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.

This was written some 17 years ago...

Just Three Days

 

This is a true story. Yes, of course we know that Hashem runs the world. But some times it appears more obvious.

 

Sunday morning, three o’clock, Yerushalayim

 

I quietly tiptoe to the kitchen and try to remain calm while dialing the San Francisco number. I wait impatiently until a stranger answers the phone in the hospice and gently informs me that my father’s bed has been vacated. Although the house is silent, I am screaming inside.

 

On Friday afternoon, just a few moments before ushering in the Shabbos queen, I had been told it was only a matter of minutes. The rav had instructed me to begin sitting shivah the moment I would hear of my father’s death. Now, in the pre-morning stillness, I quietly tear my blouse to fulfill the requirement of kriah and begin sitting.

 

9:00 a.m.

 

Life, death, weddings … so much has happened in the last year.  Soon we will be marrying off a child, our third within seven months. Three weeks ago, I spent Shabbos in the hospital, helping my daughter give birth to my new granddaughter. Two weeks ago, we hosted a kiddush in shul. This past Shabbos was spent with the knowledge that my father was probably not alive. Next Shabbos I’ll be in the midst of shivah, and the following Shabbos we’ll be celebrating my son’s ufruf, and then Shabbos sheva brachos.

 

Isn’t it strange how we measure time with Shabbos?

 

My husband returns from shul and informs me that after hearing more details, the rav decided that I should begin sitting shivah from the time of the funeral. That would be Tuesday night Israeli time, late Monday morning Pacific time. I phone a travel agent to ask if it’s possible to make it to San Francisco in time for the funeral.

 

10:05 a.m. 

 

The travel agent returns my call. There is a flight leaving Ben Gurion for Newark, New Jersey, at 11:30 a.m. The ticket will be waiting for me at the airport. My connecting flight from Newark leaves at 6 p.m.; the travel agent, however, cannot issue a ticket for that flight as there is less than two hours leeway.  Once I land, I will have one hour to buy a ticket and catch the connecting flight to San Francisco.

 

My husband orders a taxi while I locate my American and Israeli passports. I notice that my American passport expires in another ten days.

 

Since I cannot use my Israeli checks or credit card in the United States, I need cash to purchase the ticket in Newark. I have $950 in cash. I had planned to use it to pay for my son’s wedding hall. I stuff the $950 into my wallet before grabbing an overnight case and throwing my pajamas and my husbands slippers (which looked as though someone had already torn kriah on them) inside.

 

As I run to the taxi, my neighbor comes out with a bag of food for the way. But I can’t think of eating.

 

10:40 a.m.

 

We’re stuck behind a truck, and I feel as though I’m about to explode. Doesn’t that driver realize that he’s slowing us down? I must catch that plane. 

 

I understand why an onen ‑- a close relative of the deceased -- is not allowed to fulfill positive mitzvos such as davening or reciting a bracha. I cannot think of anything, except the mitzvah of burying my father.

 

11:00 a.m.

 

We arrive at Ben Gurion Airport. I race to the check-in counter. They send me to the ticket counter. Pushing myself to the front of the long line of people waiting to purchase tickets(and hoping the people there will judge me favorably) I quickly tell Rivka, the woman manning the counter, that the travel agent had told me that my ticket would be waiting for me.

 

But there is no ticket. For Rivka to issue a ticket at such a late hour, I would need Yitzchak’s approval.

 

I sprint over to Yitzchak, only to find him deeply engrossed in a phone conversation. I try to catch his attention.

 

Yitzchak finally finishes his conversation -- and lets me know that he cannot give the approval. “That’s Rivka’s job” he explains in between phone calls.

 

11:07 a.m.

 

Back to Rivka. She reiterates that she needs Yitzchak’s approval. My husband has joined me, and together we jog to Yitzchak while I quickly explain the problem. Yitzchak finally finishes another phone call and tells me that it’s not in his hands. Only Rivka can issue a ticket. We return to Rivka.

 

Just before we reach the ticket counter, Rivka yells, “I have your ticket!”

 

I take out my checkbook. “You’ll pay the travel agent when you return,” shouts Rivka. “Hurry! Just go!”

 

11:15 a.m.

 

I race to the check-in counter, but they send me for a security check. There’s a long line of passengers waiting to be checked.

 

“Who’s your boss?” I scream. My fellow passengers are angry with me for disrupting their check-in. I hear people whisper, “She could have come a little earlier.”

 

Someone sends me across the room to a senior security guard, but he refuses to check my one carry-on bag at such a late hour without Yitzchok’s authorization.

 

Back to Yitzchak! I  am on an emotional roller coaster.

 

11:24 a.m

 

Yitzchak is talking on the phone again. I don’t know if I should scream in frustration or just forget about the trip. He closes the phone and nonchalantly informs me that it’s too late for me to make the flight. 

 

“Security and passport control takes at least half an hour, and the flight is leaving in less than ten minutes,” he explains.

 

“But if you took me through, I could still make it,” I plead.

 

He shrugs his shoulders.

 

My husband and I slowly return to Rivka. “Perhaps you can travel through Europe,” my husband tries to encourage me.

 

The moment Rivka sees us, she jumps up with eyes ablaze. “What a chutzpah! I’m going to get you on that plane!”

 

 My emotions are careening.

 

11:28 a.m.

 

Rivka and I race through the airport. Security? I get pushed to the head of the line (let those people fume). It’s the end of December, and the airport is packed with tourists returning home after their holiday. We push our way through crowds, jumping over suitcases.

 

Both Rivka and I are panting as we finally reach the loading gate. Rivka grabs the personnel phone and orders a car to take me directly to the plane.

 

I do not know how to express my gratitude to this wonderful woman. Tears spring to my eyes. Finally, I manage to catch my breath enough to thank her, but she just says that she hopes I will make the flight. As I get into the car, she says the traditional words of consolation:  “May God comfort you among the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.”

 

Her words are like a balm to my soul.

 

11:35 a.m.

 

The car races across the tarmac. In the distance, I see the stairs being removed from the plane.  The car stops next to the plane and I run out, leaving my overnight bag inside, screaming “rega, reeegaaah!” (one moment, one moment) at the top of my lungs.

 

The army officer standing in front of the plane waves his arms and shakes his head to let me know that I cannot board the plane.

 

“That’s my plane! Let me on,” I yell.

 

“Forget it, it’s gone!”

 

“It’s not gone, it’s right here,” I argue.

 

“Forget it, lady. It’s gone. ”

 

“It’s not gone. It’s right here,” I repeat.

 

“It’s gone. We’ve taken away the stairs. The door’s sealed. You cannot get on that plane. It's against the law.”

 

“I have to get to my father’s funeral. If I miss this flight, I’ll miss the funeral.”

 

“Lady, catch another plane.”

 

 I am desperate. I look the officer straight in the eye and say, “You have an opportunity to perform an incredible mitzvah -– chessed shel emes –- by enabling a Jewish daughter to go to her father’s funeral. How can you pass up such an opportunity? Just think of the reward you are letting slip through your fingers!”

 

“Lady, you have more chutzpah than brains. Go, and may the Almighty-d comfort you among the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.”

 

He radios for the stairs to be returned and I am allowed to board the plane.

 

 

11:42 a.m.

 

The plane takes off. I breathe a sigh of relief.

 

My mind goes back to the conversation I had earlier that morning. My sister told me how the entire family had converged in my father’s room just minutes before he passed away. My niece had arrived directly from the airport.  My father’s wife had been home sleeping when a “wrong number” woke her up. The rabbi just “happened” to walk in and say Shema with my father. And then, a few moments later, he returned his soul to his Maker, in the presence of most of his family. The hand of God was so very obvious.

 

11:46 a.m.

 

A strike closes Ben Gurion Airport, leaving a large number of holiday tourists stranded. The airport reopens twelve hours later. My plane was the last flight to leave before the airport.

 

The steward serves lunch, and I request a glatt kosher meal. A few minutes later the steward returns and apologizes, “We only have one extra glatt meal. It’s fish. We're out of meat meals.”

 

Later, I learn that an onen is prohibited from eating meat.

 

5:00 p.m. Eastern Standard Time (midnight Monday in Yerushalayim)

 

The plane lands in Newark, New Jersey. I have one hour to catch my connecting flight. I arrive in a cavernous room mobbed with people waiting on a snake-like line for passport control. It will take at least two hours to get to the head of the line.

 

I run to the woman directing people to the end of the line and try to explain that I have to catch a plane to attend my father’s funeral. She bellows, “EVERYONE’S gotta wait at the end of the line.”

 

I obediently take my place in the line. The snakelike line weaved back and forth with ropes to keep the lines separate. Turning to the person standing on the other side of the rope, I plead, “Please, could I go ahead of you. I have to catch a flight to my father’s funeral.”

 

I find myself being pushed through the lines as I crawl beneath the ropes. From above, I can hear people telling each other that I am traveling to my father’s funeral, and to let me through. At one point, I lift my head and the rope above me snaps. The room fills with flashing strobe lights. But I am almost out the door.

 

5:15 p.m.Eastern Standard Time

 

It’s the holiday season and the airport is mobbed. I have no idea where I am supposed to go, nor can I remember the name of the airline that I am supposed to fly.

 

I look at the posted listing of flights, but there are no flights headed to San Francisco, nor do I see any information booths. I frantically run through the airport looking for someone to help me. I see a uniformed man standing near the entrance to the train station that connects the terminals.

 

 “S’cuse me,” I begin, barely able to breathe. “I have to catch a six o’clock flight -- at least I think it’s at six o’clock -- to San Francisco. But I can’t remember the name of the airline I am supposed to fly.”

 

He asks to see my ticket.

 

“I haven’t purchased it yet. But I can’t remember the name of the airline,” I try to explain.

 

The man is incredulous. “You don’t have a ticket and you can’t remember the name of the airline. Are you sure you want to fly to San Francisco?” he drawls.

 

But the moment I explain the circumstances, his expression softens. “I’ll make a few phone calls,” he says, walking to the nearest phone booth.

 

A few minutes later he informs me that there is a six o’clock flight to San Francisco, but it is overbooked and reserved passengers are being bumped. I decide to try to get on that flight.

 

5:30 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

 

I take the train to the proper terminal and dash to the ticket counter. I decide that if I don’t succeed in getting to San Francisco, I will remain in Newark and return on the next plane to Israel. But please, Hashem, I pray, let me make it.

 

Someone makes room for me at the head of the first-class line. I explain to the ticket agent that I need a flight to San Francisco, preferably the flight that is scheduled to leave in less than twenty minutes.

 

The woman at the ticket counter informs me that the cost of a roundtrip ticket to San Francisco is $1,600. I am flabbergasted. “But I don’t have the money, and I must get to my father’s funeral.”

 

“A funeral?” the woman asks. “I’ll speak to my superior and see if you’re eligible for a bereavement ticket.”

 

The bereavement ticket costs $945. I left Israel with $950. I pay for the ticket and am left with five dollars cash. The flight is overbooked, so I am traveling standby.

 

6:00 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

 

Huffing and puffing, I arrive at the boarding gate. The flight is full.  I explain to woman there why I must get on this particular flight. Although the computer shows no extra seats, she boards the plane for a head count. Several minutes later, she returns to inform me that there is one extra seat.

 

The young Chinese woman sitting next to me starts a conversation. I tell her about the incredible Divine Providence that I am experiencing as I travel to my father’s funeral. She begins to cry as she tells me that her family lives in mainland China. She fears that if something were to happen to them, she would not make it home on time. My heart goes out to her.

 

I remember coming to Israel, just short of my eighteenth birthday. I wanted to build, to live in the palace, to be close to the King. At the time I was unaware of the difficulties of being so far away from my family -- of raising my children without aunts, uncles, cousins, and of course grandparents; of feeling alone and vulnerable in the face of sickness and old age. Had I known of the difficulties, I am certain I would have still made the same decision. Yet I feel the pain of being so far away and helpless, and appreciate this young woman’s empathy.

 

 

10:00 p.m. Pacific Standard Time (Monday 8 a.m. Israeli Time)

 

My flight is scheduled to arrive in another hour. It is almost twenty-one hours since I left Tel Aviv and more than twenty-eight hours since I found out that my father was gone.

 

What will I do when I arrive at the airport? The funeral is in the morning. It’s a two hour drive to my father’s home. I feel uncomfortable calling at such a late hour. I am sure my family is exhausted from their ordeal, just as I am exhausted from mine.

 

11:20 p.m. Pacific Standard Time, San Francisco International Airport.

 

I start looking for a quiet bench to spend the night when a young man dressed in black approaches me. “Nice guys wear black, Mrs. Shapiro. I am your escort and will take you wherever you need to go.” I am overwhelmed.

 

“A malach, a living angel,” I exclaim. “How can I ever thank you?”

 

Yerachmiel, a recent baal teshuva, is floored by my reaction.

 

On the way to a the Chabad rabbi’s home, not far from the airport, Yerechmiel  explains how he had come to pick me up at the airport that evening. My husband had informed the Rabbi that I would be on that plane (golly, I didn’t even know I would be on that  plane!), and asked if someone in the community could meet me at the airport..

 

Monday

 

Everything is a blur of exhaustion and emotions … Kisses, hugs, tears.  I bury my father and remove my shoes to begin the shivah.

 

Tuesday, 4:30 a.m. Pacific Standard Time

 

I had spent the night at a luxurious hotel not far from my father's home, together with my two nieces. Trying not to wake them, I quietly get dressed to meet my airport shuttle. I am embarrassed to walk through the airport in my husbands torn slippers, so I don my leather shoes. Just as I am about to tie the laces, it tears in half. The woman at the reception desk informs me that the hotel is out of shoelaces. I have no choice but to wear my shivah shoes.

 

7:30 a.m. Pacific Standard Time

 

The flight is scheduled to leave in one hour. I am seated on a chair, reciting Tehillim. When I look up, I notice a large group of middle-age tourists making themselves comfortable on the plush carpet. I realize that if they can sit on the floor without embarrassment, so can I. I lower myself (or perhaps I should say raise myself) to the floor.

 

9:00 p.m. Eastern Standard Time, Newark Airport

 

I cannot wait to return to the warmth of my family. Shivah is not a time to be alone. Although I am surrounded by people, there is no one to share my pain, no one to console me.

 

I board the plane. As I begin to settle into my seat, the woman in the row ahead of me turns around to ask a question. She notices that my blouse is torn and realizes that I am a mourner.

 

“If you want to talk, I am here, and if you wish to be alone, that’s fine with me,” she says.

 

I am overwhelmed by her empathy. She concludes with the traditional words of consolation -- May the Almighty console you amongst the mourners of Zion Jerusalem.