I can sense she’s enamored of our kollel lifestyle, about the simplicity, about the inner happiness that radiates from our home. So perhaps I should disillusion her

“T

his is so beautiful.”

She’s curled up across from us, on the brown leather couch parallel to the one on which we sit. Her big blue eyes sparkle with something I faintly recognize from a long-ago time: idealism, expansiveness, taking in everything and nothing.

“What?” Instead of allowing myself to be vulnerable, I recede quickly behind a shield of humor and cynicism. “You must be referring to my daughter’s dress!” I assert, because no way, no way, can she be referring to This.

Because, actually, the girl — that’s really all she is, a girl dressed in a woman’s clothes, an 18-year-old who thinks she’s mature enough to make decisions for the rest of her life — is indeed referring to This. The post-hadlakas neiros calm, which has inexplicably descended upon my home.

“No,” she says, laughing, “although the dress is quite cute.”

“Yeah,” I add, frantically clutching the bait, desperate, wanting to keep the laughter and self-deprecation as a mode of defense, “I guess beautiful is a pretty extreme adjective to use!” But, please, please, please — don’t describe my Life as beautiful!

And then she shatters the mirage I cling to: “This. Your home, your family. It’s so beautiful.” She is misty-eyed, and I see that familiar flash I may have seen in myself ten years ago (only ten years? It feels like yesterday and ancient history all at once) while looking in the mirror.

I am sandwiched between my two, usually incredibly wild, boys, ages four and two. They are almost angelic at the moment; what the girl doesn’t know is that in a matter of minutes they will be tearing through my home, riding like madmen on their tricycles, sitting on their baby sister until she can barely breathe.

This is beautiful?

When my children manage to synchronize their screams, until I almost join the chorus, and I feel the adrenaline in my veins racing toward a Mommy-meltdown... Is that beautiful? Should I tell her that most Friday nights, we start with a book on the couch, which inevitably leads to a fight between the children over which book to read, which ends up with one pulling the other’s hair, so ultimately, I drop the entire plan and head out to the nearby park, dragging three children behind me because I feel I truly. Can’t. Handle. Them.

This is beautiful?

I can sense she’s enamored of our kollel lifestyle, about the simplicity, about the inner happiness that radiates from our home. So perhaps I should disillusion her, let her know that just a few short nights ago, just a few short feet away (because, yes, our Yerushalayim apartment is small), I dissolved into tears on our kitchen table, heaves wracking my body as I cried to my husband that I felt the burden of parnassah was just too much for my narrow shoulders to bear. That I hated counting shekels, hated feeling like I was always depriving myself, hated putting in long hours at work, hated that I even signed up for this....

This is beautiful?

What about all the homes I saw when I was in seminary? I, too, was in awe of the lifestyles they led, of the focus on internals in place of externals, on achieving eternity over ephemeral pursuits. I remember the peace, the contentment that exuded from their homes. They seemed so idyllic; harmony seemed to pulse through their very bodies. Why didn’t anyone tell me? Why couldn’t anyone shake me and say: Be careful! Think deeply about this decision that will change the course of your life! It’s tears and it’s sweat and it’s guilt and it’s struggle. It’s hard.

This is beautiful?

But maybe... Maybe I wouldn’t have listened, wouldn’t even have seen, my eyes too glossed over with the mirage. Maybe I would have laughed and said, “Oh, I know, but I’m prepared to work hard.” Because I would know, I would be certain, in all my 18-year-old ignorance and conviction, that this is what I wanted to sign up for. I would be too focused on the glimmer to see it as sweat, too enraptured by the children’s faces to notice the holes in their shoes.

This is beautiful?

Well, yes, I suppose it is. It’s like when you visit a friend right after she has a baby, and as you approach that beautiful bundle of pink or blue, all you can possibly see is the perfect nose, and rosy cheeks, and inimitable newborn scent. And suddenly, you are desperate for another baby. You’re not thinking of the colic, of the hours spent walking up and down your hallway in middle of the night saying shh, shh, shh, bouncing, bouncing, bouncing, as your eyes sting from exhaustion and your body craves sleep. You’re not thinking about tantrums or toilet training or bedtimes. And if someone would tell you at that moment, as you cuddle that miracle wrapped in layers of newborn-ness, you’d laugh and say assuredly, confidently, “But it’s so worth it…” even though, when the time stealthily turns that newborn three overnight, you’re no longer so sure.

This is beautiful?

To be certain, those difficult, challenging parts are downright hard. But does that take This away? This moment of calm, of peace, of connection between my family.... The joy and deep contentment I feel when my husband makes a siyum, or when I see him arguing with his chavrusa to truly grasp the pshat of a Tosafos.... That is real. And without these moments, without that newborn scent, one would never strive to achieve it, never push through the challenges. Those moments serve as a lighthouse in the storm, encouraging, prodding, daring one to achieve it. And at those moments of shining clarity, with the light burning one’s eyes so strongly that the only recourse is to squint against it, it’s impossible to fully perceive the darkness that others are so certain of.

This is beautiful?

With a shaky laugh, and a hope that she continues to search, to probe, to question, but really, to maintain her idealism, to hold on to that spark with everything she’s got, because ultimately, it will propel her to greatness, I respond: “Yes. Yes, this is beautiful.”

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 578)