I was floored. I hadn’t been expecting that answer, and what was worse than the words was the way he had said them

Experience: Hillel Torah and Travel Camp

Setting: Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

What I Learned: Hardships bring us closer

I walked into the shiur room with a mix of excitement and nerves. It was the summer of 2023, and I was working in Hillel Torah and Travel Camp in Pittsburgh. I was slotted to work double duty; not only was I going to be assistant head counselor, but due to staff shortages, I was also going to be a learning rebbi for the sixth through eighth graders.

The group was the biggest in camp, with more than 20 boys, and featured a dizzying range of learning levels: The eighth grader headed that fall for a top-tier yeshivah sat next to a sixth grader whose parents weren’t religious and couldn’t read Hebrew. Suffice it to say I had my work cut out for me.

We started off learning perek HaShoel, focusing less on the text and more on capturing the ideas and lomdus in an interesting way to draw in more of the campers.

The day before Shivah Asar B’Tammuz, I asked them what they knew about it.

“Does anyone know what happened on that day?” I asked, expecting the usual responses: The stronger boys would raise their hands, and the weaker boys would try to go back to their game of Go Fish that I definitely did not see in the back.

But that day, a new hand went up. Moshe, who had spent most of the learning sessions sinking into his chair in the corner, raised his hand.

To be honest, I was shocked to see that he was even listening. Earlier that year, his parents had finalized their bitter divorce, and his father, who was no longer religious, had pulled Moshe and his siblings out of their frum school and placed them in public school. While Moshe was not a bad kid per se — in fact, he was really sweet and respectful — he was extremely apathetic to anything involving Yidishkeit. He didn’t daven, didn’t learn, and, if not for the camp rules, wouldn’t have even worn the yarmulke he promptly removed at dismissal every day.

This was the first time the whole summer Moshe had initiated participation, and I was not going to miss this opportunity. I quickly called on him, not wanting to give him a chance to change his mind.

“On Shivah Asar B’Tammuz,” Moshe said, “G-d abandoned the Jewish People forever. That’s when we stopped being The Chosen People.”

I was floored. I hadn’t been expecting that answer, and what was worse than the words was the way he had said them. There wasn’t a trace of anger in his voice; it was just a statement of fact, no different than someone pointing out that it was sunny outside.

I tried my best to salvage the direction our shiur had taken, and I followed up with a question.

“We know that the Keruvim on the Aron represented the relationship of the Jewish People and Hashem. When they faced each other, it meant they were close, and when they faced away it meant they were not. Does anyone know what the Romans found when they walked into the Bais Hamikdash to destroy it on Tishah B’Av?”

“They were facing away,” a few of the boys called out.

“Actually,” I corrected them, “not only were they facing each other, but they were embracing.”

I went on to talk about how Hashem never stops loving us, and even when we suffer hardships we cannot understand, they are ultimately for our benefit and all stem from Hashem’s love.

As I was speaking, I felt the boys scrutinizing me, and I felt exposed, almost like a charlatan. What right did I have to tell them this? These were boys from broken homes, from less-than-ideal circumstances. These were boys who had lost loved ones, had watched siblings — or parents — go astray, and had survived other injustices. If only you knew... they seemed to say. But I kept going, hoping that maybe the message could be received despite coming from such an unfit messenger.

A

lmost three weeks later, I asked the boys if anyone knew what happened on Tishah B’Av. Once again, Moshe raised his hand.

“On Tishah B’Av,” he stated, in that same emotionless tone he could have used to read the weather, “G-d hugged the Jewish People.”

I was caught so off guard that I could barely get the words out to respond.

“I meant other than that,” I explained. “Like the tragedies that occurred on that day.”

“What do you mean?” Moshe asked. “The Keruvim were hugging. That means the main thing that happened is that G-d still loved us.”

I had wondered if my message from before Shivah Asar B’Tammuz hit home, and I guess I had my answer. Moshe taught me the true meaning of Tishah B’Av — and that no heart is too frozen that it can’t warm when it feels how absolute and complete is Hashem’s love.

I returned to yeshivah that Elul with a new understanding of how to deal with the challenges life throws our way. That next year would prove to be a very difficult one — bringing an untimely family illness and death, as well as an extremely challenging childbirth — and my wife and I drew on our deepest reserves of emunah. Throughout the year, the words of my wise camper stayed in my mind: At the toughest moments, Hashem is giving us the tightest embrace in the world. We just have to let ourselves feel it.

Boaz Bachrach learns in kollel in Lakewood, New Jersey, and still spends his summers in Hillel Torah and Travel Camp in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1072)