Grieving and Grateful

By Lani Harrison, Scottsdale, AZ

A

small kindness that had a huge impact on me really boiled down to just four words. It was about six years ago, and I’d just had a miscarriage. The refrain I heard over and over from those in whom I confided was, “At least you have three beautiful children.” Of course, I was so grateful to Hashem for my children, especially since my husband and I had married later than most. But now, I was so sad that the fourth child we thought was on the way wasn’t to be.

It was a Friday afternoon a few days after it happened. My husband was picking up our kids from school, and I was feeling really down. I suddenly remembered an ad I’d seen for an ATIME “hug box,” a care package for this situation. I found the ad and noted the Brooklyn exchange. It was only an hour or two before Shabbos on the East Coast (we were in L.A.), but I figured I’d leave a message to order a box.

Instead, a friendly voice answered: “Hello, ATIME?” It was Mrs. Chumi Friedman.

“Oh!” I exclaimed. “I’m so sorry to bother you right before Shabbos. I wanted to order a hug package for a miscarriage.”

“Is it for you or a friend?” she asked.

“It’s for me,” I answered, suddenly getting choked up.

“I am so sorry,” she said.

I figured I had to quickly preempt what I knew would be coming next. “It’s okay,” I said, fighting back tears. “I know I have three other kids, and—”

Her voice cut me off. “Why should that matter?” she exclaimed.

Wow. This was something I hadn’t yet heard.

“Right!” I whispered, sitting up a bit more on the couch.

She said it again, more declaratively this time: “Why should that matter?” She went on to validate everything I was feeling. Yes, I could simultaneously be grateful for my children and also grieve another. There was nothing wrong with that; it was completely normal.

She sent the care package, and it was tremendously helpful. What was even more helpful was that she called back about a month later just to see how I was doing. Thank you, Mrs. Friedman and ATIME, for your endless understanding and caring.

He Made the Minyan

By R. Hoffman

IT

was Elul of 2021, and our dear father was at the end of a battle with a short, aggressive illness. Monday morning had been a frenzy of desperate phone calls: “Tatty is being taken into intensive care!” “Nurses are saying his organs are failing….” We all made our way to the hospital, full of dread at the notion of losing such an exceptional father.

By Wednesday, with limited visiting due to COVID, we were told that visitors must be kept to a bare minimum. After the staff repeated to my father’s face ad nauseam that his organs were failing, he begged us to bring him home so he could be in his own familiar dwelling for his final days.

With much siyata di’Shmaya, we succeeded in getting my semiconscious father home on a difficult Friday afternoon. He was hooked up to the necessary drips and oxygen to make him as comfortable as possible. We children rushed home to prepare for Shabbos and then raced back to my parents’ home, knowing we had little time left. After a quick meal, we gathered around his makeshift bed in the dining room and sang, strengthening each other as we watched him breathe his last breaths.

When his oxygen levels dipped, we called an extraordinary neighbor from the Chevra Kaddisha to help us determine when the end had come. Even with him there, we were just short of a minyan. Each time we thought the moment had arrived, Shloimy, a kindhearted bochur from next door, appeared like an angel to complete the minyan.

He could have been tempted to stay in our warm house, but each time the Chevra Kaddisha said it wasn’t quite over, he quietly disappeared outside to give us space. Discreetly, he kept appearing whenever we needed him throughout that Friday night, right until tzeis haneshamah at 6:35 a.m. Shloimy’s kindness left an enormous imprint on us all.

L’illui nishmas Avraham ben David

Active Participant

By T.T., Chicago

IT

was 1993, a beautiful, chaotic whirlwind of a year. Baruch Hashem, we were blessed with our second daughter, one day shy of her sister’s first birthday. We were preparing to leave the yeshivah we’d been part of, as my husband began a new career. At the same time, I began to experience unusual symptoms with my eyesight. After blurred vision, double vision, and an MRI, I received a diagnosis: relapsing remitting multiple sclerosis.

I was faced with a new, uncertain reality. How would this change the trajectory of our lives? How would we manage? My friends were unsure of the appropriate response; we were all in our early twenties and had no experience with medical crises.

One afternoon, my neighbor Leya called. She said matter-of-factly, “We decided to learn shemiras halashon as a zechus for your refuah sheleimah. We each have a chavrusa. You’re mine. Go get your sefer so we can begin.”

Her kindness reshaped my perspective. I wasn’t a helpless victim; I was given the opportunity to be an active participant in my yeshuah. It gave me strength and hope. Much time has passed since that day in my kitchen, but I’ll always be profoundly touched by that group of busy young women linking arms with a friend about to embark on an unknown journey.

The Gift of Belonging

By D.M., Baltimore, MD

I

’d just finished an inspiring year at Neve Yerushalayim and moved to a new community where I knew only a few people. I was lonely and desperately missing the support system of seminary life. It was Chanukah, and a family I’d only met once before invited me to light the menorah with them.

Afterward, the family started exchanging presents. I sat watching, trying to stop the tears from coming, wishing I was surrounded by my own family or familiar friends. All of a sudden, someone handed me a present. Confused, I glanced at the card: “We’re so happy you joined us for Chanukah.”

Inside was a cute hair clip. It probably cost a couple of dollars and I never wore it, but the feeling it gave me was priceless! Every Chanukah, I still remember that kindness.

A Cake and a Note

By Sara

I

was 33 weeks pregnant, and my sister was 35 weeks along when the news came in: She’d been diagnosed with cancer. She was a young, expectant woman in her early thirties. The news affected everyone in the family. She’d be the one going through chemo with a newborn, while all I could do was daven and cry.

Obviously, everyone’s focus needed to be on her, but the first Shabbos after the news, someone left a cake outside our door. There was a note: “Letting you know we’re thinking of you.” It’s a kindness I think about often.

10/10 for Kindness

By Dina Stuhl

IT

was 1987. My friend from college had become a baalas teshuvah and really wanted me to come along. I’d tried my hand at Yiddishkeit back in 1981 and wasn’t a fan. But she kept hocking me, so I finally acquiesced to go to shul just to get her to stop.

I’ll confess, I did enjoy it. But I told myself the real test would be if I still enjoyed it without her. A few weeks later, I went back alone. I scanned the ladies’ section and chose a seat next to a woman I’d been introduced to the last time. She smiled, so I asked her what was going on. She handed me an ArtScroll siddur and told me Shacharis was almost over. I asked her what tefillah I should say. She showed me the Shemoneh Esrei and told me to follow the prompts in italics.

Suddenly, Shacharis was over. People were talking and opening the mechitzah, and I wasn’t even halfway through. That kind woman stood up, opened her siddur, and started to sway in prayer. I was dumbfounded. She’d picked up on my distress and rose, literally, to my aid so that I wouldn’t feel self-conscious standing alone.

It was in this woman’s merit that I decided there was something special in Yiddishkeit. I decided to re-ask the questions I’d had years ago. I approached the rabbi, who remembered me. He agreed to sit with me and answer them. We sat for quite some time as he pulled books off shelves and showed me sources.

Having read me well, he sensed I had more questions. He asked if I wanted to get married one day; I nodded. “So let’s say you’re looking for ten things in a man, and along comes Mr. Seven out of ten,” he said. “Are you going to pass him up waiting for Mr. Ten?” I replied that I’d definitely date Mr. Seven. He smiled and said he’d answered seven of my ten questions: Would I just try it?

I smiled and nodded. On that one Shabbos, my life changed forever. That rabbi is still my rabbi, and I now send him pictures of my grandchildren.

More than a Bottle of Oil

By Reva B.

I was sitting at my husband’s bedside as he started the difficult recovery after emergency open-heart surgery. I was physically and emotionally drained, listening to the steady beeping of machines and trying to breathe through the fear. My husband, a healthy young man, had suddenly gone into cardiac arrest and nearly lost his life.

It had been a hard day, made heavier by the knowledge that the first night of Chanukah was approaching. Back home, I knew the children were coming home from school to light the menorah. I suddenly realized there was no oil in the house. The weight of everything came crashing down: relief, exhaustion, and the heartbreak that even this small piece of normalcy felt out of reach.

In that exact moment, my phone rang. It was my friend Rivky; she offered to take care of getting the oil. An hour later, my youngest child, Naftali, called: “Mommy, someone hung a bottle of oil on the door, and they also left a Chanukah present for me.”

It was a small act, done without fanfare, but it carried so much love. In a time of uncertainty, it was a message that my son wasn’t alone, and that someone cared enough to bring light into a little boy’s life.

Like a Kimpeturin

By Z. K.

When we were blessed with a baby boy six days before Pesach, I didn’t think life could get more hectic. I was looking forward to recovering at my parents’ home over Yom Tov, but Hashem had other plans. As the first day of Yom Tov closed, my 48-year-old brother succumbed to a difficult illness.

The next morning, we brought our baby into the bris, naming him for my brother. Immediately following the seudah, we left for the levayah. When shivah began on Motzaei Yom Tov, I stayed at my parents’ while my husband moved back home with our other children. The days were a complete blur of visitors and feeding the baby.

One morning, as I made my way downstairs after a busy night with a newborn, I came across a pile of my baby’s perfectly folded laundry. I’d thrown in a load the night before, and a kind sister-in-law had taken care of it.

“I wanted you to feel a bit of a kimpeturin,” she said. It was a tiny act, but it gave me the boost to face another day on the shivah chair.

Takeout Laced with Love

By Anonymous

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few years after being blessed with material abundance, we suffered a serious financial blow. Suddenly, luxuries we took for granted were unaffordable. One evening, I was feeling deeply despondent and called my sister, who had gone through many emotional upheavals of her own.

I sobbed to her, overcome by an intense hunger — physical, but born of an emotional place. My despair took the form of a burning desire for takeout food: warm, soothing, and pampering. The knowledge that I couldn’t afford it only compounded my hollowness.

Thirty minutes later, my doorbell rang. There stood a delivery man with pizza and mozzarella sticks from my favorite restaurant. My sister — who carried her own loneliness and had watched me grow my family while she waited for her own — had sent it. Through her pain, she could see mine. As I savored each bite, I thought about how one woman in need was able to nurture the need of another.

Wise Beyond His Years

By Ahuva F.

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ur ten-year-old switched to a new school this past year, entering a class where he knew no one but a second cousin. We were worried about him fitting in, as that hadn’t been the case in his previous school. I dropped him off with a prayer on my lips.

He came to meet me after school simply glowing. “Mommy, one of the kids came running over the second I peeked in and said, ‘You’re the new kid? We’re so excited to finally meet you! I’m Chaim, let me show you around!’”

Chaim showed him everything — the bathrooms, the office, where they were allowed to go. He kept checking in all day to make sure my son was okay. From that first day, my son slipped right into the fabric of the class. It was all because one young boy recognized a shy face and stepped out of his comfort zone to say “Welcome” with a bright smile.

A Mother in Distress

By Sari F.

WE

were flying back to Eretz Yisrael with our four-month-old baby girl after visiting family in the UK. During a stopover in Switzerland, I encouraged my husband not to prepare a bottle yet, hoping she would eat and fall asleep during takeoff. At the gate, we rushed to pack up and deposited the stroller at the counter.

Only during takeoff did we realize we’d left the formula in the stroller basket! Our baby was starving, and her cries grew shriller as we frantically searched for anything to feed her. There was no formula on board, only a jar of baby food she couldn’t eat. I was in tears alongside her.

A frum man in our row had been watching sympathetically. Finally, he offered to take the baby. He explained that a mother can’t watch her child cry from hunger without being able to help. He gently carried our screaming baby up and down the aisles for what seemed like ages until she fell asleep. Miraculously, she stayed asleep for the rest of the journey. That man’s insight made a huge kiddush Hashem on that flight.

The Difference That Made a Difference

By Leah Ganz

I

’ve been a solo mom for many years, and with constantly soaring living costs, it’s a struggle to keep up with the bills, pay for food, etc.

Four years ago, the social services office in my community gave me 750 shekels in cards to use at a local supermarket, which I needed to use within a few days. I planned to attend a shiur that evening and was pressed for time, so I decided to race through the market and select a bunch of items, go to the cash register to get a total. If the amount exceeded 750, I’d return some products.

About an hour before the shiur, I went to the store, grabbed a cart and walked quickly through the aisles. Hmmm — should I treat the family to a filet of salmon, or stock up on cereal? Was it all right to buy a bottle of that fresh orange juice we like for a treat, or should I stick to the basics and stock up on boxes of pasta, tomato sauce, and tuna? I got in line, put my things on the conveyor belt, and the cashier rang everything up. The total was about 850 shekels.

I started to list to the cashier items to take off in order to lower the total when the man behind me took out his credit card and said he’d be happy to pay the difference. His gesture was one of the nicest things someone has ever done for me. As I live on my own in a frum community, I often feel like I’m invisible, but his generosity really warmed my heart. When I’m having a bad day, I often reflect on this man’s kindness, and it propels me forward.

A Secret Angel

By S.S.G.

“H

indy had a soft spot for you.” Mrs. Weiss spoke from her low chair, her eyes brimming with tears. I had no idea what she meant. I was in a daze, numb with grief over my classmate who had just passed away at 21 after a battle with a brain tumor.

Hindy wasn’t one of my close friends, and I puzzled over the comment for a long time. One day, I shared it with my aunt. “Don’t you know?” she asked. “Who do you think organized those Shalosh Seudos get-togethers for your class in high school? She did it so you should become more integrated.”

I was floored. She did this for me — the socially-off girl who always wore mismatched hand-me-downs? She didn’t want me to know; she wanted to do a chesed with shleimus. Matan b’seiser. And she succeeded.

The Warmth of a Small Container

By B. Lehrfeld

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ixteen years ago, my husband and I welcomed our ninth child — a tiny fighter weighing only 760 grams. She spent the next four months in the NICU. At home, we had eight other children, the oldest just ten years old. My days were a blur of laundry and keeping house; in the evenings, I’d journey to the hospital to sit by my daughter’s side.

In the rush, I’d forgotten how to care for myself. Then came a quiet gesture: A child arrived at my door with containers of hearty vegetable soup from my cousin Chaya Bracha. “Take one with you every night for the ride to the hospital,” she told me.

For the next few months, that soup became my ritual. As I was driven through the dark, the heat from the containers warmed my hands and gave me the strength to keep going. It was the feeling that while I was busy holding my family together, someone was holding me. Today, my daughter is 16, but every time I smell simmering vegetable soup, I am transported back to that car ride.

There’s a Chassan in the Neighborhood

By Dena Cohen

IT

was March 2020. Our son’s wedding was scheduled to be in Yerushalayim, but ten days before the date, the world closed down. The aufruf was canceled and our wedding was limited to ten people. We pushed the date up and found people who offered a rooftop and a backyard for the venue.

It became clear that our parents and siblings wouldn’t be present due to travel restrictions and fear of illness. The night before, I heard about a wedding invaded by police; it was very unsettling.

Just as our departure time arrived, we heard a loudspeaker outside: “Yesh kan chatan — there’s a chassan here!” someone announced. Chasunah music began blasting in the street. A man who lives blocks away — someone we had very little to do with — had driven up with a huge speaker in his minivan. He just understood that this simchah needed him. Our boys grabbed hands and danced; our simchah had begun!

A Camp Director and More

By Chaviva

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hirteen years ago, I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy with Down syndrome. I was 23 and thrown into a new world. One day in the NICU, in walked Risa Blaustein, camp director of Camp Agudah Toronto, holding a shake and a gift. I had been an Agudah camper for many years, and I was so grateful to see her there.

She was visiting Eretz Yisrael, heard the news, and made the effort to visit me. She, too, is a mother of a child with Down Syndrome. She sat with me and gave me chizuk that still runs through my mind. Every year as my son’s birthday comes around, I think of that time and I think of you, Risa.

We All Need Help Sometimes

By S.L.

MY

friend and I decided to go to the beach in Tel Aviv for a break after a huge college project. Somehow, my friend’s phone fell out of her hand and landed between two huge rocks. We could hear it ringing from deep in the crack. Her phone was indescribably valuable to her.

We were two single girls, hours from home on a deserted beach as it was getting dark. Distressed, we stopped a Hebrew-speaking chassid who was there with his family. The whole family tried to help; they even tried to lower one of the kids into the crack, but he didn’t fit. We even borrowed a sponja stick from a nearby store, but we still couldn’t get it.

An American man jogging nearby saw the commotion and came over. Together, he and the chassid managed to move the massive rocks slightly to widen the crack. They realized they needed a stick with a claw and decided they’d come back later to try again. Unsure what else to do, we headed back to Jerusalem.

Right when we arrived, we got a call from the American guy: “I have your friend’s phone in my hand… and it’s working!” He met us at the train station, which was 20 minutes away from the beach. When we thanked him, he simply said, “We all need help sometimes.” We talked for days about the chesed of those strangers who made our problem their own until it was solved.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 979)