Renegade Litvak as appeared in Hamodia

Despite my having told all my friends that under no circumstances would I ever marry anyone chassidish, and especially not anyone having anything to do with Breslov, I ended up marrying a chassid, and not just any chassid, but a Breslov Chassid, which means that (gulp) I am too. And that just goes to prove that the old adage of never say never, because very often you will, is often true – and especially when it comes to shidduchim.

Being associated with Breslov does have its funny moments: like the time my sister called me all in a tizzy to ask if my husband regularly dances on truck rooftops. Just the thought of my extremely staid, very stick-in-the mud husband jumping up and down on a Nanach truck caused me to break down in hysterical giggles. And then to add insult to injury (which is what would happen to my dear hubby if he were to ever start dancing on the top of a truck) my sister assumed that her words had struck a painful chord, and that I was crying over my bitter destiny. After all, it really must be extremely challenging to be married to a rooftop dancer.

Before I got married, I thought that once I'd become chassidish, Shabbos morning I would have the luxury of sleeping in until ten o'clock, and then relaxing with Hamodia while enjoying with a delicious milchig Kiddush. After all, don't all chassidim daven late?  I very quickly discovered that some do, some don't, and mine most certainly does not. During the week, he gets up to learn fertug (that's Yiddish for a meshugenah hour before daybreak, when any normal person should be sound asleep) then he dunks in the mikveh before davening with the netz.  On Shabbos and Yom Tov we get to sleep in until quarter to six (oh, such decadence); after all, shul doesn’t start until a quarter to seven, but prior to, there is mikveh and Tehillim. So no, we do not eat before davening (there goes my dream of cheese cakes).

Before my husband and I decided to tie the knot, he informed me in no uncertain terms that if I decide to marry him, it would be with the understanding that he would never be home for Rosh Hashana. Although the whole idea of traveling to spend Yom Tov with a Rebbe, or, in this case, at the kever of a tzaddik, was foreign to me, I readily agreed. After all, it was only two days of the year. I could manage, right?

I'll never forget that first Rosh Hashana. In those days, when travel to Uman was nothing more than a pipe dream, the annual Rosh Hashanah kibutz took place in Meiron, adjacent to the Kever of Rabi Shimon bar Yochai.  As I watched my husband walk to the waiting bus, schlepping a large suitcase of clothes, seforim and some homemade goodies, I tried hard to quell my feelings of jealousy, but it was almost impossible. He's off camping; having a great time while I have to go to my neighbors for the meals, I silently fumed.

That year, as usual, I davened in the local Litvish yeshiva. And my neighbors were all great cooks, so the food was delicous. But at the same time, I couldn't help but envy the other ladies as they walked home from shul together with their husbands. They all looked so happy and beautiful together. "He's having a great time up in the mountains, while I'm at home, miserable. Why did I agree to this insanity? I asked myself.

My husband returned home very late Motzaei Yom Tov, totally exhausted. When I asked him if he had had a good time, he looked at me as if I was out of my mind. "A good time?" he asked. "I barely had time to eat! Davening started at five, and by the time we finished, it was nearly four in the afternoon! Between davening, mikveh and reciting Tehillim, I barely managed to sleep three hours a night."

He proceeded to tell me about toilets that didn't work, blankets that were scratchy and way too small, and mosquitoes that practically ate him alive.

 I felt sorry for him. "That's terrible," I began, trying to sound empathetic (although for the life of me I couldn't figure out why anyone would put themselves through such torture), "It must have been such a disappointment."

 "A disappointment?" he was shocked. "The davening was incredible!" His face glowed with enthusiasm. His elation was obvious..

By now, I was totally confused. Was I married to a strange masochist?

The following evening, after breaking our fast, my husband and I went outside for a few minutes to get some fresh air. We ended up walking, and talking, for a very long time. We spoke about Rosh Hashana, davening, and what it means to be an eved Hashem. We talked about our dreams, the home that we hoped to build, and the importance of our being on the same path in our Yiddishkeit. He explained to me the chashivus of limud Torah l'shma, and how his kesher to the chassidus is what gives him the inner strength to devote so many hours per day to the avoda of learning Torah.

And that's why, on Yom Kippur, I found myself squished into a tiny makeshift women's section, trying to daven with a small Breslov minyan held in the local bomb shelter. I missed the familiar tunes, and the singing in unison.  Instead of the orderly tefilla that I was used to, there were wordless niggunim that rose to a crescendo, followed by the Chazon screaming something that, for the life of me,  I could not understand but that concluded with a long, drawn amen.  The lady sitting to my right smiled as she noticed my confusion and pointed to the correct place in the machzor (for the umpteenth time). Then she began rapidly flipping the pages while recited something under her breath. I took off my glasses, closed one eye, and held the machzor so close to my face that it almost touched my nose. There were at least five (five!) pages of tiny letters, all of which, in the yeshivishe shuls where I had always davened, we would just skip over (oh, how I loved skipping over pages in the mazhzor, and seeing the end getting that much closer – and now that I mention it, that is one of the reasons I am writing this under a pseudonym). I didn't even try to catch up. 

Every time the tzibbur exuberantly sang (or perhaps it would be more accurate to say, kvetched) a niggun between reciting the words of the piyutim in total disharmony, I would, quietly, under my breath (feeling like a spy from a different camp) sing the words to the familiar tunes that I loved.

But then a funny thing happened: I started to cry. Tears were flowing freely down my face. Me, the girl who never expressed her emotions, and who was always careful to show a pleasant, matter-of-fact mask to the world (and to myself) was sobbing – yes, sobbing - as I begged Hashem to grant me a kaparah. Slach lanu, kapar lanu, machal lanu… The loud, discordant cacophony of the tzibbur crying to Hashem unleashed a dormant emotion within me, and I became one with it.

The following year, there were no questions. A week before Rosh Hashanah, I was already urging my husband to finalize his plans to travel to Meiron. And as soon as travel to Uman became a reality, he was among the first to go. When people asked me about our plans for Yom Tov, I was proud to respond that my husband was traveling to Meiron, and later on, to Uman, because Rosh Hashana is about davening, and that's where he can daven best.  

Today, if anyone asks me if we're litvish or chassidish, I respond that we're chassidim, and not just any chassidim, but Breslov chassidim. And people who know me well are always surprised when they discover that I once considered myself to be a modern American yeshivishe-litvishe girl.

I guess you could say that I've come home. 

Yom Kippur, 1973 as appeared in the Binah

:

Yom Kippur of 1973 was my third Yom Kippur in Eretz Yisrael. Dizzy from fasting, I had returned home to take a short nap, when I was abruptly awakened by the sound of a plane flying low over the buildings, shaking the furniture with repeated sonic booms. It seemed strange; only military planes are allowed to fly over Yerushalayim. Why would a military plane be flying on Yom Kippur?

Ten minutes later, I was startled out of my bed by the shrill wail of an air-raid siren. I rushed upstairs to ask my more experienced Israeli neighbor what was going on. Trying to be heard over the siren, I attempted to sound as nonchalant as possible as I said, "Excuse me for bothering you, but do you hear some strange noise outside?"

My elderly neighbor nodded.  I could sense the beginnings of a smile.

"Um, wh…what is it?" I knew the answer, but I needed to hear it from someone older and wiser than myself.

"It's an air-raid siren. It means we're at war."

"Wh…what are we supposed to do?"

"We're supposed to go down to a bomb shelter, but they're all locked up. So just stay home until it stops."

Which is exactly what I did.

Fifteen minutes later, as I was racing along the streets of Bayit Vegan (sticking close to the building to protect myself from the falling bombs, just like in all the World War Two novels) to return to Kol Torah Yeshivah, the sirens went off again. I dashed into the nearest building, a beit hachlamah, (a mother-and-baby convalescent home) and found refuge in the basement together with a few dozen mothers and their newborns. The mothers held their babies tight as we recited Tehillim together and tried to contain our fear.

When the siren stopped, I left the building and continued running toward the yeshivah. Although more than  40 years have passed since that day, I still find myself crying at the memory of the scene in the street: dozens of men, still wearing their kittels, were dashing toward waiting army trucks. Some were eating sandwiches as they ran. Sheitel-bedecked women, bearing thermoses of hot, sugar-laden coffee and freshly made sandwiches, rushed toward the trucks to make sure their husbands had nourishment before being sent directly to the front. (Since this was a case of pikuach nefesh, the rabbanim paskened that the wives of the soldiers should return home and prepare food for their husbands, and that the men must eat before going out to combat.)

As the trucks pulled away, the women returned home with tear-streaked faces, now carrying hats and kittels. My elderly neighbor owned one of the few cars in Jerusalem. He was called up to transport goods to the front, less than 45 minutes away.  Many of the men who left that day never returned.

I slipped into my seat at the yeshivah. Kaddish was being recited, there was a bang on the bimah, and we all took three steps to begin the Shemoneh Esrei. I was surrounded by the soft sound of weeping.

It was Yom Kippur. Our fate was being sealed. Who will live and who will die? Who by water and who by fire? Who by sword and who by wild beast? Who by gunfire and who by mines? Who by hand grenade and who by a tank shell? Our lives, and the lives of our young men, were hanging in the balance. Only teshuvah, tefillah, and tzedakah could change the evil decree.

And then the siren went off, again. Rav Shlomo Zalman Auerbach signaled to the gabai to continue. Another bang on the bimah, and then utter silence. No one moved.* The sirens wailed, shaking us out of our lethargy and prodding us to daven with the awesome intensity of one who actually feels the hard, cold metal of the sword's blade pressing against his neck. Slach lanu, machal lanu, kaper lanu…. Hashem was determining our fate. And it was up to each one of us to do our utmost to tip the scale in Am Yisrael's favor.

It is beyond the scope of this short piece to expand on the miracles of the Yom Kippur War. But on the first couple of days of the war, there was nothing, absolutely nothing, stopping the Syrian Army from overrunning Haifa, and the Egyptian army, Beer Sheva. Nothing, except the power of Am Yisrael's tefillos.

Teshuvah, tefillah, u’tzedakah ma’avirin es ro’ah hagezeirah.  

*Disclaimer: This p’sak was a one-time horaas sha’ah, as per Harav Shlomo Zalman Aurbach, zt”l, and readers should not extrapolate from this incident a general p’sak to not go to the miklat during an air-raid siren.

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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.