A small flicker, a smoldering ember. If left unchecked, it can become a raging inferno, consuming everything in its path. Unless someone stands tall and douses the flames. Four tales of courage

As told to Devorah Grant

Teenagers. Some love them to pieces — the feistier, the better — while others keep their distance and shudder at the mere mention of the turbulent life stage.

I’m definitely in the former camp, and although my day job is of the answering-phones variety, my real energies are reserved for the Bnos groups and shabbatons I regularly run. Which is how I met Shevi.

Shevi was involved with the rav and rebbetzin who had reached out to me a couple years ago. Up-and-coming experts on teens, this dynamic couple had a gaggle of high school girls at their Shabbos table each week. Many of them were holding onto Yiddishkeit by a delicate thread, which threatened to snap at any moment, and inspiration was needed fast.

“Nothing can do what Shabbos does,” explained the rebbetzin, when she asked if I’d accompany the group on a shabbaton they were arranging.

“Count me in,” I said, a purposeful energy tingling in my bones. This was going to be fun.

Except that it wasn’t.

I’d thought I’d met all kinds of teenagers before. I was used to their extreme way of relating to adults, to the world around them. I’d always assumed with enough patience and warmth you’d get through to them. But these girls… wow. A different species.

To be honest, most of the girls were lovely and sweet, lost and misguided, and needing the gentle touch they’d never experienced. It was a shame the shabbaton had to be ruined by Shevi and her friends.

It started immediately. Shevi looked sour when the rebbetzin bentshed licht. I took a few steps toward her. Big mistake. Shevi, with her over-painted lips, stared me up and down, and then again. Her eyes are stunning, I thought, noticing their startling greenness. Also scary. I stepped back.