I

n the dormitory at Lakewood’s Beth Medrash Govoha, there is a certain tension in the air as Tu B’Shevat approaches: it’s the day the “freezer” opens, revealing a fresh crop of eligible young men lined up like the display in front of an Infiniti dealership.

Bochurim who haven’t really shaved since erev Sukkos look dapper, tucked in, and groomed. Young men circle the campus speaking into cell phones with the urgency of stockbrokers on the trading floor, consulting rabbeim, parents, and older brothers-in-law, suddenly on first name basis with the yeshivah shadchanim. Late night debates break out in rooms: ‘You don’t have to feel anything’ vs. ‘You have to feel something’, the merits of taking off your hat vs. leaving it on analyzed. (Conventional wisdom says that if a bochur leaves his hat on even while he’s driving, it means his hairline is in jeopardy, disappearing faster than a cloud of e-cigarette smoke.)

The yeshiva’s takanah forbidding new bochurim from starting the shidduchim process until past the halfway point in the winter zman, known colloquially as The Freezer, has spawned its own vocabulary: a bochur can be defrosting, still cold, or freezer burnt.

It’s spawned jokes. (On Tu B’Shevat, there is a minhag to daven for a nice esrog, in Lakewood, they daven for a nice esrog box.)

It’s also spawned debate: in the era of the shidduch crisis, when girls outnumber boys, how can a yeshivah hold hundreds of potential marriage partners back? Charges are leveled in the high court of the comments section, anonymous pundits adding extra question marks to reinforce their wonder at how the yeshivah can allow this.

No one from BMG has requested my help; the yeshivah, headed by gedolei Torah and rooted in a mesorah of Torah leadership, doesn’t need me to defend their rule.

I offer this recollection only to add context for when the inevitable annual discussion resumes, as predictable at this time of year as trays of dried apricots at your grocery and your children wondering what kind of fruit is called ‘boxer’.

I arrived at BMG after Pesach approximately eighteen years ago, along with a friend. He ended up in the room next to mine, but he didn’t unpack. His roommates divided up the closet space, but he was blissfully unengaged in this division of territory: his mind was elsewhere. He had started a ‘parsha’ during bein hazmanim (if a bochur began dating a girl before the zman, yeshivah rules allow him to continue during the zman) and, he confided with unbridled excitement, he was ‘going down.’

A week into the zman, and he was even more excited, less aware of his surroundings: the regular dormitory topics —Bava Kamma, what was for lunch, take an umbrella— didn’t really penetrate his bubble. He didn’t care if it was hot or cold in the room, because he ended up sleeping in Brooklyn most nights. Milchigs or fleishigs was equally irrelevant. He was gone.

But then things went a bit awry. A lousy date, too much pressure from one side, an awkward moment, and doubt found its opening. Maybe we should take a break, think about things… and a full three weeks into the zman, my friend arrived— not just in body, but in heart— at BMG.

But it was too late.

He unpacked, glumly removing shirts and pants from his suitcase, trying to create a sense of ownership weeks after everyone else had already made themselves at home. He struggled to find his footing in learning —the third-rate chavrusa he’d accepted back on Rosh Chodesh, certain that he would be busy and then engaged for the entire zman— clearly not on his level. He had to play catch-up in the sugyos he missed, arriving at the party after the first course had already been served and cleared, and the good seats taken.

The others, the ones who had arrived, unpacked, and got settled, were also distracted once the freezer opened, but they had the framework to keep them in places— chavrusos, schedules, and habits formed over those crucial first three months.

Lakewood is first and foremost a yeshivah, not an internment facility where hopeful young men go to get processed and certified for marriage; and a yeshivah needs committed bochurim.

Imagine a law firm interviewing a prospective employee, a fresh law school graduate with impeccable grades and credentials. The young man confides in the interviewer that, keen as he is about law, he also intends to pursue an acting career while he works at the firm. Of course, he’ll need to be available at all times in case lucrative parts come up, and it goes without saying that there will also be practice and meetings. Any serious firm would end the interview right there.

A yeshivah needs talmidim. To be a talmid means to be fully committed. Yes, eventually they will turn their attention to the very crucial task of finding a life’s partner, but first, they need to arrive in yeshivah.

The three months aren’t aggravating the shidduch crisis— they are helping solve it. The legions of bnos Yisroel ksheiros waiting and praying for their intended all want to marry bnei Torah. With this elegant solution, the yeshivah is ensuring that the new crop of young men will be just that.

They will enter shidduchim fresh from an intense zman, fulfilled, confident, and vibrant— and ready to blossom.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 594)