“They say you talk a lot.” Ouch. I thought I was just being friendly

“She started talking early and hasn’t stopped since.” That’s how my mother once described my babyhood speech milestones. What can I say? I have a gift. When I was little, that gift was cherished. As the youngest in the family and the cutest in the room, I stole the show at every occasion with my renditions of “Hamalach Hagoel.”

Fast-forward three, four, five years — and the effect wore off a little.

Okay, it wore off a lot. I went from adorable chatterbox to annoying blabbermouth. Maybe that’s why my closest elementary school friends were mousy and quiet; I filled the silence and they didn’t mind. But maybe it’s also why I never got in with the cool kids, or why making friends at summer camp royally flopped. Apparently, the ability to stand on a chair and sing the latest Shloime Dachs release didn’t draw a crowd.

At a friend’s house for a playdate, I asked her mother, “Do you think I talk too much?”

“No,” she answered. “You just have a lot to say!” Bless her. The masses were not as kind.

I tried to fit in at sleepaway camp — I really did! But when I asked a school friend why no one wanted to buddy with me, she gave it to me straight. “They say you talk a lot.” Ouch. I thought I was just being friendly.

It was at this impressionable stage in life that I joined my mother at a neighborhood Shabbos shiur. My mother loved her weekly shiur, a chance to mingle with ladies over fancy cakes and overpriced fruit platters. But seriously, the community women’s allegiance to the shiur went deeper than that, because nearly everyone in attendance knew the story behind it.

Marcia Behar had tragically lost her son Rami in a car accident when he was a teenager. She took it upon herself to plan this gathering for the women of Woodmere, Cedarhurst, and anyone willing to walk the distance to participate. This shiur was her pride and joy, a never-ending project of finding speakers and finding hosts and setting up each week. Rain or shine, small crowd or large, famous orator or unknown housewife, Marcia sat in the front row and hung on to every word of Torah. As an adult, I would also become one of the lecturers when I visited New York.

But as a child, I obediently sat alongside my mother and tried to soak in the messages. You might think such a vivacious youngster would struggle to sit still or take an interest, but I deeply enjoyed the growth-oriented environment, the universal divrei Torah, and, of course, the petit fours.

One Shabbos, Marcia came up to me while the adults were schmoozing. She explained that Rami’s bar mitzvah parshah was Noach, and so she had a special affinity for a well-known Yehuda! song, “Higher and Higher.” (The song tells the story of a little dove who learns to use his wings, a metaphor for the Torah.) Marcia knew I was a superfan of Yehuda! and had no qualms about singing in front of large audiences.

“Would you honor us by singing the song for the shiur on the week of Parshas Noach?” she asked.

I beamed with excitement, gave a resounding, “Yes!” and did a little happy dance after she walked away.

And so for years I sang that song for the Shabbos shiur crowd. I belted out the high parts, and I gave a grand finale that had everyone inspired. After each performance, Marcia would hold my hands warmly and thank me for this kindness, telling me how much it meant to her family.

Marcia couldn’t have known how much I needed this attention; how powerfully she built my confidence. I sang my heart out because the song held personal significance, telling me that no matter how small I felt, the Torah and my connection to Hashem could lift me high above the clouds. It was I who was the receiver of Marcia’s kindness, not the reverse. Whether on purpose or by happy accident, she demonstrated that no one in life is too tiny (or too loud) to need attention and love.

Today, I no longer sing for audiences. But I teach, I lecture, and I write. I use my voice to make an impact, because somewhere along the way, I was given the message that this gift is not something to be ashamed of.

On the first day of Succos this year, the holy neshamah of Marcia Behar left us. At the levayah, I listened to Marcia’s husband say his final words, and with tears in my eyes, I pictured the soul of Miriam bas Chaim Eliezer soaring up, Higher and Higher.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 918)