"We’ve seen a few tears over the years, but we’re also mature enough to know that the tears are part of the song.”

For the first few minutes, Akiva Putterman was nervous. The shiur was much better attended than he had ever imagined, the crowd filling the living room and spilling out into the entrance area.

“Next time Rabbi Putterman speaks, we’ll have to use the simchah hall,” Mrs. Walburger said when she came in and saw the crowd. 

Rina, sitting in the front row, looked nervous. Akiva opened by indicating her and saying, “I was just discussing with my better half, Rina, how warm and welcoming everyone here is, and we’re so grateful. Thank you.”

It was a gracious beginning, but also, he had long ago learned that you could win over a female audience in a moment just by referring to a “better half.” 

He had prepared a speech along the lines of what Mrs. Walburger had asked for (demanded?), all about learning to deal with a new role, changing realities, being able to adapt, but then he found himself using one chinuch mashal and then another, and he noticed Mrs. Walburger’s face darken.

He was trying to speak about flexibility and wanted to tell his favorite story about Mrs. Wexler with the requests — only this rebbi, only this classroom, only these friends — and how after that summer when she’d had a baby and there were complications, and she was out of it, suddenly there was a school year without Mrs. Wexler bugging him. Her little Chesky came to school on the first day without his mother having called to remind him what a sensitive boy he was, how much he needed an attentive rebbi and how traumatic it would be if he wasn’t with the Lindauer boy, so Rabbi Putterman made the decisions himself.

Guess what, he liked to tell his audiences, by Chanukah, Mrs. Wexler was gloating about the fact that her little tzaddik was having the best year ever. 

It usually got a laugh and it was a fine way to bring home the point of how Hashem takes care of things, and parents — people, in general — needed to learn to back off and roll with His plan. But he knew that if he used another classroom example he would never be invited to speak again.

“Part of adapting to a new stage in life,” he said, “is being able to let go of habits you think are part of you, learning to move on.”

He took a deep breath and continued. “This was very hard for me,” he said brightly, “the whole moving to Lakewood thing.”

He caught a look of panic in his wife’s eyes, but also the current of anticipation and renewed interest in the crowd, the almost imperceptible shift as people leaned in a bit closer. 

Be vulnerable, he told himself. It works.