today. It is a labor of love; no one could possibly fathom the endless hours of work involved in making sure that the Torah is transcribed and edited properly, so that generations of talmidei chachamim will be able to easily take advantage of it in the future.

“Everything – every source, every reference - must be checked and rechecked. After all, each time I sit down to work, it is as though I am preparing a shiur for the thousands upon thousands of talmidei chachamim who will be learning my Rebbe’s Torah as well as generations of roshei yeshivos who will use these seforim constantly to prepare their shiurim.”

When Rabbi Schorr speaks about his avodas kodesh, he radiates energy and excitement – the excitement of discovering hidden diamonds, polishing them to make their clarity and perfection evident and then placing them in a proper setting to allow others to partake of their beauty.

Over a decade ago Rabbi Schorr spent several years editing the manuscripts of a rosh yeshiva that had lived in the previous century. This rosh yeshiva was a descendant of Rav Chaim Volozhner, and considered one of the greatest gedolim of his generation. Among his kesavim was a Kuntres of chidushim on masechtas Nedarim. Written one piece at a time, many of these kesavim concluded with the words, “continued on the binding of the Gemora.” But no one had a clue as to what had happened to this Gemora that held the key to so many of the Rav’s chidushim.

Eventually, another search was made of the attic where the kesavim were originally found. A pile of old seforim, infested with worms and damaged from dampness, was discovered in a forgotten corner. Among those seforim were the Gemora covers that the Rav had constantly referred to. A diamond had been found.

Buy the seforim were riddled with holes, much of the writing had faded, and in many places they were badly torn. Since paper was so expensive, the Rav had crowded in as many words as possible, so that the lines were overlapping and sometimes even continued upside-down. Obviously, only a person completely familiar with the sugia, as well as the Rav’s style of limud and his handwriting could decipher such a work.

And many – if not most - thought that even then it would be impossible.

A famous rosh yeshiva observed Rabbi Schorr as he worked his way through this Gemora cover.  Surrounded by countless open seforim, checking and rechecking references to be sure that the seemingly illegible manuscript was being transcribed correctly, the rosh yeshiva watched in amazement as the pieces of a giant presumably impossible puzzle were slowly put together. It was not long before the Rosh Yeshiva started repeating over and over, “This is mamash techiyas hameisim. Torah that would have been lost for generations is being redeemed.”

And thus a diamond is polished, revealing its full brilliance.

POLISHING THE DIAMONDS

Today, there exists a variety of institutes publishing Judaic manuscripts, each one specializing in its own particular type of research. For example, Machon Yerushalayim, based in the Old City of Jerusalem with branches throughout Israel, traditionally deals with manuscripts written by Acharonim, the later Rabbis. On the other hand, Machon Ofeq, located in Cleveland,Ohio, specializes almost exclusively in Rishonim, the earlier Rabbis. Machon Beis Aharon Veyisroel of Chassidei Karlin-Stolin specialize in the manuscripts belongingn to the Karliner Rebbe’s extensive collection, as well as works by authors associated with the chassidus. Machon Harav Frank deals exclusively with the writings of Rav Zvi Pesach Frank. Machon Mishnas Rebbe Aharon was originally founded to publish the writings of Rav Aharon Kotler.

RAV SHNEUR’S LEGACY

One of the few American based institues is Machon Mishnas Rebbi Aharon, located in Lakewood, New Jersey. It  was founded at the behest of Rav Shneur Kotler, just a few months before he passed away. Originally established to bring Rav Aharon Kotler’s manuscripts to light, the Machon has expanded to become a major disseminator of important Torah works that would otherwise be lost to the world’s talmidei chachamim.

 “Before Rav Shneur traveled to Boston for treatment,” says Rav Tzvi Rotberg, director of the Machon, “he spoke to both Reb Meir Schick, director of the RJJ Yeshiva Network, and myself, requesting that we take over his avodas kodesh of preparing his father’s manuscripts for publication. That was the beginning of our Machon. I was in charge of the actual publication, while Reb Meir took upon himself the initial financial burden.”

Rav Shneur wrote the preface to the first volume of his father’s maamorim just two weeks before he passed away. The Machon rushed to finish the volume, and three days before his petira, they were able to hand Rav Shneur the completed work. “I will never forget Rav Shneur’s expression,” says Rav Rotberg. “The Rosh Yeshiva was elated and held this sefer tightly in his hands constantly for the next three days, until he was niftar.

 “Today, Rav Aharon’s seforim are learned by almost all yeshivaleit throughout the world,” says Rav Rotberg. “Through preparing these manuscripts for publication, we have opened up wellsprings of Torah that would have remained sealed. Now it is accessible to every talmid chacham.”

Truly a ‘techiyas hameisim, rujuvenation of the dead.

Rav Aharon valued his manuscripts, and during the course of his travels from Europe to the United States, he never allowed them to leave his presence. In April 1941, Rav Aharon was given special permission by President Roosevelt to enter the United States. Involved in his work for klal Yisroel, he almost missed the boat. By the time he was ready to board, the ship’s gangplank had been pulled up.

The captain dropped Rav Aharon a rope ladder, and Vaad Hatzala’s representative, Mr. Frank Newman, took the boxes of Rav Aharon’s manuscripts and carried them up the ladder into the ship. Although Rav Aharon was in his fifties, he raced up the rope ladder like a young man in his prime. After all, how could he allow such precious diamonds out of his sight?

By the time Rav Aharon passed away, his writings consisted of close to fifty notebooks and hundreds upon hundreds of loose sheets that had been written over a span of fifty years. The oldest notebook was written in 1912, while Rav Aharon was still a bochur in the Slobodka Yeshiva. Throughout his lifetime, Rav Aharon added to his original shiurim in whatever notebook he was using at the time. As a result, each of his notebooks contained a variety of shiurim on diverse mesechtos, as well as short divrei Torah on a broad range of unrelated topics.

Obviously, even before preparing the manuscripts for publication, Machon Mishnas Rebbi Aharon had to meticulously catalogue them according to Masechta and topic. Thanks to the painstaking work of scores of dedicated talmidei chachamim, generations of Bnei Torah are now enriched with the fourteen volumes of Halacha and four volumes of mussar and machshava that have been culled from Rav Aharon’s manuscripts and taped shiurim.

OPENING UP UNTOUCHED TERRITORIES

Since its inception, the Machon has branched out to publish the manuscripts of Rav Shneur, chidushei Torah of outstanding contemporary talmidei chachamim as well as important works of different Rishonim and Achronim, some of which have already been published, but with gross inaccuracies, while others are now being published for the very first time. “We are opening up untouched territories: the Rash on Zaroim, early Rishonim, even baalei Tosfos,” says Rabbi Rotberg.

How is it possible that published works can contain inaccuracies?

“The printers often had only one copy of a manuscript available,” explains Rabbi Dovid Shapiro, an editor of kisvei yad, “and many times that was not the most authoritative manuscript available.  Sometimes, you can even find cases of the printers stating their own ideas as though it was a part of the actual manuscript, or more commonly, they would  misinterpret the author’s abbreviations. Today, with the help of microfilms, we are able to compare different manuscripts found in libraries throughout the world and use the most accurate ones available.”

Rabbi Shapiro is one of the scholars at Machon Mishnas Rebbi Aharon that is working on a producing new edition of mishnayos Zaraim. This publication will contain an improved edition of the Rash (*footnote Rabbi Shimon of Shantz, one of the early baalei tosfos) as well of chiddushim written by the avreichim studing in the Lakewood Kollel. 

“At the conclusion of the Rash’s perush on Masechtos Zaraim,” explains Rabbi Shapiro, “the printers of the first edition of the Gemara (printed in 1520) wrote: ‘Because of the rarity of Rabbeinu Shimshon’s commentary – may his soul rest in Gan Eden – there was only one copy of the manuscript in our possession. It would therefore be impossible not to find various errors and every Torah scholar should correct the errors that he finds.’

“So in this case,” continues Rabbi Shapiro, “the printers themselves admitted that there were mistakes. The fact is that the Rash is such a difficult perush to understand is partly due to the fact that it is, indeed, full of errors. For that reason, the Machon is publishing a new edition based on a different manuscript, found in the national library of Paris, as well as a careful study of the Rash and his sources and of those later authorities who quote and explain the Rash.

“Another example of a published sefer that was full of mistakes would be the Chasam Sofer on Shulchan Aruch. It was published posthumously and it is quite obvious that the printers had great difficulty interpreting the Chasam Sofer’s handwriting, and that they did not take the time to properly learn the material they were printing.

“In Aruch Chaim 89, for example, halachos tefilla, there is a lengthy discussion about the length of a mil, which has a direct bearing on when one can start davening. But anyone learning this in carefully will realize that it doesn’t seem to make sense. The Chasam Sofer, for example, refers to the Gemara in Mesechtos Pesachim (46a) that says that a mil is the distance between Tiveria and Migdal Nunya, and then says, “look in the Ran.” But there is no Ran on that Gemora nor is there any other Ran discussing this subject!.

“But in the Chiddushei Chasam Sofer, Masechtos Shabbos (35a), the Chasam Sofer writes, ‘Here I will copy what I have written next to the Magen Avraham simon 89,’ and then proceeds to quote the entire piece that was printed in the Aruch Chaim, but this time without the printer’s errors. In the above example, the Chasam Sofer had quoted himself as saying ‘yiduin hen,’  ‘they are known,’ rather than ‘ayin b’Ran,’ ‘look in the Ran.’ This is just one of many such printing mistakes, and of course once they were corrected, the Chasam Sofer made a lot of sense.

“Although this is only one small example,” concludes Rabbi Shapiro, “it demonstrates the importance of the Machon’s work, as well as some of the difficulties that the Machon is facing. We are not trying to mechadesh anything (although occasionally we do, and that is a side benefit), but we are trying to make sure that our Rebbe’s published words are as true to the original and as clear as possible.”

THE MESORA

Being a woman, it is, of course, difficult for me speak about the importance of limud Hatorah and the mesora. Since I never “shteiged in learning,” I cannot speak from personal experience. Learning Torah is not my purpose in this world.

But what I do know is that in all aspects of life, when a person takes a step forward, he must make sure that his feet are firmly on the ground, otherwise he might just end up falling flat on his face. I would imagine that it is the same with limud HaTorah; and that in order to mechadesh properly, one must have a deep and thorough knowledge of what the gedolim of the previous generation had to say on the subject.

The chain of mesoras is both our foundation and our future. Through assuring that the chain is accurate, we are giving all future generations a very precious gift; a solid foundation to build on. I am sure that the avodas kodesh of those involved in kisvei yad has a place in creating that foundation, and in strengthening limud Hatorah in general. And as we all know, “The study of Torah is equivalent to them all.”

The author would like to thank Rabbi Tzvi Rotberg, director of Machon Mishnas Rebbi Aharon and Rabbi Dovid Shapiro, the author’s husband, for their help in preparing and reviewing this article. 

A Final Purim Joke (This appeared in the Lakewood Voice)

For over twenty five years our family resided in Ramot, which was then Jerusalem's northernmost neighborhood. Built on a hilltop opposite Shmuel Hanavi's grave, it was, at least in its early years, more like a small clannish West Bank settlement than part of the sprawling Jerusalem urban metropolis. Separated from the rest of the city by a wide valley and a tree covered hill, Ramot was definitely "remote."

Teddy Kollek, then mayor of Jerusalem, planned Ramot as a bastion of secularism and "progressive" Judaism, where orthodox Jews would never feel welcome, and the only synagogues would be either conservative or reform. Instead, thanks to an amazing instance of hashgacha pratis, Ramot, with its many yeshivos, shuls, kollels and Bais Yaakovs, has turned into a center of Torah-true Yiddishkeit.

How did this come about? In the late '70s, award winning avant-garde architect Tzvi Hecker, designed a housing development consisting of "a cluster of prefabricated, hexagonal units that were stacked in a manner that made for intriguing geometries."  On a hilltop next to the newly created Ramot enclave (which in those days consisted of only eight or nine huge apartment buildings) the Housing Ministry constructed what appeared to be two sets of gigantic upside-down egg cartons. The apartments were put on the market – but not a single one was sold. With their sloping walls and strange-shaped rooms, they were considered unlivable.

The government was left with an enormous "white elephant": over three hundred apartments that no one would dare to live in! That's when the tzedaka organization, Kollel Polin, came into the picture. Acting as a go-between between the government and the Chareidi public, they sold the apartments to homeless Israelis and new immigrants at substantially less than market price. People were thrilled to have a roof over their heads. So even if the walls leaked (and some rooms had five leaky walls), the neighbors were nice and everyone assumed that with time everything would be straightened out (in more ways than one) – which it was.

We were one of the first families to move into the Ramot Polin egg boxes. We quickly became used to tour busses regularly stopping outside our front door to observe the paradox of old-fashioned looking Chareidi Jews living in ultra-modern, avant-garde apartment buildings. I even considered opening up a lemonade stand to make some extra money. Dusting the walls became part of our erev Shabbos cleaning routine, and we were consoled by the knowledge that when the going got really tough, we could always climb the walls! And the children loved sliding down them.

So what does all this have to do with Purim? When Ramot was founded in the mid-seventies, the Israeli Rabbinate ruled that Ramot celebrated Shushan Purim like the rest of Yerushalayim. The year we moved in, a few idealistic Yeshivaleit shlepped a group of prominent rabbis from the Eidah Chareidis to see for themselves just how "remote" Ramot really was. The psak was almost unanimous: Ramot was too remote to be considered part of Yerushalayim, therefore Purim was to be celebrated on the fourteenth, rather than the fifteenth, of Adar.

I will never forget that first erev Purim. Exhausted from the taanis, I took the challahs that I had prepared for Shalach manos out of the oven and collapsed on the sofa to catch a quick nap before breaking the fast and beginning the bedtime routine. I could hear a loudspeaker announce something outside, but I was too tired to pay attention. Suddenly, my two older boys burst into the house and, dancing ecstatically around my bed, sang, "Mommy! Tonight's Purim! Tonight's Purim! Yeah!"

I smiled indulgently. "Yes, darlings, you wish tonight was Purim, but it's not. Tomorrow night is Purim. You'll have to be patient and wait another day."

But they were not so easily deterred. "No, Mommy," they continued insistently (why couldn't they just be quiet and let me get a few minutes sleep?). "Tonight really is Purim!"

"That's right. It would be nice if tonight was Purim, but it's not," I mumbled through half-closed eyes. "Purim begins tomorrow night. Now please go outside to play with your friends so I can get a little rest…"

Instead of going outside to play, they laughed hysterically and continued, "Mommy, Purim really is tonight. A freilichen Purim! A freilichen Purim! The Rabbonim ruled that Purim is begins tonight, not tomorrow night! A freilichen Purim!" With that they started dancing around the living room.

I quickly rushed outside to see if the news report was accurate (this was before we had telephones for instant communication)! It was; Purim would begin in less than an hour and a half! But I still had to finish sewing the costumes and I hadn't even thought about cooking the Purim Seuda!

Since there was a difference of opinion among the Rabbonim (after all, as I wrote before the psak was not unanimous), the neighborhood was divided into two groups: those who celebrated Purim on the fourteenth of Adar, like Yidden everywhere, and those who celebrated Purim on the fifteenth of Adar, like the Yidden of Jerusalem. That first year some people were so worked up over which day was the real Purim that there were more than a few fistfights!

Our family celebrated Purim on the fourteenth of Adar. But then, just to be sure that we were yotzei all opinions, we would send one Shaloch Manos, gave Matonos L'avyonim to two poor people and listened to the Megillah (without a bracha) on the fifteenth of Adar. Later, when Ramot grew and was (almost) connected to the city, the majority of Rabbonim ruled that Ramot was part of Jerusalem and therefore should celebrate Shushan Purim. But since a few Rabbonim ruled that Ramot was not part of Jerusalem and therefore Purim should be celebrated on the fourteenth of Adar, we continued to read the Megillah without making a bracha, send one Shaloch Manos, and give Matanos L'avyonim on the fourteenth of Adar in addition to the fifteenth of Adar. (And now that I've explained the gantzeh Megillah, let me continue…)

It was all very confusing; one never knew who you'd insult by giving a Shaloch Manos on the wrong day, and by the time Purim was over, after hearing the Megillah four times, many women could easily recite it by heart!

We purchased our present apartment, located in central Jerusalem, last winter. But we were only able to move in after Pesach. So last Purim, as my husband finished reciting the Megillah for the eighth time (four times in shul and four times at home) he sighed, "Baruch Hashem, next year we'll be celebrating only one day of Purim."

Instead -- a mentch tracht un d'Aiberster lacht  -- we ended up with a Purim Meshulash, three days of Purim! That's the way the Hamantashen crumbles.

Purim Meshulash

What three day Yom Tov was celebrated this year in Jerusalem and Sousa, Iran (formerly known as Shushan, Persia), but not in Lakewood New Jersey or San Francisco, California? If you guessed Purim Meshulash, you deserve a stale Hamantashen straight from the freezer! I don't know how freilich it was for the Yehudim (if there are any) in Shushan this year, but for those of us living in Yerushalayim it was an experience that left its mark – especially on my walls and windows.

Purim Meshulash is not a holiday commemorating the three corners of the Hamantashen. But to explain why every few years the Yidden of Yerushalayim celebrate three days of Purim instead of one, I'll begin my telling you the gantzeh Megillah, or at least part of it:

"On the thirteenth day of the month of Adar, and they rested on the fourteenth day and made it a day of feasting and rejoicing.  And the Jews of Shushan gathered on the thirteenth and fourteenth [of Adar], and rested on the fifteenth and made it a day of feasting and rejoicing. Thus the prazi Jews, those who live in unwalled cities, make the fourteenth day of the month of Adar a holiday, a day of feasting, rejoicing and sending portions of food one to another" (Esther 4:17-19).

The Yehudim living in Shushan were given an additional day to destroy Amalek, therefore they celebrated their victory-over-evil a day later than the Yehudim living outside of Shushan. Since Shushan was a walled city, the Yidden living in walled cities celebrate Purim on the fifteenth of Adar, like the Yehudim of Shushan, while the Yidden living in unwalled cities celebrate Purim on the fourteenth of Adar, like the prazi Jews mentioned in the Megillah. That's the reason why, while Yidden throughout the world are rushing to listen to the Megillah, give money to avyonim, deliver Shaloch Manos and eat a Purim Seuda (all in one day!) those of us privileged to reside in Yerushalayim are tranquilly putting the final touches on their Shaloch Manos and defrosting the fish for the Purim Seuda. And while the Yidden living in Yerushalayim are getting tipsy and singing various versions of "ad shelo yedah," Yidden throughout the world are busy cleaning chocolate stains from the wallpaper and trying to figure out how to get rid of seventy-five homemade cakes before Pesach.

So now that we understand why Jerusalem celebrates Purim a day later than the rest of the world, we can understand why, every few years, Jerusalem celebrates a three-day Purim.

When Purim d'prozos is on a Friday, like it was this year, Shushan Purim comes out on Shabbos. But since we're not allowed to lain the Megillah, distribute Matanos L'avyonim or give Shaloch Manos on Shabbos, and we have a Seuda (actually three) on Shabbos anyway, those mitzvos are divided between Friday and Sunday, thus a Purim Meshulash, a three day Purim (all right, I agree. The three corners of a Hamantaschen theory is easier to understand). When that happens, we lain the Megillah and distribute Matanos L'avyonim on the Friday, the fourteenth of Adar; on Shabbos, the fifteenth of Adar, we recite Al Hanissim; on Sunday, the sixteenth of Adar, we give Shaloch Manos and eat our Purim Seuda. On Monday, the seventeenth of Adar, we sleep and begin our post-Purim diet, which lasts for about three days -- until we begin cleaning for Pesach and discover all the hidden chocolate bars! At least after this last Purim Meshulash, I won't be doing it again – hiccup -- for another thirteen years!

A loud minority of Israelis confuse Purim with the Fourth of July. The sound of the "rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air" is deafening, and the explosions outright dangerous. This year the askanim in Meah Shearim came up with an original idea for keeping firecrackers and the type of people who play with them out of their neighborhood. They smeared rotten fish all over Kikar Shabbos and Malkhei Yisrael Street, where in past years the undesirables congregated (I kid you not!). So now an entire generation of Jerusalem Yidden will associate Purim with the smell of rotten fish (at least the smell is not coming from my oven!) rather than homemade Hamantashen.

It was fun going to shul on Shabbos and wishing my friends a "Freilechin Purim." I noticed a lot of "Na Nach" kippos among the men and ties where there usually are none. During Kedusha, the Chazzan broke out in a slow, heartfelt rendition of the prayer, sung to the tune of "Ad, ad, ad, ad shelo yedah, kama yayin hu shata, ad shelo yedah…." Most of the women didn't realize what they were humming with such deveikus. I had to stifle my giggles. 

Sunday was dedicated to exchanging Shaloch Manos and eating the Purim Seuda. Although there were several dozen guests at our Seuda, without the pressure of having to fit the Megillah reading into a very busy schedule, Purim was much calmer and more relaxed than usual. But then again, after devoting three days to attaining the exalted level of "ad shelo yedah" how could we not (hiccup) feel calm and relaxed?

@END TEXT BOX

Just One Day

These thoughts were written on the day I got up from sitting shivah for my mother over a decade ago. This article appeared in the Jewish Observor. 

It was a typical Thursday afternoon. I had just finished cleaning the chicken and peeling the potatoes in preparation for Shabbos, when I glanced at my kitchen clock and noticed that in a few minutes my two youngest daughters would be arriving home from school. I quickly began setting the table for lunch.

I could hear their excited chatter as they bounced up the stairwell. "Ima! I bet you didn’t hear yet what happened today in school.” They were so excited to tell me about their day that they forgot to close the front door.

“Nu?”

I stood there watching them, their faces flushed with excitement, their ponytails messed from the wind, and waited to hear the usual news – the latest school party, the books that were lost, the teacher who gave too much homework.  Instead, my daughter said, “We had a miracle, a nes, today.”

“A nes?” I asked, my mind on their lunch as I quickly set the table. “Probably she forgot her morning snack,” I thought to myself, “and her best friend had miraculously brought a spare sandwich.”

“Ima, there was a bomb in school.”

I stopped dishing out the mashed potatoes.

“It was set to go off during recess.”

I placed the pot with the potatoes on the table.

“It weighed over thirty pounds.”

I sat down.

The girls stumbled over their words, each one trying to be the first to tell me what had happened on this peaceful Thursday morning. “A lady living nearby noticed an Arab throw a big suitcase into the garbage.” 

“No, he gently placed it in the bin.”

“She thought the Arab had stolen the suitcase and put it there so he could come back and get it later.”

“She sent her husband to investigate, and when he saw all the wires attached to the bag …” 

“… he disconnected the mobile telephone that was attached to the wires.”

“He really shouldn’t have done that. The police told him it was dangerous.”

“Very.”

“It was right before recess. He ran to call the police." 

“The principal locked the front door, so we couldn’t leave the building.”

“Baruch Hashem!”

“A few minutes after the recess bell rang, the police arrived.”

 “But before they arrived, the telephone connected to the bomb rang.”

“But it didn’t go off because that lady’s husband …”

“It wasn’t her husband, it was her son.”

“That lady’s son disconnected it.”

“There were lots of ambulances, and fire engines.”

“We watched everything through the window.”

“When it was over, we recited Hallel.”

“Without a brachah.”

My heart was racing. I envisioned all the dreadful things that could have happened, but, thank God, didn’t.

As the children told the story, I found myself alternating between blessed relief and cold fury that someone, anyone, would dare consider harming my precious children. The “hostilities” had hit too close to home.

“Oh, Ima,” my rosy-cheeked daughter interrupted her sister, “the Arab had put the bomb right where our class always plays jump rope.”

Ribbono shel Olam!

That night, as I lit a yahrtzeit candle for my father, I found myself overwhelmed with gratitude that I was lighting only one candle. As I watched the flame ignite and flicker, I had visions of gray boxes, cold, hard earth and endless emptiness.

I quickly shut out those images and began the evening routine. I refused to allow myself to think beyond the fried eggs and buttered bread, the clean pajamas and braided hair, the bedtime story and evening prayers. But as I tucked my children into bed that night to give them their goodnight kisses, I was surprised to discover that my cheeks were wet.

Here in Yerushalayim, we are intensely aware of Hashem's protective hand guarding us constantly. Every day, every minute, miracles are happening. So many times tragedies are averted, and life continues. Not always are we aware of these miracles; we only hear of those who were killed, of the bombs that exploded. But so very often calamity has been avoided by a mere hairsbreadth; we are not aware of the many bombs that almost exploded, but, baruch Hashem, did not.

This miracle reminded me of something I had recently learned. Before Yaakov Avinu tried to appease his brother, Esav, he turned to Hashem and said, “I am unworthy of all the acts of kindness” (Bereishis 31:11).

 The Sfas Emes points out that whenever Hashem bestows goodness upon His people, it brings them to greater levels of humility. When His people see how much goodness Hashem has given them, they come to the realization that they are not really worthy of such bounty. They are aware that their successes are from Hashem, and this prevents them from becoming arrogant.

And so, feeling just a bit smug about my lofty thoughts on humility, I continued with the evening routine.

Just a few short days later, I was drinking my last cup of coffee and eating my toast with cheese; enjoying those precious few minutes of peace before jumping into the business of the day. I was, as usual, trying hard to maintain control. I had an article to finish, and was planning to spend the morning opposite the computer screen.  "Kochi ve’otzem yadi," My strength and the might of my hand.” I had quickly forgotten the lesson of just a few days earlier.

As soon as the telephone rang and I heard my sister’s voice on the other end, I knew. Even as I asked, “Is everything all right?” I had no doubt that it was not. When my husband heard me say, “Baruch Dayan emes,” he understood as well. My mother had passed away in her sleep just a few hours before.

Within an hour I had finished making all the arrangements for my flight to St. Louis, and a few short hours later I was boarding the plane to attend my mother’s funeral. Things that had seemed crucial a few hours before were no longer important.

It was a humbling experience to stand with bowed head, watching the casket as it was slowly lowered into the earth. Somehow, in the face of death, it was impossible to be arrogant. There is nothing like the stark reality of a funeral to force a person to face his limitations and ultimate mortality.

While the men from the St. Louis Kollel worked hard to cover the grave with the icy cold dirt, I felt as though they were covering my mother with a warm blanket of love and respect. Through the cold numbness of mourning I felt the warmth of their kindness. While facing life’s ultimate conclusion, only chessed shel emes, true acts of loving-kindness, were able to bring comfort into the vacuum of my heart.

Later on, I found myself the recipient of a community’s generosity. As I sat on my stool, not able to accomplish, bound to my mourning, I discovered a community dedicated to Torah, trying their utmost to help another Jew.

Just a few days earlier, I had been given a powerful lesson in bitachon and humility, which I allowed myself to forget. And now I was rudely reminded, as I sat unkempt, unable to do for myself, completely dependent upon others for all my needs. Boxes of food were prepared by total strangers; Jews who I had never met came to comfort a mourner; Hashem had commanded His Nation to emulate Him.

In the face of such chessed, it was impossible to feel arrogance, to think for even a split second that I am in control.

Between shivah calls, I delved into the classic sefer on the Jewish outlook towards death, Gesher HaChayim. There it is explained that death is what gives life value. Only when something is finite are we able to value it, for only then do we realize that eventually it will come to an end. When we fool ourselves into thinking that we are immortal, that our lives are endless, we forget to value and make full use of our precious time.

When we are faced with death, and grasp that our very life is given to us as a chessed from Hashem; when we have attained some level of humility in realizing that our lives are not forever; then, and only then, can we begin to count our precious hours and truly value them. The shivah brings the full value of our days into perspective -- for in thinking about death, one ultimately comes to life.