Iwas always happy to see consultations for Dr. Greenhart, a top-notch American-trained doc, ordained rabbi and expert on medical halachah, who worked as a pediatrician in a number of communities in the Shomron. He’d referred several young adults to me and working with him was always a pleasure.

This time Dr. Greenhart told me about a different kind of consultation. It was a young couple with a six-month old baby who was developing slower than normal. A few months before, on their last visit, he’d recommended they see a neurologist, but the mother balked and told him to “mind his own business.” At the checkup this month when he repeated his recommendation for early intervention and a neurology assessment, the mother became very agitated, and rather than accept his referral, Mom began berating Dr. Greenhart “for causing her panic attacks.”

After that, Dr. Greenhart recommended that she and her husband speak with a colleague — myself — to help them process the developing circumstances.

“They’re tough, Reb Yaakov,” Dr. Greenhart told me. “Mr. Sapir is an educated man, an engineer, and Mrs. Sapir is an elementary school teacher, which makes it so much more surprising that she’s being so difficult about early intervention for her child. They already have a few kids so it’s not like she doesn’t know what a regular child looks like. There’s surely some disconnect between the need for a developmental assessment and the pain of what they perceive as a personal attack on their child.”

“I’ll do my best, Reb Zev,” I said, but I knew it wouldn’t be easy.

In the end, only Mom showed up. She had the confident look of a northern Shomron resident, carrying herself with dignity.

“My husband is an engineer,” Mrs. Sapir said proudly. “And I’m a veteran teacher. We’re educated people. I certainly know when there’s a problem and conversely, when everything is alright.”

“That’s fantastic,” I responded. “But help me out here then.”

“Huh?”

“Well… what are we doing here?” I asked innocently.

“We’re here because your friend Dr. Greenhart is giving me panic attacks.”

“That doesn’t sound like Sev. Greenhart,” I said. “As far as I know, he’s a really pleasant guy, as well as a good physician.”

“Well, Dr. Freedman, as far as I know, this Dr. Greenhart doesn’t know how to let up. The man is literally harassing me to bring my son to a neurologist and for what — because he’s not already walking and talking at six months old? Please. I’m a teacher and I’m a mother of three other kids. I know when there’s a problem and I know when all’s well. Baruch Hashem all’s well.”

Hmm… Perhaps there was some powerful denial going on here, but Dr. Greenhart was a good pediatrician who had trained at NYU and had seen a lot of kids through infancy, toddlerhood, and all the way through adolescence. He wouldn’t make a big deal out of nothing and even though I’d never seen this baby, I figured it was safe to say that the child needed a developmental assessment — Dr. Greenhart wouldn’t have raised the subject otherwise.

“Look, I’m no pediatrician and I don’t even know your child…” I began. “But—”

“That’s right! You’ve never even met Mevaser Shalom!” she said, cutting me off.

“Now that’s a special name!” I exclaimed.

“Yes — and he’s a special neshamah,” his mother offered. “His sandek was Rav Eshel who picked the name himself.”

Now I was starting to put the pieces together. Rav Eshel was certainly a special man and a huge talmid chacham, known for giving brachos and instilling emunah in the most challenging and logic-defying circumstances.

“You have to understand, Dr. Freedman,” Mrs. Sapir continued. “Rav Eshel already told us that this special neshamah is destined for greatness. When Dr. Greenhart decided otherwise and wanted him to go for a developmental assessment, we kindly told him ‘no.’ When he bothered us again, we asked Rav Eshel, who reassured us that such an assessment would be a waste of time. And frankly, Dr. Greenhart’s ridiculous insistence is unappreciated and giving me some serious anxiety. We’ve already chosen our derech and he needs to respect that.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” I answered, figuring out how to bridge the gap between the two seemingly opposite camps. I’d seen miracles before, but I’d also seen enough people crash back down to earth after a few too many late nights of Zohar with Rav Eshel.

“Good, so you’ll tell Dr. Greenhart that our baby is fine. I could tell you were a baal yirat Shamayim even though you’re a doctor.”

“Look, I’m not sure that there’s a stirah here,” I tried to explain as I accepted the backhanded compliment.  “I mean, why can’t both Rav Eshel and Dr. Greenhart be right?”

“Because Rav Eshel already told us that Mevaser Shalom is fine. We have his brachah.”

“I hear you, and believe me, I’m a big believer in brachot. I’ve had the zechut to speak with many mekubalim and once even went to Morocco to visit the kever of Rav Hench.”

“Rav Hench?”

“Yes, the legendary 16th-century chacham of the Atlas Mountains who once turned into a snake to protect the community from a pogrom.”

“Amazing!”

“You know, I also have a sefer of kavanot from Rav Mordechai Sharaby that includes tefillot for doctors to say. It helps me to be the best physician I can be.”

“Special!”

“Not as special as the time I once got a brachah from Rav Eshel himself.”

“Wait — you know Rav Eshel?!” she said, practically falling off her chair.

“How could I not? He’s the real deal,” I answered. Of course, I decided to leave out the fact that I’d spoken with him specifically about a patient with bipolar disorder who davened at his minyan and desperately needed to resume treatment.

“Of course I know Rav Eshel,” I continued. “I also know that he believes in doing our hishtadlut.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that he didn’t tell me to quit being a psychiatrist and he didn’t tell your husband to stop working as an engineer. What I mean is that I don’t believe Dr. Greenhart’s advice goes against what Rav Eshel told you. I’m sure Mevaser Shalom is a special neshamah because that’s what Rav Eshel told you. But going to get a neurological assessment for early intervention services doesn’t mean that Rav Eshel is wrong.”

Mrs. Sapir became a bit defensive. “You know, you really shouldn’t give a psak on behalf of Rav Eshel, Dr. Freedman.”

“I’m not,” I said. “I’m just telling you that it might make sense to ask him one more time whether or not it’s reasonable to meet the neurologist.”

“Why?”

“Just tell him Dr. Freedman says ‘hi,’ and was curious as to whether or not it counts as doing your hishtadlut.”

Originally featured in Mishpacha Issue 725. Jacob L. Freedman is a psychiatrist and business consultant based in Israel. When he’s not busy with his patients, Dr. Freedman can be found learning Torah in the Old City or hiking the hills outside of Jerusalem. Dr. Freedman can be reached most easily through his website www.drjacoblfreedman.com