Within the Distance

Shevy Levine

I’M perusing the calendar somewhat absently — an ENT appointment here, preschool orientation there — and then, in a whirr, it hits me: August-September-October-Seventh-Yom Tov. Gulp. Unbidden and unbridled, thoughts of last Yom Kippur rush through my mind as something deep inside me clenches, reliving those moments.

Images of our sparkling home, my children (finally!) freshly bathed and beautifully dressed. The contentment that filled me as I sat on the couch with my machzor, watching the little ones at play. My husband’s exhausted face, shining, when the fast came to an end. The joy born of meaning and simple serenity. So this is how it feels to be connected. This is how we feel when we are pure. When we are close.

And then — Slam.

Hostages. Butchery. Murdered. Wounded. War. Words we never dreamed we’d speak of, never mind experience in our lifetime. The surreal sensation of being ripped open, paraded on the world’s stage — wounds still gaping, while the world at large jeered and clapped. Al shever bas ami. For months, my eyes turned to nacheim at Minchah, a silent cry for the utter brokenness of it all.

And now, the months have passed us by and here we are again. It’s Elul once more. My son comes home singing “Dip the Apple.” My daughter prances in a fluffy, lopsided hat depicting an ayal. I will myself to lean into their optimism, to resubscribe to the belief that if we only dip the apple, stay quiet at shofar, and try our best, it’ll all be okay. Try as I might though, I can’t quiet the voice that laments, but it won’t…

I think of how we checked off all the boxes throughout the Yamim Noraim last year. We did everything right. We tried so hard. And yet, it wasn’t enough — or was it? How can I open my machzor again, how do I will my heart to feel it all once more, when so much of the past year feels like a slap in the face?

Yes, I know Who sent the slap. I know it’s with love. Yet all the logic, all the reasons and answers and the deepest understanding that This World has to offer can’t dispel the ache I feel. We tried so hard. We tried so hard.

I don’t know how I’ll open my machzor this year. I don’t know how I’ll watch the dancing on Simchas Torah, or the triumphant circling of the arba minim around the bimah. I’ll probably cry, a lot. I don’t know how I’ll do it again. But I know that somehow, I will.

I will don my new white sweater this Erev Yom Kippur. I will bathe my kids and hand out treats, and boil the kreplach and rush out to shul. I will sing Avinu Malkeinu to my daughter, and explain the meaning to her, in words a four-year-old can appreciate and understand. I will grasp whatever snatches of tefillah I can sneak in, and I will end the day feeling pure, and happy, and close. Not merely hope-ful, but full, present in that very moment.

I may not be able to recapture the innocence and simplicity of years gone by, but I know that I will have this in its stead — a connection that doesn’t depend on events falling neatly into place, a bond that was maintained throughout a confusing, messy, frightful year. The knowledge that our closeness can manifest itself within the distance. Because through it all, without knowing or understanding anything at all, still I feel — I know, that always, always He is here.

Question

We’ve been married for ten years, baruch Hashem, but we haven’t yet been blessed with children. As you can imagine, we (and our relatives) have shed countless tears and uttered thousands upon thousands of tefillos beseeching Hashem for our yeshuah. Recently, I’ve found that the fervor of my tefillos has begun to plateau. Sometimes it just doesn’t feel like our tefillos are going anywhere. And if the first ten thousand tefillos haven’t worked, why should I genuinely believe that tefillah ten thousand and one will really make any difference? Additionally, how do I know if continuing to daven for our yeshuah is the correct path? Perhaps instead I should be working on accepting with love that Hashem has a different plan for us?

Mrs. Mindy Hilewitz responds:

Thank you for sharing such a candid, honest question, one I am sure many people can relate to in various shapes and forms. It’s indeed very difficult, painful, and confusing to yearn for something so deeply and repeatedly daven for it, only to feel as though we’re getting a “dead signal” on the other end of the line. This can lead us to question the efficacy of our tefillos, and falter in our belief that our tefillos are indeed being heard. Moreover, as you poignantly asked, this can make us wonder whether it is appropriate to continue davening for something endlessly, or whether instead Hashem desires us to bow our heads in submission and accept what appears to be Him redirecting us toward a different path in life.

The questions you raise have often struck me when trying to piece together an apparent contradiction within our tefillos: On the one hand, in birchos hashachar we say each morning, “she’asah li kol tzarki” — that Hashem has filled all my needs. This powerful brachah bolsters my emunah that my full package — the good and the seemingly “less-than-good” — all comprise the perfect package for me and for my tikkun in life. Yet a mere 20 minutes later, our Shemoneh Esreh includes a long list of bakashos, requesting that Hashem fill our lacks. How can we affirm that all our needs are filled and shortly afterward request that our needs be filled? Shouldn’t my affirmation of, “she’asah li kol tzarki” reflect the shleimus I have made with those things I don’t have in my life?

It would seem that the brachah of she’asah li kol tzarki expresses my conviction that my current position is the very best one for me today, not only despite my lack but even because of it. Yet this doesn’t mean that I should make peace with my situation and therefore stop davening for this lack to be filled. In fact, one of the primary benefits I reap from my situation is the connection to Hashem that it invites, a connection that only my state of lack could unleash! “She’asah li kol tzarki” thus encompasses my gratitude for the gift of the connection that my current station in life enables.

The baalei mussar explain that there is a widespread misconception about the relationship between tzarah and tefillah. Most people assume that the objective of tefillah at a time of challenge is to yield the removal of the difficulty. However, they clarify that exactly the opposite is true — indeed the point of the tzarah is the tefillah! The reason Hashem sends us challenges is that He wants to grant us the opportunity to draw closer to Him through tefillah in a way that would otherwise be inaccessible to us were it not for our tailor-made challenge. As Rav Avigdor Miller explains (Toras Avigdor, Lech Lecha, III, 3), “The perfection that comes from the anguish of a person longing for something and turning to the Only One Who can give it, that perfection is incomparable to anything else.” The connection that those tefillos yield, the utter and complete reliance on Hashem, and the clarity that He is the only source of salvation, are but a few of the gifts that our unique challenges bequeath to us.

Though it may often feel that our tefillos aren’t “working,” perhaps we’re viewing the situation from the wrong vantage point. The barometer of successful tefillah isn’t whether the situation has changed, but rather whether we have changed. This is one of the reasons the word “l’hispallel,” to pray, is in the reflexive grammatical form, because tefillah is primarily about effecting self-change.

And so, please don’t conclude that your precious tefillos aren’t “working.” I have no doubt that you’re a different person from who you were ten years ago as a result of your journey through your unique nisayon. And so, indeed, your tefillos are “working” in a most magnificent way.

The gemara in Berachos states that if a person sees that He has prayed and has not been answered, he should pray again. The gemara does not mean he should try harder, scream a bit louder until his tefillos are accepted — like when the soda doesn’t fall from the vending machine, kiveyachol, you kick from this side, shake from that side, until you finally achieve your desired result. Rather, as Rav Ezriel Tauber explains, it means it is a Heavenly sign that more tefillos are desired, more layers of our connection with Hashem and reliance on His salvation are being mined from us. Hashem, in His infinite love for us, is pressing us to inch higher toward the greatness He foresees in us — one tefillah at a time.

Mrs. Mindy Hilewitz teaches in Jerusalem seminaries.

Never Start Davening Before… 

My older Persian neighbor told me her husband used to tell her, “Shoshana, before you daven for yourself, daven for the tzaar of the Shechinah.”

—R.C.

I’d change the phrase to, “Never start doing anything until you daven.” This way I don’t feel like I have to pull myself away from having already started my day to talk to Hashem.

—Rivka L.

I know there are those who say, “Don’t do anything important until you daven,” but I think everyone has things they need in place before they can focus meaningfully on tefillah. For some people it’s making the beds, others need the counters to be cleared from the breakfast mess.

—E.M.

Listen to some soul-stirring music that helps move you from “get dressed-here’s your lunch-I hope you make your ride” mode to a more spiritual place.

—S.D.

Think for at least ten seconds about something you are grateful for.

—Leah H.

You just have to start davening or else you never will!

—Faigie Herman

Put your phone on silent.

—M.W.

Question

When a dear family friend got sick, the community galvanized with constant tefillos and Tehillim recital. I personally never davened a weekday tefillah without imploring Hashem for her recovery, and I can’t even begin to count how many pirkei Tehillim I said, or how many times I cried my eyes out during Refaeinu. Unfortunately, this special woman only got sicker, and she passed away. I know that no tefillah goes unaccounted for, to the point that sometimes Hashem will redirect a person’s tefillos to other important causes. But I’m still left feeling sad. I really wanted my tefillos to go to save her.

Mrs. Bonnie Odze responds:

Tefillah is an incredible gift and a golden opportunity to become close with Hashem. But how does it work?

Many of us mistakenly approach tefillah as a vending machine for our requests. We need health, we pop it into Refaeinu, parnassah goes into Bareich Aleinu, and pretty much anything else can make an appearance in Shema Koleinu. Then, when we press the right button but don’t get the desired result, we assume our tefillah was unanswered.

The primary purpose of tefillah isn’t to magically produce results we want. Tefillah is about connection and communication with Hashem, with Whom we are in a relationship. The word tefillah, as explained by Chazal, is related to the verb tofel, to attach, join, or bind together.

Hashem is in constant communication with us. Not verbal communication, but a communication of total and consistent caring and nurturing. Even a fleeting look at the detailed way our body functions is enough to be blown away by His love for us. The human heart creates enough pressure to pump blood through 60,000 miles of veins and capillaries. In one day, our blood travels a total of 12,000 miles. Our eyes can distinguish up to one million color surfaces and take in more information than the largest existing telescope. We blink once every four seconds because our eyelashes act as windshield wipers, keeping dust and grime from getting into the eye itself. Our stomach gets a brand-new lining every four days. These are a mere fraction of the billions of miracles taking place each second in our bodies, never mind the world and everything it encompasses!

But so often the communication is one-sided. Unfortunately, we have become oblivious to Hashem’s continual messages of love. We begin all tefillah with praising Hashem before we request anything to bring us back into a two-way communication and raise our awareness of Hashem’s messages. Tefillah resensitizes us to His involvement in our lives and gives us the ability to notice it.

Tefillah is referred to as avodah. Work isn’t defined by the level of exertion but by how much I can submit my will to the other. Cooking for my family is not work, it’s a choice I make to do. A chef cooking that which her employer wants her to is work, even if it’s only an omelet!

Tefillah is avodah since the most essential requirement is submitting our will to His Will. Through tefillah, we’re able to create such a fusion between us and Hashem that our wills merge into one. When someone we love passes away our pain is real. And pain hurts. But our avodah of submitting our will to His continues through each of life’s roller coasters. No tefillah goes unanswered, and all tefillah has an effect. But though I may not always get the result I want, it will be the result I need.

Real tefillah should create such a bond between me and Hashem that although I may not get exactly what I want, I will want what I do get. If my goal is to connect to Hashem and also achieve a change I think will be good for me, then when He determines a better experience for me, because of the relationship I have created, I can accept that outcome with confidence and understand that my tefillah has indeed been answered. Believe in your tefillos and never stop davening!

Mrs. Bonnie Odze taught high school in London and currently teaches in a Jerusalem seminary.

My Best Tip

Imagine the focus and attention you would give a cherished friend on a coffee date, and bring that focus to davening.

—G.W.

If you hear something inspiring about davening, jot it down and stick it on the fridge for quick referencing.

—E.M.

Be consistent about davening, even when you don’t feel it. If you’re in touch with a friend consistently enough, even if the conversations aren’t too deep, then when you want to unload or connect, the relationship is waiting for you.

—Leah H.

Talk to Hashem throughout the day, about anything and everything. That’s what creates the foundation for meaningful formal tefillah.

—Leah Lewin

I use an interlinear siddur to remind me of the meaning of the words.

—M.G.

Daven Shacharis after your first cup of coffee.

—C.M.S.

Set your kavanah goals low because every single word or brachah with more kavanah is worth so much!

—Tali P.

Best advice I was ever given: Daven to Hashem to help you have kavanah.

—Tali P.

I saw a halachah that said a mother may say Tehillim/daven while nursing as long as her hands are clean. This was very helpful to me.

—Anonymous

Imagine while you’re davening that an important person is in the room, someone you’d want to impress — perhaps an old teacher, a principal, or a rebbetzin — and daven as if they were in the room with you.

—Chani Elefant

Change your perception of self from “someone who’s not a davener” to “someone who davens.”

—E.M.

How I Make Sure to Never Miss Minchah

It became the family culture. My kids see the sun setting from their strollers and tell me, “Mommy! It’s almost shkiah.” Now anyone who starts to daven Minchah makes an announcement to remind everyone else.

—Leah H.

Hook your Minchah into something routine in your day. For example, daven Minchah as soon as you finish serving lunch.

—R.C.

I’m a Minchah Gedolah fan! The earlier, the better!

—Rivka L.

Don’t be embarrassed to daven Minchah in “strange” places. I’ve seen women or girls davening on the street, in a corner. If you’re out shopping, daven in the dressing room.

—E.M.

I have a designated time and place.

—Miriam H.

SPACE AND CLARITY

Shayna Kovitz

When I was nine years old, my parents decided I was old enough to attend shul on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.

It didn’t help that this decision was built on my somewhat shaky foundation of tefillah. At school, almost every teacher had equated “good davening” with loud singing and eyes glued to the words in the siddur. I was never a singer, and certainly not a loud one.  And I just couldn’t keep my eyes focused inside. I tried to melt into the background during davening. And overall, it worked.

I’m sure lots of kids come to shul at young ages — my own children among them — but most of those kids can’t sit in one place, the way my parents expected me to. The davening in our shul was long and slow, and we’d say every last word in the machzor, led by a baal tefillah I barely heard. There was minimal singing. We finished very late in the day, and over the years my sister and I took to hiding in the bathroom for the last few minutes. What seemed like an exciting privilege at first morphed into something else, and Yamim Noraim davening was filed away in my mind as interminable, something to be endured.

My parents’ intentions were pure. They felt deeply connected to davening, and I imagine they wanted to share this with me. They also made this decision in a different time — a time when no one thought to ask if a young child was ready to sit through such an intense day in such an intense setting.

But this decision fixed and colored the perspective I had of the Yamim Noraim.

For a very long time, I approached Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur the way I imagined an inexperienced climber approached Denali, Matterhorn, or Everest — with a mixture of fear and dread.

I tried different coping mechanisms. Some years, I prepared the way I imagined the mountain climber would. She would get the proper boots and gear; I annotated my machzorim and sought inspirational writings. Other years, I took the one-step-in-front-of-the-other approach, trying not to think too deeply about the coming days until they were upon me. Even then, I just methodically went forward without dwelling on the surrounding landscape.

These methods got the job done. But that was all. Back when I was in school, I used to look at my classmates when they davened, and I’d wonder at their fervent prayers. What do they feel when they daven? I’d think. I often thought about those classmates years later, especially during Elul and Tishrei when I muddled through what I wanted to feel when I davened. At this point, I knew myself well enough to know my davening would never look like theirs, but I also knew it wasn’t the loud voice or intense swaying that would make my tefillos successful. It also didn’t make mine worth any less. That left me enough space and clarity to question myself about what I wanted to feel in Elul and Tishrei.

I soon realized it was more about what I didn’t want. There was this feeling that would come over me late in the summer, a foreboding I associated with the Yemei Ratzon and Yamim Noraim. In school, I was taught that this was the right feeling to have at this time of year, but as an adult, I wondered about it. If it stood in the way of my davening, how could it be right? I didn’t want to dread the Yamim Noraim davening.

Most of the time, we have to work to make a change, but I was lucky here, because the first step of the change was made for me. When I married, I began to daven in a different shul — a shul that had a chazzan, a shul where people loved to sing and seemed to revel in the energy of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. It took some getting used to — the singing felt frivolous, contrary to the mood of the day. But it opened my eyes to the beauty of the nusach, and I saw what it could do for me, how it could help me focus in a way I couldn’t before.

This was no grand epiphany, no clap of thunder, no heart-thumping realization. This wasn’t a change that happened overnight. This was a change that happened in increments, and it was in retrospect that I realized things changed. Slowly, the doom melted.

At first, it was arranging for a sitter so that I could go to shul — not because I felt like I had to, but because I wanted to. Then later, timing my arrival for chazaras hashatz of Shacharis instead of tekias shofar. And then, years later, aiming for the start of Shacharis.

Now, when the days of summer draw to a close, I still ask myself how I feel about the coming days of Yamim Noraim. It’s a habit that brings me happiness because I no longer feel that sense of dread. There’s something else in its place — a feeling too delicate to name. And there’s one thing I know for sure — things can change, even something that feels as indelible as a childhood imprint.

QUESTION

We’ve been house hunting for two years, and it’s been a roller coaster ride of almost closing, being outbid multiple times, and watching the house we could actually afford suddenly get taken off the market. We recently saw a house that looks perfect for our needs. Can I daven that this specific abode become ours? Am I supposed to, or even allowed to, daven for a specific outcome? What if there’s another option that Hashem determined is better or best for me? Am I ruining my future by davening for something else?

Mrs. Dina Schoonmaker responds:

Finding a house can be a complicated process, and it sounds like you’ve been through a particularly frustrating ordeal. The questions you raise are important, and they’re very relevant to any specific request we may daven for.

Rabbeinu Bechaye relates a nusach a particular chassid used to say: “Hashem, I don’t daven to You in order to inform You of my needs, You already know them. Rather, I daven in order to educate myself about how much I need You, Hashem. Therefore, if I ask for something that isn’t in my best interests, please disregard me, because You know best.” (Chovos Halevavos, Shaar Cheshbon Hanefesh, cheshbon 58)

This anecdote teaches us a few essential principles in tefillah.

Tefillah isn’t like playing a game of darts, where if you don’t “hit the mark” and you daven for the wrong thing, you lose out. Rather, it’s about showing Hashem that we need Him and His help. Obsessively worrying that if I daven for the wrong thing, I’ll suffer a bad outcome is counterproductive. Hashem will disregard a request that’s not in our best interests.

At the same time, we generally avoid davening for a very specific outcome, and instead ask for things that are derech ha’olam, universally beneficial and desirable to most people, such as parnassah, refuah, or a shidduch. However, we don’t daven for something specific within these generalities, such as, “Hashem, please let me marry X boy” or, “Hashem, please let me have X house.” We can daven, “If this house/boy/job is meant for me, please may it be Your desire that it go clearly, easily, and smoothly.”

The derech ha’olam principle includes davening to do well on a test, or that a child has a successful year, or for Hashem to find the perfect house for us, or that a relative recover mentally or physically. A common denominator here is that these are universally desired outcomes that aren’t specific in nature. Notice that we don’t ask for a precise test mark, a particular house, or for recovery using an exclusive healing protocol.

However, if we did make the mistake of davening for a specific outcome, we needn’t worry that we adversely affected our future. In this case, we can revert to the words of the chassid, “If I asked for something that isn’t in my best interests, please disregard me, because You know best.”

Another important tefillah principle is recognizing Hashem’s omnipotence and omniscience; He is kol yachol and kol yodeia. Omnipotence, kol yachol, means Hashem can do anything, nothing is too challenging for Him or beyond His purview. At the same time, He is omniscient, kol yodeia, He knows what is beneficial for me more than I myself know. Therefore, if Hashem didn’t grant a request I davened for, it’s never because He was incapable of fulfilling it or it was too complicated for Him. Rather, it’s because He thought there was something better for me.

It’s my greatest hope that Hashem speedily answer all your tefillos and that you merit to see the ultimate good in that which He sends your way.

Mrs. Dina Schoonmaker has been teaching in Michlalah Jerusalem College for over 30 years. She gives women’s vaadim and lectures internationally on topics of personal development.

Hilchos Tefillah for the Jewish Mother

Rabbi Doniel Neustadt

Facilitated by Faigy Peritzman

What is the absolute bare minimum I must daven for Shacharis?

Just Shemoneh Esreh. A mother of little children who doesn’t even have time for that should just say any supplication, such as birchos haTorah or birchos hashachar. If she has more time in the afternoon, she should daven Minchah.

Is it better to daven less, or daven more albeit while engaged in other things (packing lunches, serving breakfast, etc.)?

Daven less. Davening while being engaged in doing other things such as serving breakfast is not considered davening at all.

Am I obligated to daven Shacharis by sof zeman tefillah, or can I comfortably rely on chatzos for my tefillah deadline?

While chatzos is the deadline for Shemoneh Esreh, l’chatchilah women should try to daven Shemoneh Esreh before the end of zeman tefillah. Sof zeman tefillah is also the deadline for women to recite Birchos Krias Shema, which means that a woman davening after sof zeman tefillah should skip the brachos of Yotzer Ohr and Ahavah Rabbah and continue with Shema.

Am I permitted to daven in tzniyus pajamas or in a robe that I wouldn’t wear outside?

It is clearly inappropriate to daven in pajamas or robe, since one would not greet a distinguished guest in that manner, even inside his home. Still, if for some valid reason a woman cannot be properly dressed, she should still daven.

What do I do if I need to use the bathroom while davening Shemoneh Esreh? Are there any points in the tefillah where it’s more preferable than others?

Once you begin Shemoneh Esreh you may continue davening even if you suddenly need to use the bathroom. If it’s extremely urgent to the degree that you are unable to hold back, then you may walk (but not speak) and relieve yourself, and then return to your original place and continue davening from where you stopped. If the break was longer than five to six minutes, then you need to start Shemoneh Esreh over again from the beginning.

If I’m in the middle of davening Shemoneh Esreh and my child is clearly in serious distress or potential danger, what is the proper way to respond?

If you can, finish the brachah that you’re saying and then walk over and relieve the child from the distressful or potentially dangerous situation. Talking is only permitted if it’s necessary for you to do so to solve the issue. After the problem is resolved, walk back to your original place and continue davening from where you stopped.

What should I do if I overslept and missed Shacharis? Also, if I generally daven Minchah and I miss it, should I daven Maariv?

If you missed Shacharis Shemoneh Esreh, then you are obligated to daven Minchah Shemoneh Esreh twice. If you missed Minchah, you should daven Maariv Shemoneh Esreh twice. If that is difficult, then daven only one Maariv Shemoneh Esreh.

Am I permitted to daven for something that could only be achieved with an outright miracle, like davening to heal a terminally ill patient?

In response to this question, Rav Yaakov Kamenetsky said that while we don’t daven for a miracle, we’re allowed to daven that Hashem should inspire and develop medical science to find a solution b’derech hateva for the problem at hand.

The Biggest Misconception about Davening

That it’s all or nothing.

—Rivka L.

That it all has to be in Lashon Hakodesh.

—Bonnie O.

If I don’t feel it, there’s no point in davening. No! Just showing up is a powerful testament that you’re connected to Hashem.

—Leah Lewin

That you have to hit a kavanah “home run” every single tefillah.

—E.M.

That you learned all you need to know about it when you were in elementary school. Go back into davening as if you never learned it before. Understand the words, figure out how to connect it to your life, make it meaningful and personal.

—Tali P.

What Kavanah Really Entails

The most basic — and crucial — form of kavanah is simply the awareness that I am currently speaking to Hashem. If I can remain cognizant only of that, I consider it a good tefillah.

—Anonymous

Recognizing that this is “neshamah time.” We offer our guf so much of our day; this is the sliver of space for our neshamah alone.

—E.M.

Persistence. And not getting down when you just planned your whole Yom Tov menu in the middle of Shemoneh Esreh. Just refocus and get back on track.

—R.C.

An understanding that Hashem can do anything and only wants our good.

—Bonnie O.

ALONE

Zehava Seigler

You didn’t have to listen too closely the day he came home from yeshivah to hear the sound of her heart breaking into so many small, sad pieces. And though by now, in the retelling, the shards had already pieced themselves back to wholeness, and she could reflect on how mature her son had grown in the process — as if rupture and repair were criteria for achieving something — she still teared up when she remembered that day.

Of course there had been warning signs, like his frequent calls home all through the winter, this from a boy who could go weeks without calling at all, not even on Erev Shabbos. And her husband’s hushed conversations with the mashgiach, the maggid shiur, and finally even the rosh yeshivah, which seemed to leave his forehead furrowed, collapsed, over sagging eyes. But she chose to hear what she felt she could digest, cautiously picking out the morsels of information least likely to sour her stomach.

But when her husband rented a car that morning, she could no longer engage in pretense. Because why else would he be driving, not busing, up to the yeshivah if not to return with her crumpled, defeated son and the contents of his closet?

Mired in anguish, she could think of nothing but, “How did we get here?” She traveled his journey backward, to the glorious moment he learned he’d been accepted to that prestigious place. Because it hadn’t been a given when years back he’d been a floundering, failing, cheder boy, with dire predictions for his future in Torah learning. It hadn’t been a given at all that his gritty, nose-to-the-grindstone study ethic would transform his failure to triumph.

But from the very beginning of yeshivah, he soared, as if he was determined to make up for those early years of discouragement and letdown. He rose with the dawn, despite retiring long after the midnight moon peaked, poring over folios heavy and dense with words, texts that had once been inscrutable, but now filled him with confidence and knowledge and unfathomable joy. And as the days and weeks vanished between the turning pages, time was administered not by the ticking of a clock, but by paragraphs and chapters and tractates, studied and memorized, caressed and embraced.

Soon enough others started noticing the quiet, earnest, boy who hardly slept or ate, too invested with momentum as he progressed through tomes of halachah, Gemara, mefarshim, bundling together siyumim for efficiency’s sake. And his razor-sharp memory that, as a child, sliced through hefty novels with perfectly detailed recall, now engaged in the consecrated matter of halachah, with its abundant leniencies and stringencies, variables and scenarios, so many puzzle pieces of information anchored securely in his head with orderly precision.

And she, who had never ceased worrying and weeping for her bechor, finally exhaled the breath she’d held for nearly two decades, because there is nothing quite like seeing an unrequitted dream fulfilled, unless it’s seeing an impossible state of affairs serendipitously right itself.

And in the ensuing years, as this soaring star peaked, he earned a reputation as a budding posek, his knowledge of the law clear as glass, smooth as marble. And they flocked to him, younger boys, peers, even older boys, for rapid-fire answers and ponderous, bookshelf-worthy thought.

But then came the day when her heart broke apart, and as her husband quietly left to escort her son home, she treaded carefully over pebbled fragments of a splintered dream, so the pain of it all wouldn’t cut too deep and shred her completely. And as she sank into the bookshelves of the study, thousands upon thousands of hallowed words witness to her grief, she sobbed for the loss of all she’d rejoiced for, for the turnabout of a dream.

She heard the door pulled prudently closed, sheltering the children from her sorrow, and in the brief seclusion that felt more like isolation, wondered who she could tell, who could swallow her pain, but without acid dripping judgment that cut to the bone, or soul-sucking pity that would shrink her small.

But who, indeed, would be willing to step into the chasm, to hold her hand and steady her? Who would have the meta view to trace the minutes and hours and days of the previous years, following the veins of a storyline back to its inception?

Because her parents, though well intentioned, were not made of the hardy stuff that sustained others, unfaltering, when faced with an onslaught of pain. And her sister, half a globe away, didn’t subscribe to a world that mourned abrupt departures from yeshivah. ”So let him work a register,” she’d suggest.

And right now, her husband was in the car, careening ever closer to the epicenter of it all, toward the nucleus of disgrace and hurt and dense, thick uncertainty. He himself was a well run dry, shaky from utter depletion, and in need of another’s steadying hand firm against his back.

With acute clarity that sliced her to the bone, she finally understood what it meant to be utterly alone, with no open heart upon which to rest her own weary one.

Alone. The word echoed with isolation, soundwaves emanating into nothingness.

And as she settled in to the fearsome notion that this enervating pain was hers alone to shoulder, her eyes shifted and glimpsed the spine of a thin brown book.

And her fingers, moving more with intuition than intent, closed around the small volume that lay beckoning from the shelf, and the pages that had been dutifully trained from years of repetition, opened to the familiar place they knew she needed. And taking three tentative steps back and another steady three forward, she started to tell Him the story of a cheder boy who had tried and tried for years without success, who had somehow found his legs in yeshivah, where he learned and learned until he crashed.

And He listened.

And she felt heard.

And she was no longer alone.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 913)