Producing CDs and Chessed Hamodia Junior February 8

Producing CDs and Chessed

By Debbie Shapiro

Can you imagine living in a factory? Well, meet Tzvi and Elisheva Vindler. Their factory, Remez productions, duplicates discs, is operated from their three room apartment. All day long, the machines are producing discs in the spare bedroom while workers are busy packaging the discs on the dining room table.

Mr. Vindler, why do you run your factory from your home?

That's a good question! We do it for our workers, so that they'll feel comfortable and at home while on the job. All our workers have special needs. They have trouble doing many of the things that we take for granted. Only one of our workers can count, for example, and most of them do not understand the meaning of money. Since they work in a home, if they're tired of working they can go into the kitchen and help my wife with the cooking – and learn important life skills at the same time – or even lie down in the bedroom and take a nap.

"Even though we pay our workers a regular salary, we're really a rehabilitation center. I work hard at teaching our boys life skills. It takes a lot of patience to show them how to buy something in the store. They have to be taught how to get to the store, find the proper product, pay for it, take their change and return home without losing anything, or getting lost themselves. Although they find it difficult – for most of them, it's the first time they've ever been given any responsibility – when they are successful, they are so very proud of their accomplishments!"

How did you get involved with people with special needs?

"Before I opened Remez Productions, I had a worked for a computer company, delivering and installing computer parts. Then I hurt my leg at a wedding and wasn't able to carry heavy things. So my boss hired a mentally disabled young man to carry things for me me. I really enjoyed working with him, and was able to teach him many important life skills, such as how to count and how to cash a check. He soon became part of my family, so when I opened Remez Productions, he continued working for me.

Today, we have six young men working here. Each of them is unique. Shlomo, for example, talks to himself. [I'll either use a pseudonym, or if it's ok with the parents, I'll use their real names. tell me a litte about each of the workers, including name, problem and what type of work they are capable of doing --- Jack lives just down the block, but he gets lost walking to the factory, so someone has to accompany him. He can, however, paste labels on the CDs, a job that requires a lot of attention to detail. ???? can't tie a knot, but he can???? . We taught ???? how to burn CDs, a job that requires a lot of skill and WHAT ELSE? We were all so proud of him, and he was so proud of himself!

The boys have other challenges too. They have to be kept constantly busy, so if we don't have work for them in the factory, we keep them occupied cutting vegetables or sweeping the floors. Erev Pesach, one boy even cleaned the stove and refrigerator! NAME is constantly washing his hands, while NAME speaks to himself throughout the day. Each boy is different. They have unique personalities, and individual strengths and weaknesses – but then again, doesn't everyone?

When did you open Remez Productions?

About five years ago. A friend of mine needed a lot of discs duplicated, but couldn't find anyone to do it, so he asked me if I'd take on the project.  At first, we duplicated the discs on several computers, but that was REALLY time consuming. Then, I built a tower of twenty duplicating machines. Today, we three towers with a total of sixty duplicating machines.

Very often, the discs need a lot of editing before they can be duplicated. A disc of a school play, for example might be a combination of three different videos; that way we put in the good shots, and leave out all the bloopers. COULD YOU TELL ME A GOOD STORY ABOUT THAT – FOR EXAMPLE THE GIRL BLOWING HER NOSE ON STAGE, WHICH YOU REMOVED, OR SOMETHING SIMILAR! Sometimes the audio quality is not so great, so I fix that with the computer, or I do special effects, such as adding an echo or combining voices. It takes a lot of skill and patience to make a topnotch product.

Once the disc is ready, we start duplicating them on our towers. Have you ever burnt a disc on your home computer? Well, that's what we do when we duplicate discs here in our factory, but instead of burning just one disc, we burn anywhere from fifty to five thousand! We have three towers of disc duplicating machines, and each tower consists of twenty machines, so we have a total of sixty duplicating machines. It takes a lot of skill and patience to duplicate the discs properly, so either my wife, Mrs. Vindler, or NAME OF WORKER does it. They place an empty disc into each machine, close the machine, and two minutes later, when the discs have been duplicated, they remove each individual disc and place them on the table, for our workers to take into the living room where they will label and package them. Sometimes, if we have a large order, Mrs. Vindler or NAME will spend a full eight hours duplicating discs! It's a lot of work, but they enjoy doing it because they know that afterwards people will enjoy watching or listening to the CDs.

One of our workers brings the finished discs to the living room, where our workers carefully place the labels on the discs. Working with each customer, I design the labels and then print them on special adhesive paper, so that all our workers have to do is peel back the paper and place the label on the disc. We always have a tape going, and our supervisor NAME is there with the boys to make sure that they do the work properly. It takes skill to stick the labels on. First, the labels have to be carefully removed from the paper, then they have to be put on the disc smoothly, and not bunched up. If the boys place the sticker on the wrong side of the disc, the disc becomes unusable. It sounds pretty uncomplicated, but our workers are disabled, and it took a lot of patience to teach them these skills.

While some of our workers are placing labels on the discs, other workers are packaging them, either in clear plastic casings or in small plastic bags. Here, the boys are taught how to hold and package the disc without damaging it. Did you notice that our dining room table is covered with a special felt (???) cloth? That's to prevent the discs from getting scratched.

Now that the discs are labeled and packaged, we just have to pack them in boxes or plastic bags and deliver them to the customer. Many different types of people use our service; from rabbis, to kiruv organizations to all the seminaries in Jerusalem. Even the police and the Jerusalem Municipality come to us to duplicate discs. It's wonderful to be able to help so many people with our work: our customers, the people who listen to the discs, and our workers.

Dazzled by the Daylight Binah February 2011

Title: Dazzled by the Daylight

Subtitle: Shedding superfluous shells

Byline: As told to Debbie Shapiro

Lead in:

"When we do something with mesiras nefesh, we're so focused on our goal, on where we're going, that the things we have to give up on the way are inconsequential and meaningless. Could you imagine Yehudah Hamacabee saying – or even thinking, 'I really love throwing the discus, but I'm giving it up to learn Torah! I'll miss it, but I'm going to have mesiras nefesh for Torah'?" I had just finished speaking to a group of seminary students and was about to leave when one of the girls, a young woman with bright, sparkling eyes and long blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, came over to me and said, "I really connected to what you told us. When our family converted, we were so focused on becoming Jewish that everything else became superfluous."

Brachah tells her story:

Text:

I grew up in a warm, sheltered home in rural Canada. We were totally family-orientated; my mom's parents lived in the other section of our two-family house, while my dad's parents lived down the block. My aunts and uncles all lived just around the corner, so there were always tons of siblings and cousins around for me to play with – I was never bored! My parents were hard-working country folks. My father had a job in a factory and my mom was a hair stylist. They had everything anyone could possibly desire — a supportive family, five  healthy children, a beautiful home; everything, except meaning.

My parents felt that something was missing, and began looking into religion. Of course they started by studying the Bible. It didn't take long for them to realize that the words of the New Testament contradicted that of the Old. Since Christianity stems from Judaism, they decided to go straight to the source --  and joined a Jews for Jesus congregation!

Here, too, it wasn't long before they saw through the hypocrisy. In our Torah study classes, for example, we learned that Jews are not allowed to work on the Shabbos, yet, the so-called rabbi and his wife would almost always stop off at the bank on their way to services. We didn't understand why they were constantly putting down those 'old fashioned' Jews who keep the Torah and refuse to see the light of the New Testament (sic). Although the services were spirited and full of life – I remember getting up to dance at krias haTorah – we sensed that the people in charge were trying to hide things from us. My parents were constantly arguing with our teachers, but it took them a year until they finally decided to disengage themselves off from this cult.

By this time, my parents had come to the conclusion that the so-called New Testament did not make any sense while the Old Testament is emes – which means that the truth liesay with the Jews. My father, however, had no idea where to find authentic Jews, so he did a computer search on Judaism. He discovered a Chabad House located about an hour's drive away from where we lived. My mom phoned the Chabad House and left them a message, explaining that although we're not Jewish, we're interested in learning more about Judaism, but no one called back. After she tried three times without a response, she left a message saying, "I know that you're supposed to turn us away three times. But we're interested in learning about Judaism, and no matter how many times we're turned away we're going to find some way of doing it, because we know that that is what we must do." 

The rabbi invited us to join the congregation for Shabbos morning services, and then extended a personal invitation to join his family for lunch. So Shabbos morning we drove to shul and remained there until after havdalah.

We loved it. It was so amazing – there were so many people at the rabbi's table, and everyone was so real, so connected. Most of the guests were, like us, discovering Yiddishkiet, and they asked lots of questions. The rabbi and his wife responded to each and every one of them in an honest, forthright mannerway. 

After that wonderful experience, at which time I was seven years old,

we traveled to shul every Shabbos morning. Yes, it bothered us that we had to drive, but we weren't Jewish, and this was the only way we could learn about Judaism. On Sundays, we returned to attend conversion classes, where we studied halachah and were warned about the ramifications of becoming Jewish. We realized that it was a huge responsibility, but by now we firmly believed in the truth of the Torah and knew that this was the life that we were meant to live. We had no doubt about the step we wanted to take, and that knowledge infused us with joy.

So many things made much sense to us – to thank Hashem after going to the bathroom; to be aware of the miracle inherent in the seemingly mundane. It was so right; so beautiful and so, so pure! We met people who didn't own a television, yet their lives were filled with purpose; with a higher calling. And then there was the hachnassas orchim. Total strangers opened their homes – and hearts—to us, as well as to dozens of other guests. We wanted to emulate these amazing people, to continue the chain of chessed that we had received.

It's so wonderful to go back to those memories, to that time when everything was so fresh and exciting, and real – so, so real. I remember telling my cousins and my friends at school about all the wonderful, new things we were learning, but of course they didn't understand. How could they? 

That June and July, my four siblings and I attended a frum day camp. Even though I was only eight, I remember being so impressed with how the counselors were dressed – so refined and tzniusdig, yet they were totally with it, and a lot of fun to boot! For August, my older sister and I attend an all-girl's sleepover camp. We had a blast! Everyone knew that we weren't Jewish, yet, since we were already at the end of our conversion process, we were accepted with open arms. I even won the Brachos Bee for my age group! One of the other girls in my bunk had seventeen – seventeen!!! – siblings. I couldn't imagine such a large family, yet she was so normal and happy, and certainly not deprived!

Meanwhile, my parents continued to attend classes and learn whatever and whenever they could. At first, the rabbis were tough, and tried to scare them away, but then, when they realized that they could not be deterred, they were supportive and encouraging. My parents, on their part, did whatever they were told, although at times it was far from easy. They had no doubts that they were on the right path, and they were so excited about everything new that they learned. We couldn't wait for the day that we would have the zechus of becoming part of Am Yisrael.

The most difficult challenge for us was to leave our home town to move to a Jewish community. After all, my parents had grown up in that small, rural town, and their families still lived there. Although we were moving in a very different direction from them, they realized that we were happy with what we were doing and accepted us for who we were. My parents were concerned people in the frum community would not accept us. But Hashem arranged for us to find a small town where we fit in perfectly, and, in an amazing turn of hashgachah pratis, a house was available for rent directly across the street from the Orthodox shul!

We were bursting with excitement during the last final days before our actual conversion. We couldn't wait until the moment would arrive and we'd immerse in the mikveh to become part of the Jewish people. During those last few days, we chose our future names. I kept on changing mine, until finally, my Mom just said, "Ellen, we're calling you Brachah, and that's that." So that's how I came to be called Brachah, and what a blessing it has been!

Emerging from the mikveh, I felt whole; it was a sense of completeness, that I was finally who I had been meant to be. I turned to my mother and said, "Ima, I feel as if I've been Jewish my entire life." But the truth is, I was right. My neshamah had always been Jewish and had accepted the Torah together with all of Am Yisrael on Har Sinai.

From the mikveh, our entire family went straight to shul where we were formally given our Hebrew names. Then a funny thing happened. The Rav informed us that we had to immerse again in the mikveh, as the filter had been accidentally left on. So we immersed a second time, and finally we were really part of Am Yisrael! 

Now that my parents were Jewish, they had to marry with a chupah and kiddushin. They planned on a small ceremony in the rabbi's study. Instead, the community prepared a beautiful chasunah for them, replete with live music, leibidig dancing and a delicious home-cooked seudah. My sister and I were maids of honor, and got to wear beautiful long gowns. We felt so welcome; the community was reaching out to embrace us into their midst.

I continued attending the same all-girls' summer camp that I had gone to before my conversion. Eventually, I became a counselor there. For high school, I traveled each day to a major city an hour and a half away to attend Bais Yaakov. I loved Bais Yaakov and really fit in – I even became GO president and was very active in running the various youth programs. Someday, b'ezras Hashem, I hope to become a teacher and kiruv professional, to share my love of Torah with others who have not had the privilege of a Torah education.

Today, we are an integral part of our town's Jewish community. Our home is always bursting with company; all my friends and my siblings' friends congregate in our home, because that's where the action is! On Shabbos, we always have a table full of guests. We thrive on it; it's the highlight of our week.

My non-Jewish grandparents are very supportive of our life style.  My grandparents even helped pay for my seminary tuition, and my grandmother plans to visit me later on this year. Both sets of grandparents have two full sets of dishes set aside in a closed cupboard for our use. Before Sukkos, my grandparents help my father cut s’chach for the sukkah. Although they are different from us, they try to understand our lifestyle and remain part of our life.

I recently visited the rabbi and his wife who originally helped my family in their journey to Yiddishkeit. I know that they had tremendous nachas seeing the fruits of their labor. They remembered me as a non-Jew, taking my first, tenuous steps towards a life of Torah and mitzvos, and there I was, a Bais Yaakov girl, fully integrated into the frum world, almost an adult at eighteen years of age, totally devoted to a life of Yiddishkeit. In an amazing turn of events, the summer before I came to in Israel for seminary, I was counselor at the camp that his children attend, and ended up teaching his children Torah! Life goes around in a circle, and we never know where it will take us!

Every day, I thank Hashem for bring me close to Him and His Torah. It's so wonderful to be part of Klal Yisrael. In my seminary interview, the rabbi asked me if I ever miss my previous life. I explained that although we had sacrificed certain things to become Jewish, what we gained was so much greater and so wonderful that the things we gave up became superfluous. Our life today is so rich and full of meaning.

Prior to this interview, I went to the Kosel and recited Tehillim. I was struck by the words of kapital 34:11,"Young lions suffer want and are hungry, but those who seek the Lord lack no good." What emes! When a person has Torah, nothing else speaks to him. 

Eyes to the World published Hamodia Februar2, 2011

Eyes to the World

An Eye Opening Israeli Program

By Debbie Shapiro

Sunday morning I was up early to catch the number 110 bus to Modiin to meet Lisa Baron Haet, International Liaison of IGDCB, Israel Guide Dog Center for the Blind. From the bus stop Ms. Baron Haet drove me in her bright yellow car to the IGDCB campus, located some twenty minutes south of Tel Aviv. I had seen these amazing animals at work, leading blind people through the treacherous Jerusalem streets, where cars are often parked smack in the middle of the sidewalk and piles of building material and low-hanging trees make pedestrian navigation a real challenge even for those fully sighted, but I only recently found out that these dogs are now being bred and trained not far from my home.

In the last ten years, IGDCB has given hundreds of blind Israelis the gift of independence. When Guy Simchi became blind at the age of 33, he felt the outside world close before him. "The fear and despair was so powerful, I just wanted to go to bed and stay there for the rest of my life." He hated using the cane. "Everywhere I walked, I was accompanied by the noise of its tap-tapping on the ground. Once in a while, I would inadvertently hit the legs of people passing by and often bumped into things- electric poles, trees, people. I felt like a failure."

All that changed January, 2007 when Simchi was paired with Turner, a black Lab. "Today, Simchi and Turner are practically inseparable. The dog accompanies him when he walks his son to preschool and even joins him while he counsels clients in his position as a psychiatric social worker. For Simchi, his dog, Turner, has "lit up the darkness for me."

IGDCB is the brainchild of Noach Braun. Braun, a former kibbutznik, got his first experience working with dogs while serving in the Israeli Defense Force. Upon completing his service, he decided to become a guide dog trainer, as it would combine his love of animals with his desire to help his fellow Israelis. He took his initial two years of training in the Guide Dog Mobility Instructor Training Program at Pilot Dogs, Columbus, Ohio, and then continued his studies in England. In 1991, Braun returned home to open the first guide dog school in Israel. Meanwhile, his wife, Orna, studied dog breeding, which, in today's high-tech world involves genetic research to produce intelligent and resilient animals.

IGDCB's first graduating pair was Chaim Tzur, a concert violinist from Jerusalem with Tillie, a Labrador retriever that was given as a puppy to Noach by the guide dog school in London. Tzur lived together with Braun and his family while receiving his instruction and training. Since then, Braun, together with his wife and twenty-two staff members, have graduated three hundred and thirty-seven partnerships.

@A Visit to the Center

Pulling up into the parking lot just outside the center, I have visions of huge German shepherds jumping on me while trying to lick my face, and pray that I don't faint on the spot. But although I see many people walking around and pass an obstacle course designed to train dogs to navigate difficult terrain, I don't encounter any dogs, nor do I hear barking (whew!).

As we walk up to Ms. Baron Haet's second-floor office, she says, "I got involved with the Center when I fostered one of their puppies. When puppies are about two months old they're sent to foster families that teach them the skills they will need to begin their training program. The foster families get them used to being around people and introduce them to a variety of new situations, such as construction sites, busy highways and crowded shopping malls. We train them not to beg at the table or chase cats, and to obey basic commands such as 'sit' or 'come.' After I started working here, I would bring my puppy, Angie, to work with me" – she points to an empty spot next to the wall – "that was where he would stay while I worked. After devoting hours to walking him and taking care of his needs, when he was one year old, we returned him to the Center, where he started the intensive five month training course to become a Guide Dog."

Angie was one of the 40% that do not pass the Guide Dog Training Course. Although it succeeded in navigating the obstacle courses and obeying the trainer, it was slightly hyperactive and did not have the patience necessary to guide a blind person. Instead, Angie is living with a blind child and his family, to acclimate the child to having a dog in the house so that  it will be easier for him to get used to working with a guide dog when he get older. Sometimes dogs that don't pass the test are given to autistic children to help them learn to communicate with the world around him.

Ms. Baron Haet introduces me to some of the staff. Many of them have also adopted puppies, and their dogs come with them to the office. I am amazed that the animals remain quietly on their mats. But the moment Ms. Baron Haet starts petting a large white Labrador, the animal grabs a toy and brings it over to us, hoping that we'll play with him.

In the last office, I meet Yitzchak Ben David, IGDCB's Community and Corporate Public Relations Director, and a Guide Dog user since 1994. While Yitzchak is busy answering emails and responding to telephone calls, his Guide Dog is off duty and free to roam the halls or sniff the flowers. But the moment Yitzchak harnesses him with the special Guide Dog harness, it has one mission – to guide its partner and lead him away from danger.

In the hallway, Ms. Baron Haet introduces me to Sagit Kirson, IGDCB's Volunteer Coordinator, who's training a group of volunteers to work with the clients. I notice that the volunteers are carrying blindfolds. "As part of their sensitivity training, they're going to experience for a short time some of the challenges of being blind, especially navigating new terrain," Ms. Kirson explains.

It takes an entire month of intensive one-on-one work with a trainer for a blind person and a dog to become a genuine team. The students spend three weeks working with a trainer at the center, and an additional week of training at home, where they learn to navigate the specific challenges of their own neighborhood. "At first, most of our clients find it extremely difficult –- even traumatic -- to leave their familiar surroundings and live at the Center. At home, they know where everything is and are able to get around easily. But here, everything is new and different and it's a real challenge for them to learn to get around."

As we walk through the Center, Ms. Baron Haet points out that everything in the building is designed to make it easier for people with limited vision to find their way around. There is a wide yellow strip running down the center of each hallway and path, and bathroom fixtures are all bright yellow. "Yellow is the last color that blind people lose the ability to see," Ms. Baron Haet explains, "so some of our legally blind clients with residual vision are able to discern it."  The flooring in front of the stairs and outer doors is also yellow, and include raised bumps to warn the clients to be careful of the steps ahead. In contrast, the flooring adjacent to the walls is black and roughly textured to prevent the clients from bumping into them. There is a large tactile model of the entire campus prominently displayed near the front entrance. Its removable roof allows the students to get a hands-on feel of the building layout, and, when pushed, numerous buttons provide audio explanations of every detail. For a split second, I close my eyes and imagine what it must be like to “feel” my way around the world.

Before leaving the main building to meet the dogs, Ms. Baron Haet takes me to the dormitory. In addition to the spacious bedrooms, there are two dog grooming rooms, where the clients are taught to care for their dogs. "Many of our clients live alone, so we train them how to use their sense of smell and touch to detect any abnormality in their dog, such as a runny nose or cut paws. Since we remain responsible for the dogs' veterinary care, if there's any problem that the client can't cope with, we send one of our trainers to take care of it, and return the dog to the client in top condition."

@With the Trainers

Outside, several trainers are working with the dogs. I watch, fascinated, as one trainer holds a piece of hot, aromatic sausage in front of the dog's nose, then flips it in the air and shakes it up and down to entice him to eat, while the dog's main trainer quietly tells him not to. "We're teaching the dog to conquer his yetzer hara, which in a dog is its instinct,” the trainer laughs. “That's because when a dog is in its harness, ‘at work,’ no matter how strong the desire or pressing the need, the animal's energies must be channeled into serving its partner.” After all, a dog going off to the side to smell the flowers will drag his partner with him.

"We use this tiny apparatus, called a clicker, to train the animals." Ms. Baron Haet points to the tiny piece of plastic in the trainer's hand. "When pressed, it makes a clicking noise. At first, when the trainer clicks, he simultaneously gives the dog a tiny treat, so that the dog associates the clicking sound with a treat. Then the click itself becomes positive reinforcement, and the treats are given only occasionally. Eventually, the behavior is so ingrained that the dog doesn't need the positive reinforcement to behave as trained."

After watching the dogs navigate a seesaw and climb stairs, Ms. Baron Haet shows me the sensory garden, dominated by a raised fishpond. Using the same method of positive reinforcement that is used to train the dogs, the trainers have trained the fish to enjoy being stroked. For many blind people, this is their first opportunity to actually 'see' a fish."

NOTE TO GRAPHIC ARTIST: PICTURE OF HAND IN WATER, WITH FISH SUCKING FINGER

@Meet Yariv Melamed

Ms. Baron Haet introduced me to Yariv Melamed, an ex-kibbutznik who began his career as an apprentice in the Center, and later received a scholarship to spend a year in Melbourne studying the clicker method of training Guide Dogs. When asked what he loves about his job, he replied, "It's wonderful to help people open a new page in their lives. I've had clients break into tears of joy after successfully navigating the obstacle course. With their new-found independence, they regain their sense of self-respect and join the world around them. After a month of working together on a daily basis, facing and overcoming fears and limitations, I develop a deep, personal relationship with my clients. Although I don't always manage to get to all of their simchos, all the trainers make annual home visits to iron out any problems, and of course, we're always there if other issues arise."

@From Astro to Zorbo

Visiting the kennels, I learn that the dogs are named according to their litter – with the names beginning with the same letter of the alphabet. So Jingle, Jupiter and Janglo all have the same genetic makeup, which makes it easier to keep track of their behavior, information that is used to decide the genetic makeup of future litters. "We never give the dogs typical Hebrew names," Ms. Baron Haet explains. "After all, the chances are small that someone in a crowded mall will call out 'Hey, Jupiter.'"

Mother dogs with their newborn litters are kept in a separate area, a canine kimpeturin heim replete with soothing music, lots of stuffed pillows, toys and extra-nutritious meals. The pups remain with their mother for the first two months of their lives. Then they are sent to their adoptive families, which lavish them with love and attention and prepare them for the rigorous five-month Guide Dog training course.

**********

Ever since Hashem commanded the First Man to "rule over the fish of the sea and over the fowl of the sky and over all the beasts that tread upon the earth" (Bereishis 1:28), man has trained animals to serve him. Yaakov Avinu kept a herd of between 600,000 to 1,200,000 dogs to tend his sheep (Bereshis Rabba, Vayetezei, parsha 73).  Dovid Hamelech raised dogs, presumably as watchdogs (Rashi, Shmuel II, 3:8). Today, dogs are trained to detect bedbugs and drugs, track down people, warn an epileptic of an impending fit, determine sounds for a deaf person and open up new horizons for the blind.

 

TEXT BOX

Blind Etiquette

@ Never pet or otherwise distract a Guide Dog while it is wearing the harness. It is not a pet. Distracting a Guide Dog while it is working can endanger the blind person's life.

@ If the Guide Dog is not wearing its harness, ask permission before petting it or playing with it.

@Never offer food or drink to a Guide Dog. Its owner carefully monitors the dog's food and liquid intake so that he will know when to allow the dog to relieve itself.

@Never grab or steer a person while his Guide Dog is guiding him, or attempt to hold the dog's harness.

 END TEXT BOX

TEXT BOX

In the Hebrew-speaking Chareidi community, Ariella Savir is a household word. A blind mother of eight – including an autistic son – she's produced dozens of popular children's tapes and CDs. She appears regularly to all-women audiences from Ofakim to Tsfas, where she weaves songs and stories as she talks about the many challenges facing her as a visually impaired woman living a normal life.

Since receiving a Guide Dog three months ago, Ariella has been appearing on stage with her dog, Zorba, who sits patiently at her side waiting for her to finish so that he can guide her backstage.

Ariella graciously offered to tell Hamodia how her Guide Dog has enriched her life.

"My husband was always there to help me and guide me. But when he suffered a minor heart attack, I suddenly realized that I must have my independence, that I can't be completely dependent on him for everything. Getting a Guide Dog was like being released from a golden prison. Yes, I had everything I wanted, and everyone was more than happy to help me, but now I have wings to fly solo. Every morning, I go for a walk and meet my friends. Sometimes, later on in the day I walk to the post office, or do some shopping. Zorbo is my key to the wonderful world around me."

published in Bina January 23, 2011

Title: A Gap in the Tapestry

:

Byline: As told to Debbie Shapiro

I stared at the piece of paper in my hands. The square-shaped bigger than life head, the small body, the tiny hands and feet, replete with fingers and toes — a normal ultrasound for a ten-week-old fetus. The technician wished me "B'shaah tovah" as she handed the print to me with a big smile. And although I smiled back at her, inside, I cringed in pain.

The story really began over ten years before, when, without any connection to a pregnancy, I developed massive bilateral pulmonary emboli, a life threatening condition where both lungs became clogged with hundreds of blood clots, any one of which could prove fatal. I spent over a month in the hospital, almost blind thanks to a clot lodged in an eye muscle, and too weak to even sit up in bed. Despite the doctors' dire prognosis, I survived and returned to my vibrant self; the doctors called me a walking miracle. Less than a year and a half later, I married my husband, and in the next several years, b'chasdei Hashem, I succeeded in delivering three healthy babies without complications.

So when, shortly after realizing that I was expecting our fourth child, I developed enormous blood clots that covered the bottom half of both legs — hard, finger-size swellings that were extremely painful — I immediately called my gynecologist. He, of course, instructed me to head straight to the nearest emergency room.

At the hospital, the doctors were barely able to hide their shock. They had never seen anything like this before. The head of the internal medicine department was called in and I was placed on a heparin pump and instructed not to get off the bed. By now, however, the pain had become so intense that standing was not even a possibility.

Over the next week, it seemed as if every specialist who had anything to do with the hospital came to look at my legs and give an opinion. Although the blood clots were extremely painful, they were not dangerous. They were, however, a sign that something about my pregnancy hormones was causing my blood to clot, and although the problem was presently contained to my superficial veins, if a clot were to develop in one of the larger, deeper veins, there would be a real danger that pieces could break off and fly up into my lungs, brain or heart and kill me.

The morning of the ultrasound, the heads of the department had entered my room and, with extremely grave expressions on their faces, questioned me as to exactly how far along I was in my pregnancy. Before leaving the room, they instructed the nurse to send me for an ultrasound to confirm my calculations.

I intuitively understood that the doctors were going to recommend that I terminate this pregnancy, that I abort this precious life that I held within me. I immediately phoned my husband and asked him to discuss my condition with our rav, Rav Moshe Halberstam, zt"l. "Please make sure the rav understands," I said, "that I am willing to do whatever is necessary to have this baby — even if it means spending the next six months in bed. But I am also aware of the dangers, and if he paskens otherwise, I will accept it wholeheartedly."

I began giving myself a silent mussar schmooze. Of course I knew that my life takes precedence over that of my unborn child's, and that as a G-d fearing woman it is my obligation to follow the Rav's instructions. Obedience to daas Torah is a measure of one's yiras Shamayim. My seichal understood that if the Rav were to instruct me to abort the baby, then that was what I would have to do; it would be just as min haShamayim as if it were to happen naturally, and therefore I must never allow myself to feel guilt for terminating a potential life in such a case.

But still, I questioned how I would be able to live with myself afterwards, and I was angry at myself for allowing my emotions to contradict my intellect. It was difficult for me to bridge the vast distance between my brain — my intellectual understanding — and my heart — my emotional reactions.

As I fingered the picture of my unborn baby, I felt the tears well in my eyes. I wanted to place the picture in a safe place, so that in the future I could look back and remember this precious little neshamah that I was carrying so close to my heart. But I realized that I was being foolish and forced myself to crush the paper into a tiny ball and throw it into the nearest trashcan.

Back in my room, an acquaintance stopped in to visit me and, in a rush of emotion, I told her what was going on. "My husband is speaking with the Rav now," I concluded.

Her reaction floored me. Instead of urging me to listen to daas Torah, she gave me a whole drashah on "emunah and bitachon," stating that the mere fact that I had asked such a shaylah showed a lack of emunah. Instead, she argued, I should simply place my trust in Hashem that He will keep me healthy and help me to deliver a healthy baby. As I listened to her passionate speech, I kept on repeating to myself that it was the voice of my yetzer hara speaking. Oh, how I wanted to believe her, to just have "emunah" and trust that everything would work out. But I also knew that true emunah is bowing my will to daas Torah — asking a shaylah and obeying the Rav's psak.

While my friend was still in the midst of delivering her speech (and I was quietly telling myself not to listen to her), four doctors entered my room and requested that she leave. Even before she had a chance to close the door behind her, one of the doctors said, "Your life is in danger. We have no choice but to terminate the pregnancy."

When I told them that my husband was presently discussing the situation with Rav Halberstam, zt"l, the head of the department left the room to phone the Rav. Less than twenty minutes later, an orderly brought me to the doctor's private office, where Rav Halberstam was waiting on the phone to speak with me.

The Rav asked what I thought about the whole situation. I responded that as things stood now, I was in a lot of pain but not really in danger; but that I did realize that if the condition were to spread to my deep veins, it could be life-threatening. "I'll do whatever is necessary to save this pregnancy," I continued. "But I also realize that if the Rav paskens otherwise, then that, too, is min Hashamayim." With those last words, I felt the tears trickling down my cheek.

The rav explained that although his first concern was for my life and according to the information the doctors gave him, I would probably have to abort the baby, he wanted to discuss the situation with a specialist in the United States before giving his final psak. Meanwhile, he instructed me to remember that whatever happens if for the best and to try to remain b'simchah.

Baruch Hashem, I did not have the nisayon of terminating the pregnancy. The specialist felt that there was no immediate danger to my life. He felt that I should return home on what was then a new, experimental medication: low-molecular weight heparin. He instructed me that other than taking a one-hour brisk walk each day, I was to remain flat on my back with my feet elevated above heart level. In my hyper-coagulative state, standing or sitting, which causes the blood to pool, could cause me to form new blood clots. Brisk walking, on the other hand, increases the blood flow and prevents new blood clots from forming.

The next few months were spent in bed — except for my daily one-hour brisk walk. Seminary girls came each afternoon to help with the children and housework, organizations sent in readymade meals, and I tried my best to walk where no one would see me! It was extremely embarrassing to be on the receiving end of so much chessed and then be seen looking the picture of good health as I power-walked around the neighborhood. I truly hoped that if anyone noticed me they would judge me favorably.

Then, in my sixth month of pregnancy, the unthinkable happened. I developed a DVT (deep vein thrombosa), a blood clot in one of my main veins. There was a real danger that a piece of the clot could break off and travel into my lungs, a potentially life-threatening condition, and I was immediately hospitalized.

I spent the next six weeks in the high-risk pregnancy ward, flat on my back, receiving intravenous heparin. Although my life was in danger, the pregnancy was completely normal. Finally, just a few days before Purim, the doctors decided that the situation was stable and sent me home with instructions to remain in bed with my feet elevated above heart level until it was time to deliver the baby.

I was so excited to return home to my family. Neighbors had sent over a beautiful Purim seudah, the house was immaculate, and it was wonderful to finally sleep in my own bed! But despite the euphoria, something didn't seem right. It took a while until I realized what it was — I wasn't feeling my baby.

I was petrified, but I kept on telling myself that I must be overreacting. After all, before I was discharged from the hospital, I had gone for an ultrasound and monitor, and everything had appeared perfect. I tried to convince myself that it was nothing more than the excitement of returning home.

But when I still didn’t feel the baby by the next day, I returned to the hospital to make sure that everything really was all right. The nurse listened to the heartbeat and reassured me that the baby sounded fine. I was ready to return home, grateful that my fears were nothing more than a figment of my imagination, but according to hospital protocol I couldn't be released without an ultrasound.

It took several hours until I was finally called me in for the ultrasound. At first, the technician reassured me that everything looked fine, but that she couldn't discharge me until the baby made some movement. After waiting ten minutes, she gave me a few cubes of chocolate to eat, but still, nothing. Then she placed a loud, buzzing machine next to my stomach — again, nothing. Finally, she called in a senior doctor.

After that, everything happened very fast. I remember being transferred to a hospital bed, and that there were several people standing around me — helping me into a hospital gown, placing a monitor around me, inserting an intravenous line into my arm. On the monitor, the line for the baby's heart was completely flat. Yes, the heart was beating, but it was a steady 160, without wavering up or down, a sign of severe fetal distress. Without warning, I suddenly felt a painful stinging sensation in my upper arm. "We just gave you a shot to help the baby's lung's develop," the nurse explained.

Someone handed me a form to sign, agreeing to an emergency C-section. Within minutes an anesthesiologist appeared to administer an epidural anesthetic. Stunned and petrified, I was rushed through the long hospital corridors and into the operating room.

All I remember of the operating room was that it was freezing cold. I couldn't stop shaking as the doctors began the surgery to remove my child. Just before the final incision, the anesthesiologist administered something to put me to sleep, and the next thing I remember was waking up in a large room surrounded by many beeping machines, with my husband at my side. He looked exhausted and worried.

"How's the baby?" was my first question.

He didn't know.

"Is it a boy? A girl?" I continued.

"A girl." His voice was flat.

"Did you get a chance see her?" I asked.

He told me that he had managed to catch a peek of our newborn baby girl as they whisked her away to the PICU. "She was on a respirator," he said quietly. "She looked very, very sick."

"Please find out how she's doing."

My husband went to the nurse's station. From my bed, I watched as he spoke to the woman at the desk and then slowly return to my side "She said that she'll call the PICU and get back to us as soon as she has some information," he said.

Sometime later, the nurse appeared at my bedside. She had a box of tissues in her hands. I knew what she was going to say. Yet, even as she said the words, "Your baby passed away a few minutes ago," I felt a searing, wrenching pain, it was as if I was being physically torn in half. I was overwhelmed with a sense of emptiness, of loss, and no words could comfort me.

It's funny how, at times like this, everything we've ever learned about emunah comes rushing back to us, an anchor to keep us from falling into the depths. "I know that this was min Hashamayim," I kept on repeating to my husband, "and I know that this baby had to come down to this world for a tikkun, and that, b'ezras Hashem, after 120 years I'll be together with this baby in the Next World. But still, although I know that everything that happens is for the good, the pain was excruciating; it was beyond anything I have ever experienced." And I wished — oh, how I wished — that I could have seen my daughter at least one time before she was taken away from me, had some fleeting memory of the precious little neshamalah that I had given birth to.

Even as I lay there, feeling the enormous waves of pain wash over me, I was amazed at another emotion that kept bubbling to the surface: gratitude. I was so grateful that I had been able to carry this baby to the eighth month, and that I had merited to give her the gift of life, even if it was only for a few short hours. "It was all worth it," I said. "Everything, the months in bed, the pain, the surgery, to enable this neshamah to do her tikkun." Even as I said these words, I was amazed at my own capacity to feel such contradicting emotions.

That baby was my youngest child. Although this story happened almost eighteen years ago, the pain — the black hole of emptiness — still exists. It will never disappear. Eighteen years ago, it was raw and fresh. It overwhelmed me, filling up my entire being and dominating my life. Today, it's a small gap in a rich tapestry, barely noticeable, definitely not a blemish, but an integral part of the entire picture, providing another dimension of texture and depth.

STILLNESS OF NIGHT PUBLISHED OU.ORG

January 09, 2011 
Stillness of the Night 
By Debbie Shapiro

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I love my city. It calls to me; beckons to me. And because I love it so much and am so curious about its history, I decided to enroll in an intense one year course sponsored by Beth Jacob Seminary in conjunction with the Jerusalem Municipality, to become a Jerusalem tour guide.

And that is how I found myself, on an icy cold January evening, standing on a windswept mountain with twenty five other women, most at least twenty years younger than myself, our necks tilted upwards, gazing at the stars. Our guide pointed out the different stars (kochvei shevet, "sitting stars," because they remain in the same place in relationship to each other) and planets (kochvei lechet, "traveling stars" because they move across the sky) and then let us view Jupiter with a telescope. Yes, I managed to find three its four moons.

Afterwards, he taught us how to find the North Star, so that if we ever find ourselves lost in the streets of Jerusalem late at night, we'll know how to find our way home – although to me, Jerusalem is, and always will be, home, and if do find myself lost in its sometimes confusing circular streets, I'll ask someone where I am, or, worse comes to worse, flag down a taxi.

"Over there," he began, pointing with his laser beam to a group of stars in the north-east sky, "is the great shopping cart in the sky."

Huh?

"See, there's the basket. Underneath it, you can see the handle."

What's it called in English?" I asked, I wondered how I could have lived in Israel for over thirty eight years without ever hearing about the great shopping cart in the sky (maybe that's why my food bills are always so astronomical).

"Soup ladle; an upside down soup ladle."

It took me a couple of seconds to translate that into the Big Dipper.

"Make an imaginary line between the two stars of the shopping cart's handle," our guide explained, using his laser beam to make it crystal clear. "The line points straight to the North Star; it's five times the distance between the two stars that make up the shopping cart's handle."

My neck was beginning to hurt from staring up into the sky for so long.

Our guide then pointed out the Cassiopeia constellation, "the Big W in the sky." "The middle star always points directly to the Northern Star," he explained. Simple and easy; how could I possibly miss it? The sparkling lights seemed to jump out at me, and I wondered why I never noticed these things before.

The following evening, as I was taking my evening power walk up and down the streets of my inner-city neighborhood, I found myself staring up at the stars, trying to find the constellations that seemed so obvious to me the previous night when they had almost screamed their presence.

But I couldn't find any of them. Not the M, nor the big shopping cart, not even the northern star. They were obscured by the pulsating lights of Jerusalem. The exquisite points of light that disrupted the inky emptiness were now blurred into a fuzzy oneness.

I will probably never again climb a windswept mountain at midnight to gaze at the stars over Jerusalem. But now, at least, I know they exist. I know there are realities that remain constant, and that never change, but that they can become obscured by the pulsating lights that continually surround me. And at least I have their memory.

Debbie Shapiro is a widely published author and a longtime Jerusalem resident. Her latest book, Women Talk, is a compilation of interviews with great Jewish women -- and all Jewish women are great! To read more of her articles or contact her for speaking engagements, please visit her blogspot,Debbie Shapiro of Jerusalem

And now, you can join women from all over the world and share in an experience of a lifetime that will rejuvenate your mind and re-energize your soul. Discover, celebrate and study while enjoying an unforgettable journey February 13-22 with OU L'Ayla's Mission to Israel

to the woman from Lakewood who sent me a note about Shattered

Could you please email me? debbieshapiroofjerusalem@gmail.com

Debbie

A trip up North published in Binah

Some Things Never Change

---A Trip to the Galilee

By Debbie Shapiro

When Azamra Seminary in Beit Shemesh invited me to join their girls on a two day trip to the north of Israel, I was excited at the thought of getting away for a couple of days and spending time in parts of Israel that I hadn't seen since my own seminary days, some thirty-nine years ago (gulp). But when they told me that Rebbetzin Heller would be coming with us to provide insights into the kivrei tzaddikim, well, the word "thrilled" would be an understatement. Although I'm no stranger to the mekomos hatzaddikim – after all, they're just a bus ride away -- I never really learned about the tzaddikim's lives and how standing at their graves should impact my tefillos.

Monday morning I joined Yona and Rebbetzin Heller in a taxi that took us to the the Beit Shemesh highway, where we boarded the bus with the rest of the group. By ten thirty, we had arrived at the kever of Rabi Meir Baal Haness and his wife, Bruria.

There's something about the exquisite pristine beauty of Eretz Yisrael that causes the tears to well in my eyes. Yes, the world is full of majesty and splendor, but the beauty of Eretz Yisrael is different, for I know that these Hashem Himself granted these precious mountains and valleys to us as a holy nachala, a yerusha forever, and therefore spiritual connection is deep and all encompassing. The large imposing building housing the tomb of Rabi Meir Baal Haness is located halfway up a mountain overlooking the Kinneret. The combination of shimmering blue water reflecting the towering mountains leaves one breathless.

Sitting on the steps outside the kever, Rebbetzin Heller spoke about the inherent holiness of Eretz Yisrael and why we travel to the kivrei tzaddikim. She explained that Hashem wants us to attach ourselves to the tzaddik's merit since the tzaddikim are yesodei olam, foundations of the world. Just as a building needs a foundation to remain steady, we need the stability of attaching ourselves to the tzaddik's kedusha to keep ourselves from toppling. Although tzaddikim led very real lives – they ate and drank, and faced plenty of challenges -- they were successful in finding Hashem within all these mundane activities.

Since the Maharal explains that the more we identify with the tzaddik, the greater our sense of attachment, Rebbetzin Heller told us a little bit about Rabi Meir's life and the kochos that he exemplified. He was one of the main codifiers of the Mishna; whenever a Mishna is quoted without a name, we assume that Rabi Meir Baal Haness was the speaker.

The Tanaim and Amoraim lived in the time of gzeiros shmad, when the Romans ruled Eretz Yisrael and decreed that it was forbidden to keep Torah and mitzvos, which is the reason so many of them moved to the rugged and mountainous Galil, far from probing Roman eyes. After the Romans executed Rabi Meir's father-in-law Rabi Chananiah ben Teradyon –one of the ten martyrs – and his wife for teaching Torah, they imprisoned their daughter, Rabi Meir's sister-in-law. Rabi Meir tried to bribe the guard to release her, but the guard was afraid that when his supervisor would discover that the girl was missing, he would have him executed. Rabi Meir told him to take half the money for himself, and use the other half to bribe the officials.

"But what will happen when I don't have anymore money to bribe the supervisor?" the guard asked.

Rabi Meir told him to recite the words, "Elokai d'Meir aneini," "G-d of Meir, answer me," and he would be saved.

"But how can I be sure that these words will really save me?" asked the guard.

Rabi Meir walked toward a pack of man-eating dogs that threatened to tear him apart. Then he cried, "Elokai d'Meir, aneini," and the dogs turned around and left him alone.

The guard was convinced that he'd be saved and released Rabi Meir's sister-in-law.

Although at first the guard was able to bribe his supervisor, eventually the money was used up and the guard was arrested and sentenced to death by hanging. But when the rope was tied around his neck, he cried out, "Elokai d'Meir, aneini," and, to everyone's amazement, the rope tore and he was saved.

"This Roman soldier had no merit," explained Rebbetzin Heller. "Yet, because he attached himself to the tzaddik – held on to someone much greater than himself – he evoked Rabi Meir's merit –'Elokai d'Meir aneini,' 'G-d of Meir, answer me,' and experienced a miracle.  Just as he had full trust in Rabi Meir's promise (otherwise he would have never endangered his life like that!) we have to believe that Hashem is all-powerful and can turn around a seemingly hopeless situation. We can daven and evoke Hashem's mercy; we can plead for the seemingly impossible, because it is within Hashem's power to give it to us. There is no such thing as despair."

As I stood in front of Rabi Meir's kever, davening to find a solution for a seemingly irresolvable problem, I, too, was infused with renewed hope. After all, if a Roman soldier could be saved through simple emuna, then there's hope for me as well.

After leaving Rabi Meir Baal Haness, we passed by the gravesites of Moshe Rabbeinu's wife, Tziporah; sister, Miriam; and mother, Yocheved, as well as Rabi Akiva's wife, Rochel. Rebbetzin Heller pointed out that whereas with the other graves in the Galil, we know their location from either a chain of tradition or through the Ari z"l's ruach hakodesh, the sites of these graves were determined according to a dream, and therefore cannot be verified.

Our next stop was banana boating on the Kineret. For the uninitiated, banana boating is somewhat akin to water skiing; a speed boat pulls a long banana-like tube through the water, while the passengers – who sit on the tube horseback-riding style -  hold on for dear life!  Until recently, the bananas were made in such a way that they would almost inevitably turn over, dumping their screaming (life jacket encased) passengers into the cold water. For obvious reasons, the government passed a law that the boats had to be built so that no matter how bumpy the ride, they would remain upright in the water.

Don't get me wrong; I love fun and, for a woman who passed the forty five year old mark over a decade ago, I'm really quite adventurous. But somehow, the idea of banana boating seemed, well, s-c-a-r-y. Rebbetzin Heller, however, thought otherwise. On the bus ride from Beit Shemesh to Tiveria, as she told me about the joy of holding on for dear life as the boat plunged through the waves, falling off into the icy-cold water (before the new law!) and then somehow climbing back on to the slippery tube, my first reaction was NEVER! But after I saw her enthusiasm and anticipation, I changed my mind. After all, if she could do it, then why can't I?

As I gingerly made my way down the stony slope to the shore, I felt my excitement growing. Bubby was really going banana boating – my einikalach will be so proud of me! But – whew!--  it was not meant to be. All the boats were filled to capacity, and I ended up sitting on the "tornado" the term that very aptly describes the speed boat that pulls the banana. So yes, this bubby had no bananas (that really tells my age!) but I did have a tornado, and that was scary enough for me! And yes, Rebbetzin Heller joined the other girls on the banana, and they all had a fabulous time doing it – while I enjoyed every moment sitting at the water's edge, watching the boat twirl through the waves. 

Our next stop was at the kvarim of Rambam and the Shlah Hakodesh in Tiveria. Rebbetzin Heller told us how the Rambam had led a very difficult life. Exiled from Spain, he fled to Egypt where he became the official leader of the Jewish community. In addition to his responsibilities to his brethren, he was forced to become Sultan Saladin's personal physician. In the evening, after returning home exhausted from his duties to both the Jewish community and the Sultan, he would see the many patients who were waiting for him. Only then, in the late hours of the night, would he finally sit down to write his seforim. Yet, despite his heavy schedule, he succeeded in writing the encyclopedic Mishneh Torah and the Guide to the Perplexed, among others. From this we learn that although we cannot control the challenges that Hashem gives us, when it comes to ruchniyus, it is within our ability to reach the greatest heights. "When you daven," Rebbetzin Heller concluded, "let the Rambam be your example of someone who accomplished despite incredible odds, and aim for the heights."

From the Rambam and the Shlah Hakodesh, we drove to the top of Mt. Arbel, which soars to more than 181 meters above sea level. Standing upon its cliffs, we could see the Golan, the Kinneret and even Har Chermon! Under Roman rule, a small settlement of Jews lived on this mountain top, where the remains of an ancient synagogue were discovered. The settlement's most famous resident was Rabi Nitai Ha'arbeli, who said, "Keep far from an evil neighbor and do not associate with the wicked, and do not abandon belief in retribution" (Pirkei Avos 1:7) (footnote: Artscroll translation).

 

While our guide, Yona, led the girls – and Rebbetzin Heller – down the steep path to the bottom of the cliff, a hike which is rated by the nature authorities as "l'miteivei lechet," "for excellent walkers," (one category that I do not fit into!) I took the bus to the meeting point, where I enjoyed communing with a herd of goats and strolling along a meandering stream, a quiet interlude of peace and tranquility on a very busy day! 

 

[picture: Shortly before we arrived on Mt. Arbel, a car drove off the cliff. This is the medic, who had just returned from rescuing the driver, who sustained several broken bones.]

From Mt. Arbel we continued on to Chatzor, to the tomb of Choni Hamaagal. During a draught in Eretz Yisrael, the chachamim asked Choni Hamaagel to pray for rain. Choni drew a circle, stood inside of it and proclaimed, "Ribono shel Olam! I swear that I will not move from here until you have mercy on your children and send a good and blessed rain." The Chachamim were upset with Choni. What chutzpah! How could he, so to speak, force Hashem to send rain? Choni explained that he is similar to a son in his Father's house, and a son can request whatever he wants. "When we daven," concluded the Rebbetzin, "we are like children coming to our Father and we should ask Him for whatever we need."  

At supper that evening, Rebbetzin Heller spoke about Parshas Noach. "The flood was the worst catastrophe to ever take place. It was absolute destruction; nothing was left. How do you think Noach was able to continue after that?"

The answer, of course, is emuna. But then she pointed out the difference between Moshe Rabbeinu and Noach's emuna. When Hashem told Noach that He is about to destroy the world, Noach accepts that as Hashem's Will. But when Hashem told Moshe Rabbeinu that He was going to destroy the Jewish People, Moshe Rabbeinu extended himself to the point of self sacrifice to annul that decree. "It's up to each of us to do our hishtadlus," she explained, "yet, at the same time, we have to understand that the world will unfold according to Hashem's Will."

The girls asked questions about what is the proper measure of hishtadlus and how to prioritize. "How do we know where to focus our emotional and physical energy?" one girl asked. The Rebbetzin explained that we should focus on the things that will still be important five years from now. "Yes, some things are urgent, and they must to be taken care of, and sometimes they must be taken care of immediately, but don't waste too much mental energy on that. Stick to the important things."

Later on, I joined the girls for a kumsitz. Sitting in a circle in the candle-lit lounge, singing slow songs of dveikus and yearning, I almost felt as though I had gone back in time thirty-nine years to my own sem year at Machon Sara Schneirer -- except that I didn't know any of the songs! But the room was dark, so I just hummed along and enjoyed every moment of the achdus and harmony.

The following day was spent davening in Meiron, touring a winery, hiking down a river and then up a waterfall, and dancing on a boat as it circled the Kinneret. The day also brought home to me just how much I have changed. As young as I may sometimes feel, I'm far from being the agile, surefooted girl that I was at age eighteen. One difficult hike alongside a river was enough to teach me that I should stick to the straight and even asphalt. But although I slipped in the rushing waters, and needed several helping hands to climb down a ravine, I was amazed at the girls' patience when my snail paced hiking kept them from rushing ahead to greater and more exciting adventures. And so, while I have definitely changed over the years, some things—such as good middos – will always remain the same, and that's what is really important.