Money Second

Esther Kurtz

T

here used to be these commercials on the radio for General Steel, where they’d advertise that they could build a building at half the cost of typical construction. Once, after hearing the ad, my brother-in-law turned to me and said, “Esther, you would build a house with them — square, warehouse-style, no windows — as long as it was cheap.”

I didn’t admit that I’d thought of that already. I’d be fine with it, except for the windows. I love windows. Really, I want a house with windows everywhere, so I never have to turn on a light. And I want a wraparound porch, and rooms within rooms, and winding staircases, and wonder.

Really, though, even if I had the money, would I even allow myself to get what I actually wanted? It’s something I struggle with, this scarcity mindset, a reaction to not growing up with a lot. Don’t spend if you don’t have to. You never know what you’ll need tomorrow. Push off purchases. Nothing’s really an emergency.

And it works, you know. I have the stability I crave. But I don’t have the small things that bring me joy: Nespresso pods, a new beanie, a symphony concert. In my self-righteous moments, I can convince myself it’s prishus, but in my more honest moments, I know that it’s not. It’s one thing to do this to myself, but when it comes to my kids, a scarcity mindset is a childhood killer. But how do I undo a lifetime’s pattern of thinking?

I’ve done a deep dive into emunah and bitachon, and I’ve learned that Hashem takes care of you the best. Duh. The caveat is that He takes care of you in the way that’s best for you — not what you think is best, not necessarily what you’re most comfortable with. Which is all nice. But how do I translate that into my reality?

For me to feel comfortable spending, I need to have more money in savings. But how much is enough? There’s always something else to be responsible about — bar mitzvahs, retirement, renovations — and the earlier you start saving for them, the better off you are. And compound interest is real, so be smart and take advantage of that. Take advantage of it all, so much that you don’t actually live the life you’re saving for. It took a lot of work for me to learn that frugality in and of itself is not a value, only a means to a goal.

My husband gifted me a pair of designer shoes, exactly what I’d been looking for. Completely impractical, blue crushed velvet. I loved them yet I couldn’t wear them, thinking of all the other things these shoes could buy. Eventually (two weeks later) I realized that I already owned the shoes. Everything else I could buy was theoretical, and what I had was real. I still love them, impractical and all. I match them with everything, and it brings me intense satisfaction to have the right shoe with the right outfit. I know what this sounds like, I’m not tone-deaf, but for me — working to break out of my mindset — this piece of luxury represents balance.

There were so many things I wanted to do with my kids but had always told myself it was too much, too expensive. I’d always wanted to offer my kids extracurricular activities. Sure, they’ve done small, inexpensive things, some local sports leagues and the like, but art lessons, music classes, I’d never even gone there. They’re never-ending investments. There was always something more important to spend on. Finally, I told myself: Esther, find out what the kids want. And then find out the cost. If you can afford it in the short-term, go for it. Hashem sends the money when you need it, not when you want it.

I made up my mind: If I could afford it on a week-to-week basis, then that’s what I’d do. Making a decision for today, not for tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

Over a rainy seudah in the succah, I asked my kids a question I’d asked before, except this time it wasn’t hypothetical. One son is taking art classes that have opened up a new world of his personality. Another son asked for voice lessons and ended up taking only one. Another chose guitar, and takes lessons once a week that he both loves and hates.

Will my kids do this forever? Who knows? For once, though, I’m not robbing myself today to pay for an uncertain future. Hashem gave it to me today; I’ll use it today. He can give me more tomorrow just as easily.

This doesn’t mean we’ve abandoned responsibility or that we’ve stopped putting away money. We are, but it’s not coming from a scarcity mindset anymore. I’m living values first, money second.

Esther Kurtz is the host of Emunah for Non-Rebbetzins, an audio series covering 90 seconds of Chovos Halevavos daily.

Endless Giving

Chaya Jaffe

T

he Shabbos table of my childhood always had four or five random guests. Sometimes, I’d wake up to find a stranger on the couch or someone going through the refrigerator. The first time I viewed my life from the outside was when a new friend in high school told me my parents hosted weirdos. The friendship didn’t last, but now the colorful fringe of my childhood had a name: “Weirdos.”

As I grew older, my unwavering acceptance of my parents’ open home began to waver. On the one hand, I loved our home. It was always pulsing, always happening, and I possessed skills that no other highschooler did: I could make a sheva brachos for 20 people, plan a shul kiddush, and help a woman pack up 50 years of her life for her big move to England. On the other hand, I craved my own space. I craved quiet. I yearned for predictability. It was exhausting to always be nice and welcoming and caring, to always be on, and go out of my way to help and assist. Sure, I still helped my parents, but inside the resentment built. One day, I vowed, I would be far away from all of this.

Marriage was freeing. Building my own home at long last, I was able to decide who we invited and when. “No weirdos,” I said childishly. But eventually, I realized, I was seeing a world through eyes trained by my parents. I saw pain and sadness on buses, I welcomed an elderly neighbor into our home, I made meals for new mothers.

In all honesty, we did stay away from strangers. It’s a different world; today there’s more awareness about bringing people into your home. But the doors of our home are not shut. Today, my home is an open house, with friends and their kids streaming in and out and all hours. We strive to have a home where people are accepted, people are heard, people are listened to.

I no longer fight it, but I acknowledge that there are chesed opportunities that make me feel triggered: when I give tzedakah and the recipient pushes for more, or a woman asks for hand-me-downs and then settles herself at the kitchen table. I recognize the trapped feeling that begins to arise and I tell myself that it’s okay I feel this way. I’ve learned which types of chesed are right for me and my family.

My chesed girl recently told me that her cousin was on bed rest. I said, “Oy, she should feel good.” Then she told my older sister the same thing. Next thing I know, my sister was sending this woman food, dinners, muffins, her teenagers to watch the other kids. I wish I could be the person taking care of strangers on bed rest. But right now, giving to those in my immediate circle is where I’m at.

Every time our local Neshei posts a chesed opportunity: HUGE CHESED: Family from South is lonely!!! I click on it, read it, and think that would be nice. I imagine calling up the organizer and offering my services. It would be that simple. I’d take care of someone, make their life better. It would be so natural. But something stops me.

Right now, I’m not in a place where I go searching for chesed. When it finds me, I’ve been conditioned to respond, and I do so happily. But I leave the searching to my mother and sister. I’m not there. I don’t know if I ever will be. In the meantime, I hope Hashem is proud of all that I can do.

And I’m okay with that. There’s a moment of self-doubt, of “push yourself.” And then there’s acceptance. I am who I am both because of my childhood and in spite of it. And I’m fine with that. At least for today.

Whiplash

Bruchy Hershkowitz

W

hen I describe the difference between my upbringing and my husband’s, I often use the term “sur mei’ra v’aseh tov.” My family was definitely from the aseh tov group. Love Hashem, know you’re His precious child, do good things. My husband was brought up in a home that prized strict halachic observance: Fighting your yetzer hara is what will keep you out of Gehinnom.

Growing up, we were firm keepers of mesorah. Tishrei was a coronation party for Hashem. Judgment? Eat kreplach and fish heads, that will guarantee you a good year. (Extra points for the eyeball.) We refrained from nuts, because the gematria of egoz is cheit. Stay far, far away from that. And no vinegar in sight — you don’t want a sharp judgment, do you?

Pesach, of course, is the Yom Tov of mesorah, and none shone more brightly than ours. My mother would brandish the bleach from sometime after Tu B’Shevat, never putting it down until we sat for the Seder. She cleaned all the places we’d never thought to enter during the year, the attic, full of dust and her wedding dress; the crawl space behind the washing machine; the ceiling in every bedroom. At the same time, she’d whip up seven-layer nut cakes, more kugels than is possible to eat in eight days, and a Shulchan Oreich replete with three choices of meat. (We weren’t makpid on chatzos. Why do you ask?)

We were quite religious about parshas hamahn on the Tuesday of parshas Beshalach. We spent the whole day reminding ourselves and our friends about this important segulah. After all, our yearly sustenance was dependent on this recitation.

I went to school, so I knew about the scale of mitzvos and aveiros that Hashem uses to judge us. But who ever talked about teshuvah at home? We knew Hashem loved us, and that’s what mattered.

From school I went to seminary, and it was there that I learned about a different path. Torah learning, Torah learning, Torah learning. Nashim b’mai zachyan, my teachers would ask? And they’d wax poetical about the beautiful life of ruchniyus they are privileged to live. When I came back and told my parents I wanted a learning boy, they’d hardly ever heard of such a thing. Kollel, sure, for a year or two. But certainly no one we knew was in it for the long haul, prepared to act as breadwinner to a husband who didn’t come from a long line of rabbanus. The idea didn’t exist. It was almost a rebellion against our mesorah of men working and women baking babka.

But my life as I knew it felt shallow. I was determined to get something more, and, to their credit, my parents listened, and supported my dreams.

My husband’s family is much more methodical about their avodas Hashem. Do the right thing, stay away from the wrong. You want a good year? Make a cheshbon hanefesh. Chanukah is the Yom Tov of Torah in my husband’s world. Light the menorah and get back to the beis medrash — prove that the Yevanim didn’t actually win. You want parnassah? Be scrupulous in your dealings; don’t try to cheat the IRS, and you’re on the right path. Kevarim and kvittlach are nice, maybe, but my husband likes to quote his rebbi, “The best segulah is taryag mitzvos.”

Suddenly everything made sense. I’m cerebral, not emotional. My husband’s approach talks to me. After all, Hashem made this world, and Halachah is His guidebook. Abstaining from nuts is good and symbolic, but you know what else is the gematria of cheit? Cheit.

In my in-laws’ community, the focus is onYirah, fear of Hashem, and the talk is about how the yetzer hara is always trying to get us, how it’s a struggle to win. You need to be one step ahead at all times. I went all in, embracing this worldview.

And then, slowly, slowly, something shifted inside me. I can’t pin it to a date or an incident. Maybe I just grew up, into myself, began raising a family…. But the fiery enthusiasm waned. I still love my husband’s derech. It makes sense to me. But… as meticulous as this approach is in its halachic observance, there isn’t as much focus on the beauty of Yiddishkeit, how much Hashem loves us, how He’s holding our hand. He doesn’t want to trip us up. The yirah-centered approach can be dispiriting.

Friday nights as a kid meant hours of stories and singing over rugelach and candied nuts. It was how we came to “dveikus,” to appreciating Hashem’s chesed and miracles. We told stories of our ancestors’ emunah peshutah, reinforced our determination to hold on to our heritage.

Friday nights as an adult, and my husband has a two-hour seder after the seudah. It’s the most sacred time of his week, and I love that he’s doing the most important thing in the world, the actual thing that will keep us connected to Hashem, but it’s also… a little lonely.

I wonder.

If I’m so yirah-centered, am I missing something essential to Yiddishkeit?  If the conversation is all about loving Hashem and the chesed He wants to do for us, will we just soar into Gan Eden? Or will I have to stop in Gehinnom on the way, because in our passion to love Hashem, we neglected some important details.

There are many ways of serving Hashem, I know that. But I’m getting whiplash moving between the two. Is one approach better than the other? There has to be an actual, absolute truth that applies to all, no?

Or is finding that middle ground, reconciling both derachim, the goal?

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 890)