Birth Pangs

Russy Tendler

Words that resonate: “Yesh tikvah l’achariseich”

Where they appear in the machzor: Haftarah first day Rosh Hashanah

Where they take me: To the promise that Hashem watches over and protects us

Last year at this time found my oldest daughters and me working hard. Rosh Hashanah was fast approaching, as was my due date. I was determined to stock the freezer, hoping to have the family set up for success during what was sure to be a hectic postpartum season.

Into the freezer went the roasts, the cakes, the meat bourekas, and mushroom sauce. Onto the table went the giant shofar centerpiece, the miniature iridescent apples, and the dramatic Birds of Paradise flowers.

I was due on Shabbos Shuvah, which fell out directly after Rosh Hashanah, but I knew I’d be late. I always am. I was confident enough to invite guests for Yom Tov.

I knew before Yom Tov began that something was happening but tried to convince myself it wasn’t possible. I continued with our usual Rosh Hashanah routine: entertaining the kids all morning, davening as much as I could, serving and clearing the first-day meal with our guests, all the while sensing that my contractions were getting stronger. I didn’t sleep well that second night of Yom Tov, but in the morning, I told my husband to go to shul because there was no way I was actually in labor.

Thankfully, my husband suspected otherwise. He came home to check on me, and that’s when we decided we should probably head to the hospital.

“Do you think you have it in you to hear shofar first?” my husband asked. We’re lucky enough to live two minutes away from shul, and my husband knew that they were about to blow shofar.

I made my way slowly, pausing to breathe through the strong contractions. My husband led me to the back door of the minyan, behind the mechitzah, and we made it just in time. I closed my eyes and listened to the shofar, the soulful call resonating in a way it never had before. Nothing else existed in that moment. It was just me and my baby, listening to the sounds of the shofar.

It was as if the shofar was a beckoning call to our baby’s neshamah. It coaxed her to enter this world in a haze of holiness and purity, with a promise that her life would hold a connection with her Creator so real I could almost touch it.

After the final blow, I slowly made my way back home and got into the Uber, the sound of the shofar still echoing in my ears. Riding in a car on Rosh Hashanah didn’t even feel jarring. It all somehow made sense in the context of Creation, of new life, and His sovereignty.

“I just heard the haftarah,” my husband said, as I braced myself for yet another speed bump. “And the words from Yirmiyahu,  ‘Yesh tikvah la’achariseich, neum Hashem, v’shavu banim ligvulam’ really stood out for me.”

For there is hope, and your children shall return to their land.

He didn’t need to say another word. If this was a girl, she would be Tikvah. Of course. Hope in Hashem, belief that the pain we are facing as a nation has a purpose and an end, faith that the hostages we were all so fiercely focused on would return. That we would all return.

My personal proclamation of Hashem’s kingship happened in a delivery room that Yom Tov, where every cry and every breath reminded me that Hashem is King over life itself. While others crowned Him with tefillah and shofar blasts in shul, I crowned Him with the first cry of my newborn, a coronation more personal and powerful than I had ever experienced.

When the nurse finally handed my husband our tightly wrapped baby girl, we both knew: Her name would be Tikvah.

My husband walked two hours to shul the next morning and named our Tikvah on Shabbos Shuvah, the Shabbos we return to Him, the Shabbos that rekindles our hope and trust in Hashem and His in us.

We couldn’t have known how much more her name would come to mean to us. Just four months later, Tikvah was hospitalized with encephalitis. My husband and I had never heard of this disease before, and needless to say, it was a scary and humbling experience.

After being discharged, she was readmitted a few days later for some new symptoms.

“She’s going to be okay,” my sister said when she called to check in on me. “After all, her name is Tikvah.” I knew what she meant, and I felt it, too.

It’s been quite the year, for us and our Tikvah, and even more so for our nation. But I have to believe that we’ll be okay. That “okay” is in Hashem’s hands, beyond my predictions or understanding. Tikvah — hope — is her name, our tefillah, and His promise: that Hashem watches, protects, and brings us safely back to Him.

Choose to Live

Yocheved Goldberg

Words that resonate: “Zachreinu l’chayim”

Where they appear in the machzor: Shemoneh Esreh

Where they take me: Yom Kippur night in a concentration camp

Every Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, there’s a line in the davening that makes me slow down without meaning to. The chazzan moves forward, but I’m still stuck at the words of “Zachreinu l’chayim… v’chasvainu b’sefer hachayim….”

I don’t see it as just asking for “life” in the sense of breath and heartbeat. To me it’s the plea for a life that’s whole — where my days are soaked with purpose, where my family is growing in their ruchniyus, where I can see the good tucked between the challenges.

That feeling deepens for me when I think about my grandfather, Sruli Bruckstein a”h. He lived almost a century, one spanning a world that changed in unimaginable ways. Yet no matter where life took him, his focus was steady: a quiet insistence on gratitude, on faith, and on living each day as an erliche Yid.

One of the stories he shared was of Yom Kippur in 1944. He was in a concentration camp with the Chuster Rav, who somehow found an empty barrack and invited whoever wanted to join him for Kol Nidrei. There were no machzorim, no kittels, no sifrei Torah. The Rav knew the entire davening by heart; the others listened.

Before he began, he spoke.

“The Gemara in Rosh Hashanah (32b) says that on Yom Kippur the Books of Life and the Books of Death are opened. Why, he asked, does it say “books” in the plural? Shouldn’t there be just one of each?”

The Rav looked at those skeletal, battered Yidden and answered his own question: “Because there’s not just one way to live, and not just one way to die. You can live in freedom, or you can live in a camp like this. You can die at an old age in your bed, or you can die in the gas chamber. You can be buried in a Jewish cemetery, or be burned in the crematorium.

“So let us daven,” he said, “not just for life — but for real life. And if we must die, that we merit a dignified death and a proper Jewish burial.”

Then he began to sing Kol Nidrei, and the room filled with sobbing, of broken souls who did not know how Hashem would remember them.

Since I first heard that story, I’ve never been able to rush Zachreinu l’chayim.

Because I know there are many “books of life,” and I want to be written in the one where I am truly alive — where I make a difference, where I see the good, where I don’t just exist, but live every day with meaning.

The books are open. The pen is in His hand. And that line I recite each and every year is more than a request — it’s a choice.

Free to Be

Shmuel Botnick

Words that resonate: “Nishmas kol chai”

Where they appear in the machzor: Shacharis

Where they take me: Saying goodbye and hello to Bubby

Bubby Leah Solomon passed away on a Motzaei Shabbos. As Shabbos left, so did she.

Of course. It had to be that way.

Departure from Shabbos is departure from a special, gifted connection with the Shechinah.

So was departure from Bubby Leah.

Truthfully, I never really knew Bubby Leah. No one did.

There’s a picture, just one picture, from the days Before.

It depicts a beautiful girl, with smooth skin, hair plaited in graceful braids, a twinkle in her eye. She was one of several siblings, raised in a wealthy home in Kashau, Hungary. Her father, Chaim, was a successful lumber merchant.

She hadn’t a care in the world.

If I didn’t know it was her, in a million years I would never guess that this was my grandmother.

I only knew her in the days After.

After that army of demons killed her family and wrought fathomless torture upon her young, happy self.

Never again would her skin be smooth. Those smiling eyes, would they ever smile again?

In a strange way, they actually did.

Not a smile of playfulness, pleasure, or even joy. Those days were gone. When Bubby smiled, it was because a part of her had already transcended to a place where complacency reigned.

Bubby survived the Holocaust in body. Her spirit, in part, soared upward. As my father wrote in the wake of her passing, “Part of her was still in Europe, part of her was here in the present, and part of her was already in Heaven.”

In the gaping hole once filled by parents, siblings, wealth, and security, the Shechinah took hold.

Bubby lived with the Shechinah.

After her passing, a woman shared how she had a friend who struggled with infertility. This friend met Bubby and had the intuition to ask her for a brachah. Bubby, in her meek, humble way, blessed her. A year later, she had a child.

Perhaps her blessing worked because she knew this pain as well.

For 12 years after my grandparents’ marriage, they remained childless, my grandmother’s physical and emotional state likely a cause for her struggle.

At the time, they were living in Williamsburg, where my grandfather grew exceedingly close with the Skverer Rebbe, Reb Yaakov Yosef Twersky ztz”l. Constantly, my grandfather begged the Rebbe for a brachah, which he would grant, but to no avail. One day, my grandfather gave a heart-wrenching plea. “Rebbe! I need a child!” This time, rather than offer a brachah, the Rebbe cried out, “Ir meint az ich bin der Eibeshter — You think I am the Eibeshter? Gei daven tzum Eibeshter — Go daven to the Eibeshter!”

A year later, they had a daughter, my aunt, and two years thereafter, my mother.

That’s how they lived. Holy people. Gei daven tzum Eibeshter was their hope, their mantra.

In her later years, Bubby Leah suffered a stroke and her compromised condition worsened exponentially. She would confuse grandchildren’s names, or didn’t necessarily recognize them at all. Days of the week were all one blur. She was uncertain, disoriented, handicapped from so many daily functions.

But she always davened.

Once, on Shabbos, she was saying Nishmas, and when she finished, the pages somehow turned back. And so she began to say Nishmas again. My mother hurried over. “Mama, you already said Nishmas!” Bubby looked up, confused. “A Yid kehn aleh muhl zuggen Nishmas,” she responded. “A Yid can always say Nishmas.”

Motzaei Shabbos, on 28 Av, 2011, as Hurricane Irene battered the East Coast,  Bubby Leah slipped away, to the world she had perceived for decades.

There, her eyes could twinkle again.

But logistics were a disaster. My grandparents lived in Florida but she was to be buried in Skver. There were no flights out. In the meantime, my parents had to be with my grandfather, who wasn’t up to traveling, so they had to figure out their own set of flights.

The coffin finally arrived in New York on Monday. I was in camp then, which, fortuitously, ended that afternoon. But it wasn’t until nighttime that I arrived in Skver. The chevra kaddisha waited. Once I came, they emerged, just ten men, in the dark, dark, night, treading through damp, muddy earth, carrying a thin, wooden cylinder.

The air was still, silent. It had to be. Bubby was here.

The Shechinah was here.

I stepped forward to enter the beis hakevaros, my first time doing so. Botnicks are Kohanim and cemeteries are off-limits for us. It was only possible now because New Square, a fairly new township, had barely filled half of its cemetery with meisim. My grandmother would be buried in the front-most row of the women’s section, and there were no kevarim before her. I could walk up until four amos of her burial place.

I stood back as the men, in the dark, dressed in black, filled the grave with that damp, muddy earth. In the Skverer custom, they then held hands and circled quickly around it, uttering a tefillah.

The small ceremony ended. Bubby’s grave was sealed.

Goodbye, Bubby.

But it was then that I realized, that for the first time in my life, I could actually have a relationship with her. Bubby’s soul, freed from the shackles of torturous memories, loomed before me. She could see me now, recognize me as her grandchild, take pride in the dynasty she had built.

Hello, Bubby.

A stone’s throw away was a large brick structure, the ohel of the Skverer Rebbe.

Bubby, before the Kisei Hakavod, remember the Rebbe’s mandate.

Gei daven tzum Eibeshter.

Having said hello and bid farewell to the Bubby I never really knew, I retreated from the cemetery into the blackness of the night.

But it was several months later when I realized just how final that goodbye had been. When I next returned to the beis hakevaros, I found that new graves had cropped up around Bubby’s. I now was barred from getting meaningfully close. I stood a distance away, still able to see it, still able to connect, somewhat. But as time passed, more kevarim were erected. Now, I must stand so far away I can’t even make out which kever is hers.

But our relationship isn’t over, by any means.

I can connect with Bubby by following her example. I can aspire to live with the Shechinah. I can strive to appreciate the primacy of tefillah.

Or I can say Nishmas.

A Yid can always say Nishmas.

Courage to Rejoice

Alexandra Fleksher

Words that resonate: “V’chol ma’aminim sheHu Keil emunah”

Where they appear in the machzor: Mussaf of the Yamim Noraim

Where they take me: Into the Hands of the King

It’s late when I get to shul, pushing childcare and food prep logistics to the back of my mind, but I always make sure I’m there for V’chol Ma’aminim. It’s my favorite tefillah since childhood. After the intensity of U’nesaneh Tokef, the aron is opened again, but the melody, tone, and atmosphere are so different. “V’chol ma’aminim sheHu Keil emunah!” We all believe that Hashem is the G-d of faithfulness! Joy permeates the air as we proclaim our belief in Hashem.

It feels good to hear the chazzan sing this happy melody. Life seems to intensify year after year, and it’s heavy work to focus on the magnitude of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur in shul, wondering what this new year has in store for us individually and collectively. But then the chazzan sings, “V’chol ma’aminim sheHu v’ein bilto — And all believe that there is none but Him,” “V’chol ma’aminim sheHu tov lakol — And all believe that He is good to all,” “V’chol ma’aminim sheHu kol yachol,” We all believe that He can do anything.

We have emunah in Hashem, our eternal and forgiving King. What a joyous relief. We are in good Hands.

As a child, V’chol Ma’aminim was all about the feeling. I remember the chazzan jubilantly leading this tefillah, practically bouncing at the bimah. After experiencing the intensity of the previous tefillos, it was as if everyone wanted to express their pent-up excitement and happiness. The message I gleaned was that avodas Hashem is ultimately a desire to connect to Hashem with joy. Singing and dancing are good, even during intense times.

But as an adult, I explore the words of the tefillah and see how the words of V’chol Ma’aminim echo the feelings I experienced as a child. The tefillah is a communal testimony to our emunah in Hashem. Is there any greater joy than to be in the Hands of a loving and just King? Right after we’ve contemplated the various ways Hashem might end the lives of some of those among us, we sing. In the face of such gravity and power, we reaffirm our faith and belief that Hashem is just, good, and eternal.

I recently read an essay by Lord Rabbi Jonathan Sacks a”h titled “The Pursuit of Joy,” which speaks to our ability as Jews to express joy even in the hardest times. “Jews have known suffering, isolation, hardship, and rejection, yet they never lacked the religious courage to rejoice,” explains Rabbi Sacks. “A people that can know insecurity and still feel joy is one that can never be defeated, for its spirit can never be broken nor its hope destroyed.”

We may experience pain, suffering, and tragedy in our lives, but we somehow manage to compartmentalize and not let our suffering snuff out the joy that also exists. We show up, celebrate the good, and thank Hashem.

One of the most awe-inspiring moments on Simchas Torah 5784 was how communities both in Israel and in the Diaspora shook off their fear, suspended their pain, and danced. And the message of V’chol Maamimin is exactly what that Simchas Torah was all about. It’s about faithfully proclaiming our belief that we all believe in Hashem, our true Judge. It’s singing with conviction and joy and emunah amidst uncertainty and fear. It’s a reminder that it is our joyful proclamation of our belief in Hashem that makes us who we are, no matter what hardships we face as individuals or as a nation.

V’chol ma’aminim — we all believe. Our emunah can never be taken away from us. And that is reason enough to sing and dance.

Alexandra Fleksher is the Dean of Academics of Chaviva High School for Girls in Cleveland, Ohio.

Don’t Cast Me Off

Rabbi Emanuel Feldman

Words that resonate: “Al tashlicheinu l’eis ziknah, kichlos kocheinu al ta’azveinu”

Where they appear in the machzor: Minchah of Yom Kippur

Where they take me: Reflections through the years

The aron kodesh is open, everyone is standing, and the entire shul calls out a heartrending plea to our Maker: “Al tashlicheinu l’eis ziknah, kichlos kocheinu al ta’azveinu — Cast us not off when we grow old; when our strength ebbs, do not abandon us.”

Who can fail to be moved by this plea?

But there are those who are not moved by it at all, such as myself when I was a teenager. In those far-off days, I would dutifully recite the words, and make an effort at the suitable kavanah. But in truth, the words remained mere words. Although I tried to identify and sympathize with the old and the infirm, that world was far away from me, a faint and distant mirage. To my young and vigorous self, the gradual decline and weakness of the so-called golden years was only a distant apparition. And so, al tashlicheinu never entered my kishkes, and eis ziknah was never-never land.

So it was during my twenties and early thirties. But as I began to approach my forties, and tiny strands of graying hair began to sprout and some wrinkles began to say hello, the kavanah for this phrase somehow began to intensify. I was still robust, baruch Hashem, but I was beginning to understand why the septuagenarians and octogenarians near me had tears in their eyes when they cried out, “Do not cast me off.”

The words were the same, unchanged over the years, but I was not the same. Amazing how looming old age can concentrate the mind. And these days, having, by the mysteriously benevolent goodness of Hashem, passed the season of gevuros ( see Tehillim 90:10 ) the words fairly light up and spring from the page: “Al tashlicheinu….”

Octogenarians are comforted by the thought that G-d, whose every act is chesed, would never actually “cast us off,” that He will always be there at our side, that He will allow us to remain close to Him, that He will never remove His benevolence from us, that we will continue to merit His protection and His care.

A teenager and his elderly grandfather stand side by side in shul. On the surface, they are physically and biologically identical, each one with a heart and lungs and limbs and organs. Identical, but nevertheless quite different.

So it is with the classic, “Al tashlicheinu.” The words uttered by a youngster are the same as those uttered by an old man: the same words, the same rhythm, the same pleading. But in their impact, they are two different and separate prayers: identical but quite different.

The words are immortal. It is we who are not.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1079)