“A
nd they perceived the G-d of Israel, and beneath His Feet was like the forming of a sapphire brick and like the appearance of the heavens for clarity.” (Shemos 24:10)

 This sapphire brick was placed at Hashem’s Feet throughout the slavery of Mitzrayim, to remind Him of Bnei Yisrael’s pain as they slaved over bricks.

When the Torah writes about the “actions” of Hashem, it’s in order for us to learn from them. Here we learn how to bear the yoke of others’ pain.

It’s not enough to logically understand the hardships your friend is going through. To truly relate to your friend’s pain, you have to think deeply, until your heart feels as though it is a partner in carrying his burden. (Rav Yerucham Levovitz, Daas Torah)

If there’s a magical hour of the day, it’s at 8:30, when the little kids are tucked in for the night. Tonight, I sank into the couch and let out a huge breath that I hadn’t realized I’d been holding in all day. We’d made it through another day. No one got stitches. No one stuffed up the bathroom. No one called from school to say that his lunch went flying in the wind and I needed to bring him a new lunch.

I felt myself unwind, internally and externally, until I practically melted into the couch. I had no intention of moving until morning.

Then my husband walked into the room.

“Did you remember the Schwartzes’ bar mitzvah’s tonight?”

Suddenly I was tense again. Rivka Schwartz lives in my building. I had to go to their bar mitzvah. But the reception wasn’t starting until 9:45! I had to get dressed up at that unearthly hour, put on a sheitel and my socializing face, and go out of the house and make small talk? I curled up tighter on the comfy cushion. Rivka probably wouldn’t even notice if I didn’t show.

To truly carry another’s burden, we need to use all our senses to feel his pain. Merely paying attention and routinely offering sympathy isn’t true empathy. Only when you can place yourself in your friend’s situation can you claim to understand your friend’s pain. We see an example of true empathy with Moshe Rabbeinu, who, upon seeing his brethren working so hard, put his own shoulder to the task and helped them work, to feel their pain as his own.

On any given day, we’re bombarded with news of horrible tragedies, accidents, and catastrophes. Time after time, we pick up our Tehillim to say perakim for strangers, to daven for yeshuos, to pray for consolation.

I’ve gone to the funerals of strangers with whom I shared nothing more than the commonality of a fellow Jew living in Eretz Yisrael. I’d never miss a shivah call of a friend or neighbor: How could I cause her any additional pain?

Then why can’t I prioritize adding to someone’s simchah?

Just as it takes contemplation and action to truly feel someone’s pain, so too — and perhaps even more so! — it takes contemplation and action to truly feel another’s simchah.

We’re accustomed to blessing our friends with a brachah of mazel tov to show we’re participating in their simchah. Yet how many of us are truly participating actively enough to feel our friends’ joy? It’s not easy to align your thoughts and emotions to feel another’s simchah. You must actively participate in his simchah, and then the brachos you offer won’t be simply from the lips, but also from the heart.

I got dressed and went to the Schwartzes’ bar mitzvah. I greeted her and her mother, and introduced myself to her mother-in-law too. It turns out we share a second cousin. I schmoozed with my neighbors, some of whom I see very rarely, and I stayed and listened to the bar mitzvah boy deliver a long pshetel in Yiddish, of which I understood not a word.

I remembered that Mrs. Schwartz had come to my bar mitzvahs and had probably not understood much of the English schmoozing that went on around her. Yet I do recall her being there, sharing in my simchah, and the beautiful brachos she’d heaped upon me.

Later, much later, I went to the baalas simchah to wish her mazel tov again before I left.

“Thank you so much for coming! May we always share simchahs,” she said warmly.

“Amen!” I pressed her hand between mine. “I’m so happy I came!”

And I meant it.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 628)