The Miracle of Normalcy as appeared in Binah Magazine by Debbie Shapiro

Sirens. Rioting. Missiles… and more missiles. Attempted terror attacks. And I am busy getting ready for Shabbos. That's my battle right now. To do my avodas Hashem. To be me, a wife, mother, and grandmother, while all around me, chaos reigns. It's not easy. I force myself not to check the news every five minutes. Every time I hear the "Tzav Adom" alert, informing me that a missile has been fired, I want to stop whatever I'm doing to recite Tehillim.

But life has to go on. And Shabbos comes, ready or not.

The truth is, it's absolutely insane. There's a war going on, yet here, in Yerushalayim, it is peaceful and calm. Normal, which, when you think about it, is really not normal.

Last week I took a (hyper)active child to a studio across town to record a narration for a video that I am producing. We got through the torturous hour with promises of pizza and ice cream, and even added sprinkles for good behavior.

Later on, while attempting to find an empty seat in the pizza parlor, the boy's mother and I looked at each other in bewilderment. The place was packed, and everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time. Were we the only people aware that just a few miles away, our soldiers were endangering their lives to assure our safety, and that over forty of them (oh, please, Hashem, may there be no more) will never return?

The boy's mother smiled at me and said, "The truth is, this is what we need to do. Continue to live normally. That's what they're fighting for."

Every once in a while (at least ten times a day!) someone calls to tell me about another miracle. The three kedoshim were the catalyst to a war that was not supposed to be, at least not now. No one even dreamed of the dozens of tunnels that ran literally under people's homes (when southern residents told the IDF that they were hearing digging under their beds, they were referred to a psychologist!), and of the murderous massacre that, hodu laShem ki tov, was averted.  Today, a car full of explosives was caught at the very last moment, at the entrance to Beitar. Several days ago, the Iron Dome was unsuccessful in intercepting a missile headed directly to the center of Tel Aviv. With less than four seconds to go before it would slam into a large building, the officer in charge of the Iron Dome made a promise that he would start to keep Shabbos… and a strong wind blew the missile into the sea (yup, this one gave me the chills too!)

Sunday, I'm giving a talk to mothers about what they can do to protect their children from dangerous people, many of them who appear to be frum, ehrliche Yidden. As I prepared my shiur, I kept on thinking about the tunnels. No one knew they were there. To the people living in the idyllic, rustic communities, the threat seemed to come from the missiles shot at them from across the border. They never dreamed that the real danger was hidden beneath their own backyards, undermining the foundations of their insular life. Knowledge of this threat's existence is the first step to winning the war, in Gaza, within our community, and within ourselves.

At times, I have this urge to travel south and join the thousands of Israelis who are handing out everything from Havdalah sets and tzitzis to deodorant and hotdogs to the soldiers taking a short break from the grueling battle. And yes, when I do pass a soldier on his way to the front, I wish him much hatzlachah and give him my blessings that he return home safely, and get a huge smile and thank you in return. But my tafkid is not to fight at the front. It's to be home, with my family, living in a bubble of normalcy, while battling the tunnels within. It's to recite Tehillim while polishing the candlesticks and washing the dishes and making the beds, and knowing that with my mundane actions I am creating a true Jewish home. A bastion of kedushah.

And that really is something worth fighting for.

A Foretaste of the World to Come

This is posted as an iluy neshama for  R' Zalman Schachter

A Foretaste of the World to Come

By Debbie Shapiro

Our lives consist of a jumble of hanging strands and endless knots, somewhat like the wrong side of an intricate needlepoint. Nothing seems to make much sense until eventually, after a hundred and twenty years, we are able to see the other side and understand the picture in its entirety. Until that time, we are occasionally privileged with what can only be described as a Divine glimpse. 

More than a decade ago, when I traveled to the United States to interview students of the late Rabbi Tzvi Aryeh Rosenfeld, z"l, I was privileged to such a Divine Glimpse.

In shul on Shabbat, I met an old friend of mine, Chayala, from the "good old days" in California.

After the initial excitement of seeing each other after a separation of close to thirty-five years, we started catching up on each others' lives. I told her that I had become a writer, and that I was writing for Breslov.

"Debbie," she said, "Do you remember the book Meshivas Nefesh, Restore My Soul?"

How could I forget? That book revolutionized my life. At age sixteen  spent a Shabbat, together with the chevreh in the magnificent mountains north of San Francisco. I learned many new things that Shabbat – I had never even heard of an eiruv until, together with my friends, we built one around our small encampment. Before lighting candles we set aside stones to sit on in lieu of chairs, and later on that evening we rolled out our sleeping bags under the stars.

One of the chevreh had brought a mimeographed copy of Reb Zalman's  translation of the Breslov classic, Restore My Soul. It was the first time that Rebbe Nachman's Torah had been translated into the English language. The translation was still in manuscript form, and there were only three or four copies available in the entire world – and we were privileged to have one copy with us in our small Shabbat encampment among the towering Redwoods of Northern California!

I spent most of that Shabbat sitting next to the creek that wound its way through the Redwoods, engrossed in Rebbe Nachman's Torah. I was overwhelmed with a tremendous yearning to learn Torah; to find my path in serving Hashem. As I continued reading, I became more and more determined to change my lifestyle, to put into action the kernel of emuna that burned within me.

Restore My Soul was the culmination of two years of discovery, and the catalyst to many major changes in my life. Within less than a month of reading it, I left San Francisco to study in a religious girls' high school. Special yeshivot for baalei teshuva (as well as the term, 'baal teshuva') were unheard of in those days.

"Debbie," Chayala continued, "did you know that after you left, I published Restore My Soul? I had over a thousand copies printed. I distributed them myself."

No, I hadn't heard.

"Many people later told me that that little pamphlet changed their lives. It was all in your father's merit. He donated the paper and paid for the entire printing."

"My father donated the paper and paid for the printing?" I repeated. I wasn't sure if I had heard correctly.

My father was a child of the Depression. He had a lot of difficulty understanding his youngest daughter's obsession with spirituality. He couldn't understand why I felt such a strong need to "search for the truth." He was a hard working man who valued honesty and family, and measured the world in terms of dollars and cents. He often helped people who had fallen on hard times, but in my wildest imagination I could not picture him supporting the publication of Rebbe Nachman's Torah.

I guess there were things about my father that I didn't know.

"That's right," she answered. "When I finished typing the manuscript, I showed it to your father and asked him to donate the paper (my father owned a wholesale paper company). He donated the paper, arranged for the printing and covered the entire cost of the publishing."

Restore My Soul was the very first English translation of Rebbe Nachman's Torah -- ever. It was one of the kernels, the very beginnings, of Breslov – and of the baal teshuva movement - in the United States.  

The seeds that my father planted have come full bloom. His son-in-law and daughter are both involved with spreading Rebbe Nachman's teachings. His grandchildren and great-grandchildren are trying to live their lives according to the ideals expressed in Rebbe Nachman's Torah.

One small kernel of truth, yet it had the power to overturn worlds. One moment of generosity, of tzedaka, and such a great reward!

We know that in the future, after a hundred and twenty years,  we will be rewarded for our good deeds, yet it is rare that we are given such a Divine glimpse, a foretaste of that reward, literally a glimpse of the World to Come. 

Fishin’ for the Truth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It certainly looks that way,” I whispered.

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

“I think she’s dying,” I gasped.

“We’d better do something quick.”

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

“We’ll have to use our hands.”

“Ugh.”

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

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

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

“I’ve got it!” I yelled triumphantly.

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

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

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

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

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

But it was not meant to be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A fish?” my mother asked, puzzled.

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

My mother didn’t say another word.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s dead!” Marge wailed.

“I am not!” I pointed out indignantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Text:

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

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

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

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

 Family Support

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

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

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

Aliyah to Eretz Yisrael

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

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

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

Trust in Hashem

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

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

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

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

Bar Mitzvah Celebrations

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

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

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

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

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

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

"He would be so excited."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pesach really is an incredible holiday!

Erev Pesach

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

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

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

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

KISVEI YAD as published in Inspiration Magazine

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

POLISHING THE DIAMONDS

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

RAV SHNEUR’S LEGACY

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

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

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

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

Truly a ‘techiyas hameisim, rujuvenation of the dead.

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

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

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

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

OPENING UP UNTOUCHED TERRITORIES

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

How is it possible that published works can contain inaccuracies?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE MESORA

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

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

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

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