The world as we know it, with all our 21st-century sophistication and innovation, has gone into a tailspin over an invisible germ. Is this the new normal?

Open or Shut? 

Rabbi Ron Yitzchak Eisenman, Passaic, NJ

The news arrived on Shabbos afternoon in the middle of daf yomi:

The city of Passaic had decided to issue an advisory to all houses of worship to suspend prayer meetings. 

One of the local city officials contacted me after Shabbos and pleaded with me to cancel all of our services. 

“I cannot enforce it,” he admitted. “However, I hope you will comply.” 

The thought of depriving 1,000 people — the average number of men who show up on a typical Sunday — of tefillah b’tzibur was frightening. On the other hand, the thought of playing some role in transmitting a potentially life-threatening sickness was inconceivable.

I was pulled in multiple directions.

“How could you even think of closing the shul? Do you know how Jews sacrificed their lives to daven with a minyan in the Warsaw Ghetto?”

“The entire virus thing is media hype! It’s all about nothing. Keep the doors open.”

“If we don’t daven in a minyan, how do you expect Hashem to help us?”

“Of course the shul must be closed. So people will daven alone. What’s the big deal?”

I thought about the lone son who is saying Kaddish for his father. And I thought about the older man from Lodz who has asthma, yet still comes to shul. I thought, and I struggled.

All of those I consulted said, “Rabbi, it’s your call. You’re the one at Ground Zero — it’s in your hands.”

Finally, it wasn’t a person with whom I consulted who granted me clarity; it was the Torah itself. “The Torah says: Desecrate one Shabbos for him so that he can observe many Shabbosos” (Shabbos 151b).

Tomorrow, minyanim will not take place. That is what the Torah demands.

Yet, it’s with the hope that the day after tomorrow and the day after that, we will once again all daven together. 

No Game, No Plan

C.R., Jerusalem 

In general I’m a very organized and structured person. 

Not by nature, but by necessity. My son Ari is autistic and clinically hyperactive. Therefore every part of my day, week, and year must be structured with Ari’s needs and schedule in mind. Thankfully, he’s in a great school system that rarely has vacation and during the random off-days, we coordinate with a volunteer from Ezer Mizion. 

So life bumps along. Until Motzaei Shabbos, when any semblance of normalcy was pulled out from underneath me.

Last week, when school was canceled for my other children, I took a deep breath and dealt with it. But I was relieved to know that even Prime Minister Netanyahu agreed that special-ed schools cannot afford to close their doors. Apparently, my relief was premature. 

I can’t imagine that whoever passed the new law mandating closure of my son’s school ever parented a special-needs child. When the principal called to say he was closing, I challenged him. 

“What about mental health? What about security at home? Who is going to take responsibility if my child has a meltdown and wreaks havoc in my home, causes harm to his siblings?” 

He was sympathetic and apologetic, but stuck.

I’ve been Ari’s mother for close to two decades now. And I don’t think I’ve ever felt as helpless as I did last night hanging up the phone knowing I alone was going to be responsible for Ari for the next... how long?

Chaos is an understatement to describe the situation with Ari and all his siblings stuck under the same roof. During the time it took me to write the above paragraphs, Ari managed to get hold of the broom, chase his two-year-old brother around the kitchen, and knock the cover off a light fixture, which shattered all over everybody’s lunch. 

Now I’ve got him wrapped in his weighted blanket on the floor next to my computer, and he’s systematically banging his head against the cushioned floor as he struggles to regulate himself. 

I’m struggling to regulate my breathing and my thoughts, which are quickly spiraling out of control. 

I never have Ari home without a game plan. But this is no game, and it seemingly has no plan or any foreseeable end. I guess that’s what gets me the most. I’m only halfway through Day One in the trenches, and I’m ready to surrender.

I’m davening so hard for everyone to stay healthy during this threat of corona. Please, can someone daven for me as well? 

You Were Missed

Yosef Wartelsky, New York

What an odd Shabbos I just experienced. 

The shuls where I live in the Five Towns and Far Rockaway area were closed this past Shabbos, as per the psak of Rav Dovid Feinstein. 

A few weeks ago, the thought of going through a Shabbos without going to shul, even once, to daven with a minyan, to recharge, schmooze with friends, hear an energizing derashah after a tiring week, was reserved for someone who was stuck in a hospital perhaps. But for entire communities? It would have seemed incomprehensible. But this past Shabbos was just that.

I never thought I’d miss this integral ingredient of Shabbos so much. 

Admittedly, I gained an appreciation for what my wife has to deal with at home while I’m away at shul blissfully singing Lecha Dodi on Leil Shabbos or Mi Kamocha on Shabbos morning, but I also gained an appreciation for all the people I never thought I’d miss. 

I never thought I’d miss the extra-loud davener who usually grates on my nerves and was shocked that I missed the long Shemoneh Esreh davener who sits behind me, whose extended davening doesn’t allow me to take my requisite three steps back for a lot longer than I’d like. I never thought I would, but I missed hearing the complaints from the sweet fellow who just can’t handle when the rav’s derashah is three minutes too long. I missed the questions about whether or not we got the order of spoons for the kiddush, and the vigorous, friction-heat-inducing hand rubbing from the guy who is upset at me that the heat isn’t high enough. 

I wished I could have said gut Shabbos to all the familiar faces and friends, and schmoozed with them during kiddush about important things, like which matzah is the thinnest or how we never would have taken seats before the adults back when we were kids. I missed trying to figure out what excuse I would give to my not-so-close friend for not being at the shalom zachar he made last night. 

I missed making my weekly announcements after Mussaf, and inevitably forgetting something and getting told off for it. I missed watching our small, young shul dealing with issues that shuls all over the world are dealing with. Age-old issues like keeping tefillah passionate and newer-age issues like armed security guards. I missed the pure children who intensely look through the candy bag for a few minutes to pick the perfect lollipop for themselves, and their four siblings and eleven cousins who came for Shabbos.

Although part of me (the part that pretends to be a highly respected infectious disease professional) questioned the decision of some to make small outdoor minyanim over Shabbos, a much larger part of me marveled at the fact that, like a magnetic pull, these Jews simply can’t help themselves. Tell me to not shake hands, fine. Tell me to stay six feet away, b’seder. But not to sing Kabbalas Shabbos together — inconceivable! 

I think the words that jumped out at me most this Shabbos morning, as my two-year-old son chucked Cocoa Puffs at me, were the simple words we say early on in davening, “praiseworthy as when we rise early and stay late in shuls and batei medrash…”

Most of all, I missed being able to daven to Hashem together with other Yidden, each with different expressions, decibel levels, and speeds — the way in which we sing to Him varies, but that produces the beautiful harmony of davening b’tzibbur.

Like all of the incredibly difficult and challenging times we’ve faced throughout our history, we will survive this one to tell the story as well. Whatever comes of all this wackiness, one thing is for certain: Hashem is watching and taking note of how much we are missing being with each other — and how much we miss getting together to talk to Him.

For me, one takeaway is certain: When I get back to shul and that extra-loud davener is doing his thing, I’ll remember how I hated the quiet davening in my living room. 

Waiting Alone

Malky Berger

Every Shabbos, I visit the women in our local nursing home. 

Over the years, they’ve become my friends — I value them for their wisdom, their wit, their sweetness or grit. Each one has a story and a special soul, and the hours I spend in their company enriches my own life.

Every Purim I prepare a pile of special mishloach manos for “my ladies” and spend part of the day distributing the packages at the nursing home. This Purim, I set out with my packages and my son, only to find the door locked.

“No visitors,” said the security guard. 

“Corona. Dangerous.”

I gulped. What kind of Purim would these women have without any visitors?

“Can you just give them these packages?” I asked. 

He shook his head. “No packages from outside.”

I schlepped my bags back home, thinking of the lonely women waiting in vain for their Purim cheer. 

If you really care about them, you won’t visit them, I told myself. You’d want them to stay safe.

But what kind of cruel illness shuts helpless people inside their own homes, pitting their desire for safety against their very real need for company?

The Longest Pesach

Shlomo Scholnick, Ramat Beit Shemesh

Twenty years ago, I opened a travel agency with not a penny to my name.

Slowly but surely — and with lots of siyata d’Shmaya — my company, Travel Deal Israel, has blossomed into a world-renowned service that works to get the best possible rates and provide far beyond the basic hotel reservation. Many of our clients have been booking with us for years, and we’ve gained a name for guiding them toward the best decisions in booking their Israel accommodations.

My employees are hard-working, service-oriented, friendly, and helpful. Some have been with me since the very beginning. These women are supporting their husbands’ Torah study while they work hard to support their families. I, in turn, am proud to be supporting these very dedicated and devoted kollel wives and honored to be a part of their holy service.

On top of the general workload, from December through March we’re busy with Pesach reservations, either for our Kinar Tiberias Pesach program or for other hotels around the country.

My staff works tirelessly answering calls and emails, and meeting with clients to ensure each and every one is receiving top service.

Over the years, Israel has faced many challenging situations, and the tourism industry has struggled intermittently. Yet not once in all those years have I held back any salaries or let any of my staff go. Now, from one day to the next, the world has been thrown into a situation the likes of which we have never been dealt before.

What is happening now is beyond anyone’s control. Usually, at this time of year we’re busy finalizing the last few details of our Pesach program and tying up any loose ends; this year we are busy fielding calls and emails from concerned guests canceling their reservations.

We understand the concern of illness, of quarantine, and the fear of the unknown. We also understand the fear of financial loss. We understand because we’ve been hit very hard.

I am a firm believer that all that happens is for the best, though we may not understand, because we don’t see the larger picture. Hashem is showing us all that He is in control of the world in its entirety. 

And I believe that just as He’s helped us get through all kinds of hardship before, He will once again help us through this uncertainty as well.