In the myriad of “coincidences” scattered across merely one lone day of my blessed existence, I know that Hashem cares for His daughter, just as He knows the location of every lowly grain of sand

“You see,” he patiently explained, as though he were a professor dismantling an algebraic formula, “if you look at the numbers, of course there’s a shidduch crisis…”

I faded out as he continued to add, subtract, multiply, and divide. I can’t argue with numbers, since I don’t understand them, nor bother to try. I have no head for them, even though my father is an accountant and my mother possesses a math mind.

But as I mindlessly sipped my ginger ale and stirred the straw in the effervescent bubbles, it niggled at me that despite the fact that this boy is five years older than me and single, I’m the one in a “shidduch crisis.” Not him. Because of “the numbers.”

I thought of how many sheva brachos speeches I had heard over the years. The orator triumphantly concocts a gematria tying in the chassan’s and kallah’s names to “bayis ne’eman b’Yisrael,” or some such; speaker after speaker beams at the blushing couple and testify how it is obvious, so obvious, that even the unbiased numbers attest to the bashertkeit of this shidduch.

And let’s not forget that Gemara in Sotah, 2a: “Rav Yehudah has said in the name of Rav: Forty days before the creation of a child, a bas kol issues forth and proclaims, ‘The daughter of Ploni is for Ploni.’ ”

But “bashert” is only bandied about after the kesubah is signed, the ring given, and the glass smashed. For singles there is no mention of bashert. I get the “shidduch crisis” lament and the “numbers” tutorial, which conclude: There is no hope. Math is a stark, unrelenting fact —if it doesn’t balance, it doesn’t balance.

Later, our soda glasses long empty, we have thankfully moved on to different topics. I was excitedly relaying a shiur I had heard from one of my favorite rabbanim:

“The Torah isn’t a book of science, or theology, or even history!”

“What does he mean by ‘theology’?”

“Well, it roughly translates as ‘What does Hashem do all day.’ Other religions spend a lot of ink and paper on that, but we don’t. In Tanach, Hashem tells us what to do and what He wants from us: that’s it. He doesn’t tell us about His private life. We don’t claim to know His thoughts, plans, or extra-curricular activities.”

“But we do know.” He smiles. “Rebbe Yossi ben Chilafta said that Hashem spends His time making shidduchim.”

I saw my opening. “Then how can anyone say there is a ‘shidduch crisis’?” I parry. “Hashem is taking care of everything!”

He opened his mouth to reply, but stopped. He was quiet, his brow furrowed in thought.

My brother, the “scientist,” once eagerly explained to me the Fibonacci sequence, where each number is the sum of the previous two: 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34, 55, and so forth. These digits frame the Golden Ratio, an ancient formula that is present in nature —in the arrangement of flower petals, pine cones, even artichokes. Hashem created mathematics, and used numbers to form His Creation. Even I, devoid of numerical appreciation, found myself breathless.

Numbers are subject to Divine Authority. Numbers shouldn’t be used to claim that there is anything that the Eibeshter cannot control. They should be referenced only to show Hashem’s application of detail in His Work.

All of my grandparents were survivors, their families murdered —parents, siblings, spouses, children. They relied on the Bashefer. They did not cite numbers.

I believe in the Eibeshter. In the myriad of “coincidences” scattered across merely one lone day of my blessed existence, I know that Hashem cares for His daughter, just as He knows the location of every lowly grain of sand. I will not allow Him to be discounted because of numbers, which He formed.

I am single, and I choose to focus on bashert. Not backward —not after the kesuba is signed, the ring given, and the glass smashed underfoot. But now, in each moment, in the numbering of every day.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 450)