A COMPLETE HEALING

A Complete Healing

By Debbie Shapiro

The following story is true. Names and identifying details were changed for the sake of privacy.

It was an icy-cold winter evening. The streets were dark and deserted and covered with snow. The snow had piled into huge mounds that covered the gutters and blocked the sidewalks, keeping all but the most determined residents of Yerushalayim confined to the warmth and safety of their own homes. No one -- except, perhaps, for a few children who were excited at the rare opportunity to build an igloo or snowman -- would venture out in such conditions. According to the newspapers, Yerushalayim hadn't been hit by such a fierce storm in over fifty years.

My husband and I wrapped ourselves in layers of sweaters and heavy wool stockings before setting out to speak with Rabbi Yisrael Yaakov Fisher, the beloved sage of Yerushalayim's Beis Din, Rabbinical Court.

Our family had been going through an extremely difficult time. A few weeks before, my mother, may she live and be well, was hospitalized for a minor surgical procedure. To our distress, she ended up with blood poisoning. To make things even more complicated, the Israeli doctors had never encountered the specific germ that was causing the infection, and therefore had no idea which antibiotics they should use to combat it. So she was, as one doctor termed it, "bombed with every type of antibiotic available.” He hoped one of them would work.

There is usually a long line of people waiting to speak with Rabbi Fisher. Much to our delight, we were the only ones to have braved the inclement weather. The Rav was able to give us his undivided attention.

My husband waited for me in the anteroom while I entered the rabbi's study. After hearing the details of my mother's strange illness, Rabbi Fisher asked for my mother’s name, the names of both her parents, and my father's name. He carefully wrote the names on a small sheet of paper and then spent a few minutes making calculations and drawing an elaborate diagram.

"The names are fine. There's no problem there," he finally said.

I breathed a sigh of relief.  Rabbi Fisher was famous for his unique ability to check combinations of names and their inherent spiritual qualities to see if they are compatible. In kabalistic tradition, a name defines the essence of a person. Frequently, couples on the verge of a divorce would come to ask his advice on how to repair their marriage and end up leaving his study with new identities.  Amazingly enough, this name change would often bring about a radical change in their shalom bayis, domestic harmony.

But if the names weren't causing the problem, then what was?

I waited for the great sage to continue, but he remained silent, deep in thought. Suddenly, he threw me a sharp glance before looking down at the list of names again. "Do you have a grievance against your mother?" he asked slowly.

I did not answer immediately; I could not answer immediately. I realized that I was trembling.

My father passed away when I was an infant. Until I turned five, my mother was what is known today as a "single parent." I remember that we were very poor. In addition to single-handedly raising her four small children, my mother worked full time to afford the bare necessities. As an adult, I realize that it must have been very difficult for her, but I remember her always smiling and singing, although she was probably crying inside.

Despite her loneliness and our lack of financial resources, I had a wonderful childhood, at least until my fifth birthday. Although my mother worked during the day, she devoted the evenings to her four children. I have vague memories of summer picnics in the park and long cozy bedtime stories while snuggling under the heavy down quilt that kept us warm in our chilly Yerushalayim apartment. I realized that we were different from other families, but nevertheless I felt secure in my mother's love and was happy with the way things were.

All that changed, however, on my fifth birthday. My mother married a young widower who had five small children of his own. Suddenly her love had to be divided among nine young children who were constantly clamoring for attention. I felt there wasn't enough left over for me.

Since I was the youngest of our new, large, "blended" family, and therefore the most vulnerable, I became the object of much unpleasant teasing, and on more than one occasion, physical attacks. As an adult, I realize that my older "siblings" were just children trying to cope with a major change in their own lives. But at the time, I was devastated.

To make matters worse, we moved from the cozy apartment that I loved -- but that was too small for our blended family -- into a spacious, unfriendly two-story house. I was even forced to share a bedroom with a stranger who took great pleasure in hitting me when no one was looking! I couldn't understand why my mother had done this to me. Why did she have to remarry? Everything was just fine before.

My mother often tells a story about those first difficult years, when we were struggling to become one family. It was the day of my kindergarten's Purim party. My father (yes, today I call him my father -- after all, he's the only father I know) was in the middle of eating breakfast before leaving to work. Flushed with excitement, I raced down the stairs and into the kitchen to show my mother how beautiful I looked in my Queen Esther outfit.

My father took one look at me and with a quizzical look on his face, he turned to my mother. "Rebbetzin," he said (for some reason he always called my mother Rebbetzin), "you didn't tell me that we're having such important company this morning. If I had known, I would have worn my hat and tie."

I stopped in my tracks and threw my father a scornful look. Then, I tiptoed to my mother and whispered in her ear, "Mommy, did you hear what he just said? I told you that he is stupid. He doesn't even realize that it's really me and not Queen Esther! Why in the world did you marry such an idiot?"

By the time I was ready to marry and start building my own home, we had become one family. In addition to raising the two blended families, my mother was kept very busy taking care of the new "common factor" -- my younger brothers and sisters.

It's funny how childish emotions can get in the way of what we know to be true. Of course, my mother's remarriage was for everyone's good. I feel very close to my stepfather, and the bond between the two families has become so strong that at times I actually forget who are my “real” siblings, and who are just "steps."

I hate to think what might have happened had my mother never remarried. Most probably, she would have become a tired, bitter woman instead of the vibrant and busy wife, mother and grandmother that she is today.

Although I realized she had done the right thing in rebuilding her life, I still harbored anger. Deep within myself, I was five-years-old and forced to share my beloved mother with strangers. Logically, it made no sense. But the grievance was still there, pressing painfully against my heart.

I didn't tell Rabbi Fisher the entire story. I just answered, "Yes, I am harboring a grievance toward my mother."

The sage threw me a quick, penetrating look. It felt as if his eyes were boring into my soul. "Are you willing to let go of that grievance for your mother's recovery?" he gently asked.

I had to pause and think for a few moments. Could I really let go of something that ran so deep? Could I overcome my childish emotions?

My eyes were brimming with tears. I quickly looked away. Finally, in a choked voice, I told the rabbi that I could. I knew that I had no choice. I would have to let go of that grievance. I would have to find the courage to forgive and move on.

Rabbi Fisher quickly stood up and told me that he was going to call in a beis din, an impromptu court comprised of three rabbis. I was petrified. Would I have to tell them everything?

The actual hataras nedarim -- the formal renunciation of a past vow or, in this case, a grievance -- took just a few seconds. When it was over, Rabbi Fisher smiled and said, "Your mother will have a refuah sheleima, a complete recovery."

As I left the rabbi's study, my emotions were in turmoil. My husband was waiting for me in the outer hall, and together we started trudging through the thick snow. Despite the heavy clothing that was weighing me down, I felt light, as though a stone had been lifted off my heart. I knew that although I had come to ask Rabbi Fisher to pray for my mother's recovery, I had also been cured. I felt free, like a bird, ready to wing its way to new heights.

That same evening, the laboratory succeeded in identifying the germ that was causing my mother’s infection. Armed with that information, the head of the infectious diseases department was able to determine which antibiotics would be most effective. Within a few days, my mother was discharged from the hospital. After a few months of rest, she returned to her former vibrant self.

* * *

Rabbi Yisrael Yaakov Fisher passed away the following morning. The Jews of Yerushalayim were stunned and mourned the loss of their beloved sage. Despite the heavy snow, thousands of people braved the weather to accompany Rabbi Fisher on his final journey.

When my husband and I heard the news, we were, of course, shocked. But at the same time, we were extremely grateful to have been one of the last to benefit from Rabbi Yisrael Fisher’s incredible wisdom. May his memory be for a blessing.