Not all promises are lost. One remains. It’s the one I made long ago

Once upon a time, I suffered from secondary infertility. Trying to remember that pain is like hearing a train’s distant whistle — it’s not close enough to hurt your ears, not anymore.

I found out I was expecting on Pesach, which felt auspicious. And then my son was born, weeks early, on Chanukah, and he was the light in my former darkness. It felt like G-d was giving me a special blessing.

Exactly one year later, the blessing seemed anything but. My child had a tentative diagnosis of autism, and his symptoms were pretty severe. I threw our lives into any therapy that had good data behind it.

Along with my hishtadlus, I also had a secret weapon. I would go to any bris I’d hear about, and when the baby would cry and the congregation would chant, “K’sheim shenichnas la’bris, kein yikaneis l’Torah, l’chuppah, u’l’maasim tovim,” I’d add my own prayer, repeatedly. I’d say, “Hashem, You have to keep Your promise. I gave him a bris, and You have to do the rest. Torah, chuppah, maasim tovim. It’s on You to make that happen.”

Yes, yes, I know. I’m a lawyer’s daughter, and I realize there are a whole lot of logical fallacies in my argument. But I deployed my secret weapon any chance I could get, confident that Hashem would fulfill the promises I set on Him.