“Even if your chocolate cake is the 100th the recipient received this week, they’re received as 100 ways to say, ‘I care about you’”

Second Time Lucky [Words Unspoken / Issue 936]

I’m responding to the Words Unspoken where the writer explained why children of divorced parents should be taken more seriously.

A few years ago, a friend of mine mentioned that her husband had a friend who got married, but the marriage was unsuccessful, and they divorced. Eventually, he remarried a girl whose parents were divorced. A while after he remarried, my friend’s husband saw him and asked him how things were going.

The fellow who remarried told him he was so happy. His wife is a delightful person, and they’re very suited to each other. And then he added, “The interesting thing is that my parents never would have considered this shidduch the first time around....”

Chana Zelasko

Ramat Beit Shemesh

Don’t Hold Back [Know This / Issue 936]

I’d like to respond to the woman whose husband is currently sick with cancer. First and foremost, I want to wish your husband a refuah sheleimah b’karov mamesh! What you’re going through is unimaginable, and the fact that most people around you don’t experience nisyonos on this scale makes it all the more difficult and isolating.

As you wrote, no one can truly understand what you’re going through, and no gift, kugel, phone call, or text can erase the pain of your daily struggles. Between your husband’s treatments, hospital visits, caring for your children, maintaining your home, and so much more, the strength it takes to get through each day is beyond words.

There was one thing I wanted to ask you. Do the too many piles of blankets you received not seem like piles of love from caring family and friends? Mi k’amcha Yisrael that, as you said, you even get too many kugels.

I recently, b’chasdei Hashem, completed a difficult journey through cancer treatments. While I was fortunate to be surrounded by loving and caring Yidden, I didn’t have much family support. My mother was niftar right after I was diagnosed, and I live out of town, far from other relatives. To me, every gift, kugel, text, and phone call felt like a warm hug, bringing tears to my eyes. I can’t begin to express how much these gestures meant to me — needed or not, useful or not, even if I had to give them away the next day because my freezer was already overflowing with apple-cranberry kugels.

To the readers, I want to say this: Know this. Even if your chocolate cake is the 100th one the recipient has received this week, they’re received as 100 ways to say, “I care about you” — and not one of them will ever hurt. Don’t hold back from reaching out to someone going through a difficult time, fearing they might be overwhelmed. Anything sent with heart is touching.

I also want to mention one more thing — don’t assume that someone facing a challenging tekufah has everything taken care of (even if they’re surrounded by family). Sometimes, a simple offer — like dropping their kids off at daycare during a treatment — can be a lifesaver. A sincere offer, even if ultimately unnecessary, is infinitely better than leaving someone to juggle these small but significant details on their own.

B.R.

Embarraproud [Encounters / Issue 935]

As a proud child of two amazing baalei teshuvah, I’ve been waiting to come across an article about our experience. “Embarraproud” is hands down the best word to describe my feelings when I share pictures from a sibling’s wedding and all the aunts haven’t covered their hair. I think all COBT can relate to the family Chanukah party conundrum.

This relatable and completely accurate article reminded me of something I’ve been thinking about for a while — the lack of sensitivity toward COBT. Whether it’s from teachers or classmates, people don’t think to be sensitive to COBT the same way they are to children with other, and admittedly more important, family situations.

I remember numerous instances when I sat in class wondering about my identity. Once, my school introduced a program where you received raffle tickets if you called your bubby and told her something you learned about Torah. I was only in third or fourth grade, but I remember ruefully imagining what would happen if I shared my Torah knowledge with my sweet, well-meaning grandmother, who uses her iPad on Shabbos to play games.

However, I do think that COBT are raised in an environment that gives them special opportunities. How many 14-year-old girls have experienced a story when they had to decline shaking a man’s hand at an event? How many ten-years-olds have to answer questions about their lifestyle? I think that because I grew up in an environment closely connected to the secular lifestyle, I appreciate my community and Yiddishkeit on a personal level. My upbringing has enabled me to make decisions about my own personal growth and the purity of my neshamah. I know what it’s like to be exposed, and I know I definitely don’t want to live like my wonderful cousins who try to share their Tik Tok videos with me each time I visit.

What I’m trying to say is that while there is some lack of sensitivity toward COBT, and I think it’s something teachers should be aware of before talking about family parties and Bubby and Zeidy, I wouldn’t change my way of life for anything. I’m so proud to be the child of two incredible people who gave up everything they knew for Hashem, and while sometimes the frum world never lets me forget (each time there’s a song in a kumzitz that everyone sings in their family), having BT parents is a zechus I’m lucky to have. Thank you for publishing this article to show us COBT that we’re not alone.

Proud COBT

Cold Food, Warmed Hearts [Encounters / Issue 935]

As fellow COBT, we couldn’t contain our laughter as we read this article. The point we liked best was about Great-Aunt Hannah’s Chanukah party. Chanukah is the holiday we host everyone, so we get to enjoy the food. But Thanksgiving? We eat cold food while the rest of the family enjoys an extensive freshly cooked meal. Thank you so much for an entertaining and relatable article.

Meira and Tamar

You Make an Impact [Windows / Issue 933]

Dear Mrs. Lisker,

I read your article about the awesome responsibility teaching feels like it is to you, and I knew I had to write in. You wrote, “No one is looking back at the forty-five minutes a day they spent learning Social Studies in middle school and saying, ‘Wow. Mrs. Lisker transformed my entire life!’ ” Yet you worry that if something casual or negative might pass your lips, “One day, one of the girls in front of you might credit you for ruining her life.”

Mrs. Lisker, you weren’t my teacher (as far as I know), but I’d like to tell you that you’re wrong. I’m just shy of ten years post high school, and when I reflect back fondly, it’s on the teacher who taught Social Studies for 45 minutes twice a week. High school was a hard place for me, like it is for many others; too many emotions, a tough social scene. I know my mechanchos tried their best, and I credit every one of my teachers for shaping my life and building me to be the successful woman I am today.

But who do I miss, remember with a warm feeling in my heart? It’s the secular studies teachers, who taught subjects I’ll never need, but whose kind words I’ll never forget. These teachers had a more relaxed classroom and dispensed smiles easily. They appreciated my wisecracks (probably because it wasn’t their job to fix it) and ribbed me lightly in return. For an overloaded high schooler, this made me feel liked, appreciated, and seen, like somebody believed in me.

Tenth grade was a horror story, but Mrs. Schonblum’s biology classes were my haven. Twelfth grade was a struggle, but come literature class with Mrs. Neuman, and I knew I’d enjoy a teasing give-and-take, a special smile. I actually don’t remember the name of my sixth grade social studies teacher, but I can clearly recall how she smiled, the way it was my “job” to tell her what page we were on in the workbook.

Mrs. Lisker, and all the 45-minute teachers I had over the years, you are the one I point to. You’re the reason my adolescence was a little brighter, I made it through high school intact, survived seminary, shidduchim, and launched a wildly successful professional career.

I know I’m remiss for not going back in person to thank each and every teacher who left their fingerprints on my heart. But I hope this letter will let every teacher know that within her 45 minutes a day, she’s the “teacher [who] made a real, tangible positive impact.”

Name Withheld

Let’s Start a Trend [Single Moms, Growing Sons / Issue 926]

Those who are courageously solo parenting are like fish swimming against the tide. They’re battling loneliness — which is, incidentally, the root of so much addiction and despair — loss, shame, grief, and despair. Their dreams have been shattered, marriages gone, families often cut off, alienated, reputations wrecked beyond repair, the children left suffering a blow to the psyche equal to a death of a close family member, yet there is no burial site. There’s no end to their pain.

Yet surprisingly, we’re not seeing their situation as such. They’re a community without a voice. They’re often shamed and gossiped about because of the fear that if we help them, then maybe more people will feel free to leave their miserable marriages.

I’ve heard this sentiment over and over.

We’re no longer ashamed of having kids with special needs; we have yeshivos, helplines, and support groups for OTD kids; addiction and eating disorders have been discussed ad nauseam; infertility, terminal illness, and death have always been a popular source of discussion; and the “shidduch crisis” is a work in progress.

Can we begin to normalize those experiencing divorce and separation? These unsung heroes and heroines who climb every mountain alone.

Let’s be their voice. Let’s start a trend to be there for them.

Chaim Frankel

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 938)