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Flying towards the Dawn


It all started gradually, insidiously. The first indication of change came when my husband Moshe became forgetful. It was most obvious on Shabbos mornings, when he would invariably repeat the same dvar Torah which he had presented the previous evening. The first few times, I inwardly laughed at his lapse of memory. Eventually, however, I became concerned, and suggested that he see a doctor.

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

At this time we were living in a major city with a large Jewish community. My husband was employed as a supervisor in a factory, and I was a stay-at-home mother to nine children, including two married sons. My oldest son, Tzvi, lived nearby, and my recently married second son lived a bit further away, in the suburbs. My husband’s job was rather boring, and the children found it demeaning, but it paid our bills. His boss paid him well, because he counted on him to supervise the non-Jews who worked there. The children were all learning in typical “black hat” schools. In short, we were a normal chassidishe family. At least at that point.

One Thursday, Moshe came home and told me that Gene, one of his coworkers, was going to give him a lift to the nearby university. “I’ll take my guitar and play there a bit; maybe I can get one of the Jewish students to come to us for Shabbos.” On his way out, he grabbed a colored shirt that he usually wore when mowing the lawn. “I don’t want to get grass stains on my white shirt, and they won’t distrust me as much in this,” he explained. While I had doubts about his dress, I figured that it wasn’t worth an argument. Let him try and mekarev someone.

But this incident was just the beginning.


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