I’d seen Tova the other week at the supermarket, wearing a sheitel and makeup, calmly picking out fruit. Now, a bad part of me wondered whether if she’d forgo the lipliner and pick out the pears a little quicker, maybe she’d have enough time to pick up all her kids from camp.

The favor lost its feel-goodness. It felt like I was being taken advantage of.

I didn’t respond right away.

When I used to work as a home care nurse, the agency would often send me to see patients at a local assisted living facility. The facility had a lot of Jewish residents, and I enjoyed talking to them. (I think of Sylvia, one of the residents, whenever I swipe on lipstick for no reason because she once told me, “You should really be wearing lipstick.”)

I would ask them how they liked the place, the food, the nurse’s aides. Sometimes I’d ask them if they had anyone they were friendly with. Invariably, the answers were the same. “Some residents are nice and some aren’t. There are ladies who are fun to talk to, but they’re not my real friends.” They often said it in a whisper and with a sideward glance.

Their real friends were the women they knew from back in the day. The ones they sat beside in shul, went walking with in better times. “I was lucky,” Milly told me as I bandaged her foot, over, under, over, under. “I had very good friends.”

 I asked my very good friend Rivka what she thought I should do about helping Tova out. Rivka lives in another city, and she’s big on self-care. She could write a book on the art of saying no graciously. With a pat, “Just tell her you’re sorry, but you can’t commit to that,” from Rivka, I’d be on my way, guilt-free.

But Rivka didn’t say that. Instead, she asked, “Is it out of your way? Is it too squishy with her daughter in the car? Does it bother your daughter to take this other girl?”

“No. No. No.”

“So what is it?”

What is it?

“It’s easy for me to do, but it’s the principle of the thing. This is a carpooling town. She could have offered to split the driving or even drive sometimes. We’re all busy.” What seemed so big a moment ago sounded trivial when I said it out loud. “I mean, what if people start asking me for all sorts of favors, and I totally lose my sense of self and just become the town’s servant?”

I was being dramatic, and Rivka knew that. Still, I’m 35, and I should learn how to say no.

My friend surprised me with her response. “It sounds like she really needs your help, and she feels comfortable asking you. It isn’t inconvenient for you at all. It’s like Hashem gave you a very easy mitzvah to do, so why not just do it?”

I thought of my elementary school teacher’s description of mitzvos as diamonds to be collected and cherished. “As many as you can, girls, because after 120, that’s what you’ll have to show. It’s not only the big, glamorous ones that count. Don’t pass up on the easy ones.”

So I did Tova the favor. I survived. I kept the perspective of this being a mitzvah, and despite my initial fear, I still have a sense of self. I think.

A friend will meet you for coffee and make you a kimpeturin meal, but a good friend will also encourage you to grow, nudge you, but not preach at you, to become a better person.

Im yirtzeh Hashem when I’m much older, I may find myself in the company of women I don’t quite call friends. I’ll think of Milly, and I’ll know that back in the day, I had Rivka, and I was lucky, too.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 839)