I so badly wanted to learn about Tishah B’Av

I

sat on the thin dorm mattress in the simple room, taking in my profound lack of company. It was Tishah B’Av, and I was alone.

Less than two months earlier, I’d boarded a plane to Israel, paying for my flight with the remainder of my savings, plus the money I’d made selling some of my possessions, plus donations from some very kind community members. I’d converted just six months before and everyone who’d been part of my evolution was happy to see me off to seminary.

I’d left behind my family, my friends, my city, and, if we’re digging deep, the life I had lived until I committed to living a life of Torah. It was a lot of change, but I was relentlessly soldiering on, through the challenges of learning Hebrew, of making constant social blunders, of trying to remember the seemingly endless details of living a Jewish life. My momentum didn’t stop until the hot summer day I walked off a curb into a small pothole and broke my foot.

It wasn’t immediately apparent to me that I’d broken anything. I hobbled resolutely up the steep, steep hill to the Neve Campus and continued up to my dorm room. It would be fine, I was sure. The next morning, my foot was badly swollen and I knew I needed to take care of it.

Friends helped me navigate to a taxi (did he overcharge me? None of us knew), to the clinic (definitely broken), and then to Yad Sarah for crutches (mi k’amcha Yisrael).

“How fitting,” I quipped, “to actually be in pain during the Three Weeks.”