“Oh, come on. The point is, Naomi, we’re obviously not the only ones drinking this concoction!”

“Don’t call it a concoction! That sounds like something horrid. Just call it tea.”

“Fine. Whatever. We’re not the only ones drinking tea! But that makes it sound like no one else drinks tea.”

“They don’t. Not really.”

“Yeah. Anyway, isn’t this adores? I’m buying five sets. For me, you, Fraidy, Hudis, and Mommy.” She grins. “I’m secretly converting you people into collectors.”

We head up to the front of the store, and while Bracha pays, I hang back to look through some very obviously fake rings displayed on a rotating display case a few feet before the register.

Having just lost a ring — yellow gold, inlaid with a citrine gemstone — that had been one of the first gifts from my husband, I can’t help but see rings all over the place, even rings that are so very fake and ugly compared to the one I lost.

List or no, we’ve accumulated an impressive number of bags and I decide that our shopping spree was successful. Bracha agrees with me that it’s time to call it a day, and after a short search, we find my Odyssey in the parking lot. We soon pull into the driveway of my home and lug bags and sleeping baby inside. Bracha puts on the kettle while I transfer Shloimy to his crib. By the time I return, the kettle has boiled and I fill two mugs with our signature tea. I set them on the table and pull open a drawer for some napkins. Except I can’t find any.

I pull the drawer out as far as it can go and rummage around, pushing half-broken foam plates out of the way. And that’s when I see a little glint…

I yelp and all but drop the milk carton I’m holding. I snatch at the ring. For over a month, it’s been lying silently under a stack of paper goods. “Bracha, look!” I exclaim. “Baruch Hashem! I was searching for this ring all over the place! Did I tell you I lost it? It was a few weeks ago.”

I grab my phone from the counter. “I’m calling Chaim. Oh, I’m so happy!”

But Chaim doesn’t answer, and I don’t want to text him; I want to tell him that I found the ring in person. Or at least over-the-phone in person.

After slipping the ring on, I sit down across from Bracha.

“You know,” I say, admiring the ring on my finger, “after I lost the ring, I searched for it high and low. And then Chaim told me that I’d done my best and perhaps it was meant to be.

“It took me a long time, but after days of feeling guilty that I was so irresponsible and agonizing over where and when I managed to lose it and how to find it, I realized Chaim was right. I was still davening to find it, but I was calm. That acceptance was like honey.” I raise my mug to make my point. “It made losing the ring so much easier to swallow. And now I found it!”

Bracha blows across the top of her tea, her breath rippling the steaming surface. Then she looks at me, head tilted, eyebrows raised. “Do you really believe acceptance is that powerful?”

“Yes, I do.”

Bracha rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on.”

I think I see where this is going.

“It was struggle, but acceptance brought me peace,” I say. “You can’t argue with the fact.”

“Really, now.” Bracha leans forward, and her dangling necklace is in danger of getting dunked in her tea. “If I accept being single, do you actually think I’ll find a husband tomorrow?” She lets loose a humorless chuckle. “Ha, maybe he’s hiding in your kitchen drawer.”

“Look, Bracha, I wasn’t guaranteed to find my ring when I reached acceptance. It’s the same thing here. The point isn’t that your bashert will magically appear at your doorstep — or in my kitchen. The point is that you’ll know this is where Hashem wants you to be right now.”

“For sure,” she says, her sarcasm biting. “I can totally see myself being okay with being single.”

I hold up my hands to ward her off. “Look, I had absolutely no intention of this conversation going anywhere near shidduchim. If you can’t go there, which I totally get, then don’t. I hate arguing with you.”

Bracha looks away. “Fine. Whatever.”

“Let’s talk about something else,” I say, taking a long sip of my tea. “You’re going to a wedding. Whose?” Immediately after I ask the question, I want to take it back. Why does everything involve shidduchim?

“Tzippy. She’s getting married in Monsey.”

“Oh, nice!” Tzippy is one of Bracha’s close friends. “You’re driving up yourself?”

“Yep. And I really want to get there on time,” Bracha says, already standing up and rinsing out her mug. She gathers her keys and shopping bags. “Thanks for a wonderful day.”

Bracha

I tap my fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of Yaakov Shwekey. Naomi would think I’m nuts listening to music when I need to concentrate on the road, but music calms me. She always says that music distracts her. I don’t know how that’s possible. It’s like saying that contact lenses distract the eyes from seeing.

My GPS tells me that my estimated time of arrival in Monsey is six forty-five. Perfect. That means I’ll still make it to the kabbalas panim with time to spare. I need to be there for Tzippy. Especially since all the marrieds barely make it, what with husbands and babies who need tending.

A robotic voice fills the car as my GPS directs me onto the 17. I merge into a lane, set the cruise control again, and relax into the rhythm of the road. Glancing at the box of high heels on the passenger seat next to me, I warn myself, for the umpteenth time, not to forget to change shoes when I get to the hall. Making a grand entrance in suede flats is not a good idea. Especially when the rest of me is dressed in a cute fit ‘n flare eyelet dress and the scent of Versace.

Watching the dotted white lines flash by, I think back to my conversation with Naomi. I love Naomi dearly, but she needs to be a little more grounded, more rational.

Humming along with the music, I switch lanes, and after driving another mile or so, I notice a blinking light in my peripheral vision near the speedometer. I hope it’s my imagination but no — a hazard notification informs me of low tire pressure in my rear left tire. My heart sinks down to my seatbelt. No, no, no. Not now, not tonight.

First I ignore the blinking, hoping it’s something that can wait, but a steady thump, thump, thump soon reaches my ears. The pit in my stomach grows with every thump I hear. No longer foolishly — desperately — optimistic, I move onto the shoulder.

“My car has a flat,” I say loudly to my heels on the next seat. “A flat!”

I lay my forehead on the steering wheel. This can’t be happening.

But it is happening. Taking a deep breath, I retrieve my cell phone from my clutch and call Chaveirim. Trying hard not to let my voice break, I give them my location. After asking whether I have a spare, which I do, the dispatcher assures me that someone will be there in about forty-five minutes — forty-five minutes! — and that I’ll soon be on my way.

I hang up and sit there. Forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes! I work my mind into a state of panic, and my anxiety approaches dangerous levels. Whoosh! There goes the kabbalas panim. Whoosh! There goes being there on time.

I blink, trying very hard not to cry. I rarely allow myself that luxury. Besides, I’m wearing mascara.

I pick up my cell phone mindlessly and play with the settings. Scroll through my contacts. Start and stop a game of Bejeweled.

Then I sit back, trying to regain control of myself. I glance at the time. Five minutes down, forty to go.

I call my mother and tell her that no, I am not almost there, and yes, I am getting help and waiting in a locked car. Then I call a close friend and explain that I was delayed and ask her to please give my warmest mazel tov to Tzippy if I don’t show up on time.

Thirty-seven minutes to go.

And then, sitting there helplessly, it hits me. There is nothing I can do. For these thirty minutes, I am stuck. And this is neither the result of my doing, nor anyone else’s. Not even society’s. I am completely at time’s mercy. At Hashem’s mercy.

Pondering that thought, I realize that working myself into a frenzy and getting my adrenaline up won’t help. I drop my cell phone back in my clutch, take a deep breath, and tell myself that I may as well relax.

I have to admit that it feels odd to relinquish control. It also feels liberating. And with a jolt, I recall Naomi’s words. It’s a little embarrassing to admit there was truth in her words after all.

Half an hour later, two members of Chaveirim show up, and they have the tire changed in no time. I thank them profusely. They wave away my thanks and disappear into the dusk-washed highway.

I gingerly ease my car back into traffic, and my GPS estimates my time of arrival once again. Seven fifty-seven. I urge my car forward, but I know that Tzippy’s father, a stickler for punctuality, will have the chuppah take place at seven thirty on the button.

When I finally pull into a parking space at the wedding hall, I hurriedly change my shoes and do that awkward high-heel-dash to the wedding hall. But when I round the corner of the building, I see the wedding guests gathering around the chuppah.

Disappointment is heavy, but nothing short of changing the tire myself would have gotten me here sooner.

Naomi

Bracha calls me today to tell me all about her epiphany on Route 17 last night.

“I have to admit that you were right,” she says, “although I hate being wrong. Not that I’m a changed person, but sitting there, undeniably powerless in a car with a flat, was more liberating than I thought it would be.

“Wow!” I manage.

“Yep. Anyway, Naomi, do you know of a good tire shop?”

***

The following Wednesday, Mommy told me, Bracha was due to visit a new shadchan, a Mrs. Weiszenstein. I knew Bracha would never tell me about it beforehand, but I also knew she would call me to give me the full report when she got home.

I wasn’t wrong.

“You’ll never guess what was on her table when I arrived!” Bracha laughs out loud. “She’s English, so she served tea!”

“Tea? Are you serious?”

“Yup. Somewhat old-fashioned, but who cares? There were cakes, pastries, tea, sugar, milk…and you know what else? Honey!”

“Really? We should have her join the club! Along with that pitcher-set manufacturer.”

It seems that Bracha was her sweet, sunny, pre-cynic self when meeting Mrs. Weiszenstein, because Mrs. Weiszenstein later calls to tell my mother that she was very impressed with Bracha.

That night, I don’t need honey in my tea.