For me, counting the Omer is an impossible task — now, it was all I could think about
MY
husband always says, “If you can’t get the tie to knot properly on the first few tries, then no matter how much you battle with it, it won’t sit right.”
I’ve found that it’s the same for headscarves. Headscarf application should be simple: place bun of hair strategically on the top of head or base of neck, apply bobo non-slip hat to create padding and keep everything secure, then tie the scarf over it. If the scarf just won’t sit straight or tie evenly after two tries, I throw it back in the drawer and put on a different one. It just isn’t going to work, and there’s no use fighting fate.
The popular maxim urges us to try and try again, but an equally popular quote assures us that trying and trying again is where madness lies.
I’m not sure how any of this applies to real life. Definitely with child rearing. Sometimes, I try and try again (“Brush your teeth! Here — five different flavors of toothpaste!”). Other times, I give up (sometimes, any attempts at civilization are bound to fail, and instead of wasting my energy, I carefully conceal all croutons, smarties, and satisfyingly messy potential projectiles).
Then along comes the Omer. I have never in my life succeeded in counting the whole Omer. “That,” said a wise friend recently, “is because you are determinedly smartphone-free. Anyone with a smartphone gets at least four reminders a day — it’s impossible to miss a day.” That’s a new pro-smartphone argument. Although somehow, I don’t think my kids’ Bais Yaakov or TAG will be impressed by that reasoning.
Every year I think that this is the year that I’ll do it. Then, I inevitably realize that I’ve already missed Day 1 (sigh). Maybe it’s because I’ve never really appreciated the meaning of the counting? I don’t know.
I do know that I have a complicated relationship with numbers. While my bridge-tournament-winning uncle and pharmacist sister sit down together for a fun evening of intricately complicated calcudokus, I sneak away to read a book. While my son works out the municipality’s system of numbering on the street sewage lids, I watch him in amazement. Who knew sewage lids had numbers? Who knew all those tiny Lego pieces were numbered? Who tries to use a stopwatch to time the minutes on the clock, purely for the satisfaction of knowing that the clock’s minutes are truly evenly spaced?
I guess there’s a math gene that I’m missing. In school, there was a time when I seriously annoyed teachers by writing out numbers in full. “I don’t like numbers,” I explained. “This way, I’ve turned them into words.” It doesn’t make math easier, by the way, especially if you’re doing algebra.
Four years ago, I was expecting a baby. I was excited to find out that I was due exactly on Shavuos. My first thought was, Omer counting is going to be a cinch! Not that I’ve ever correctly managed to count the weeks-versus-months of pregnancy. Is it just me, or do 40 weeks not actually fit into nine months?
By the time January came around and I began thinking ahead toward Pesach, I had miscarried the baby. I was slowly healing from the sadness of the loss when I suddenly remembered the Omer.
I was going to have to count the Omer, day by awful day, all the way to Nothing Day.
I turned to Hashem and said, “Listen, I’ve never counted the Omer before. So this year will be no different. You can’t expect this from me.” I waited for a sympathetic Heavenly pat on the shoulder — of course, for you, darling, there’s a special exception. But nothing doing.
I tried to immerse myself in Purim and Pesach prep. But when it came to the Omer, having a Nothing Day to count toward consumed me. “Just say it!” I’d tell myself. “Say it and forget about it!”
But I was angry. This was a mitzvah I never really connected to, and it persistently brought the miscarriage to the forefront of my mind.
Something had to change.
I told Hashem that I was going to play pretend. I’d pretend that I was only counting toward Shavuos, I’d pretend to be excited, and I’d keep trying to count the Omer even though I really, really didn’t want to.
Did I manage to finish the counting that year? All I remember from that time is my angst. I have no idea if I actually made it all the way through with a brachah.
I do remember that Shavuos.
I’d industriously taken a hand saw and sawed large palm leaves from the tree in our garden, then shaved the spikes off the stems. I cleaned the enormous leaves and tied them onto our dining room chairs for decoration. I made chains of fake flowers that graced windows and bookcases, and brought large, lily-shaped placemats for the table.
I remember that the house looked beautiful on Shavuos. I remember the light filtering past the gold-tinted window flowers, the breeze from the hills, and a feeling of peace. I felt content. Here I was, another year gone, and I’d tried again to do something at which I had never succeeded before.
A year later, I was blessed with a baby on Lag B’omer, so I missed quite a bit of counting. Honestly, it’s been downhill from there. I know that I’ve definitely never gotten as far as I did four years ago.
This year, someone shared the idea that it’s really Hashem counting down the days until He “comes down” to us, and our mitzvah is only to emulate Hashem’s ways, which is why we count.
For the first time, here was a take on the Omer that resonated with me. As He moves toward me, I move toward Him, toward Shavuos — toward Everything Day, the day when He gifted us with everything. When we became who we are as a people. The day in which all neshamos, including my unborn baby’s, stood — and some say, perpetually stand — warmed by the light of Hashem’s revelation.
