I was totally taken aback. I’d assumed  it was obvious that they would make phone calls to my previous employers inquiring about me, and that I would also make my own inquiries.

“Umm,” I stammered. “I didn’t think it was going behind your back. I don’t work for you yet. I assumed you would expect me to do my own research.”

“Of course I would want you to speak to her, but I asked you not to call yet. I was waiting for the right time to give you her number.”

“I don’t think I would’ve called had you asked me not to. You told me she was busy with her school work. I assumed she could tell me herself if she didn’t have time to talk.”

“The work we do is very dependent on honesty. I’m not sure you can fit in with us. Surely you understood that I didn’t want you to call.”

My heart was pounding. I couldn’t believe my ears. This sounded absurd to me. Imagine a shidduch complaining that you called references they hadn’t provided you with? What was going on here?

“I think if you ask people who know me, they’ll tell you I’m very honest. I did get the idea that maybe you didn’t want me to call. But that made me nervous — were you trying to hide something? If I weren’t honest, I would never admit that to you now.”

“Well, what did she tell you?”

“She told me what happened. I understand why you wouldn’t have wanted me to speak to her, but she only said wonderful things about you and the job.”

“All right. Our secretary will call you within the hour to make a time to sign a contract.”

Only I didn’t hear from the secretary within the hour. Instead I got an email the next morning saying: “Thank you for your interest in our company. I apologize that you got so far along in the acceptance process before we discovered that, despite your many qualifications and wonderful personality, you aren’t a match for our office culture.”

A storm raged inside of me.

Why did I ask the secretary for the number? Of course she might tell her boss!

But I didn’t do anything wrong! It’s the most normal thing in the world to speak to the previous employee.

That boss is a deranged control freak. You’re lucky you escaped.

I can’t afford to be picky now — we needed that job!

What a hypocrite! She’s worried about my honesty? She didn’t ask me not to call. She told me the previous employee was too busy to talk!

I was so stupid to admit I thought she was hiding something! I should’ve pretended I had no idea she didn’t want to give me the number!

The elements had the blessed mercy to empathize with me. Thunder crashed and trees swayed like blades of grass. Torrents of rain fell in sheets. The noon sky was nearly black, lit only by intermittent flashes of lightening. The nearly unprecedented storm offered me some solace. It was as if everyone in a several-mile radius was sharing my turbulent emotions.

It’s not fair! She hired me already! She hired me! I met the staff. I need this job! I had this job. Noooo!

And then an earsplitting crack right outside the window made me jump. It took me a moment to collect my wits and figure out what happened. The enormous tree I’d always been able to see outside my kitchen window was gone. I went to the back porch to survey the damage, but when I slid the door open all I could see were leaves and branches.

Raindrops clinging to my eye lashes, I looked out the back door again and pieced together what I was seeing.

I couldn’t help but laugh.

It wasn’t even Pesach yet, but it looked as though we were already ready for Succos. My neighbor’s tree had fallen and was now sprawled across the pergola in the half of the yard that becomes my succah. And the other half of the yard? I looked out the kitchen window where the tree had been, just to be sure.

Yes! The tree was gone!

We have a nice size yard that would be perfect for a nice size succah. But that huge tree in the neighbor’s yard had one long branch reaching over half the yard, obliterating that option. The previous tenant had begged to cut that one branch at his personal expense, but the neighbor had refused to budge.

Every year, after the first Yom Tov meal of Succos, we clear out the table and shlep in all the beds. The next morning, we have to repeat the process in reverse. Every day of Succos, we can’t drag in the table until the last sleepy bochur has rolled out of bed. And no one can sleep, or even nap, until the table gets pulled out and the beds dragged in.

Now, not only had the overhanging branch disappeared, but the entire tree had been toppled. Our succah could be enlarged, and we could build a space for the beds in the newly “kashered” part of our yard.

Outside the rain still fell in sheets, but the wind and thunder quieted. The sky was a pale gray, instead of midnight black. I was still sad and frustrated and disappointed about my almost-job, but my stormy emotions had settled along with the storm outside.

This is the part of the story where I share my great enlightenment, the magnificent parallel in my own life. Just like that tempest outside my window had felled the giant that had blocked our ability to build our succah, the gale inside me had removed… what? And allowed room for me to become what? Was there some bad middah this had corrected, some growth that could now happen?

But I was stuck. What did I gain from either of these experiences? I wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was something quite obvious, but my own biases and defense mechanisms prevented me from seeing it? Perhaps it was something subtle I’d only be aware of in the future?

Throughout the summer, as I sat at the kitchen table and drank my morning coffee, I’d marvel at how after so many years of wishing my succah could accommodate beds and table simultaneously, come Tishrei, it would be finally would be able to.

And I know somewhere deep inside myself that there is space to become so much more, now that the sky is clear of obstructions.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 747)