“All that sounds very nice,” Dalia replied, “but it’s still very hard for me.”

My heart went out to her. “Hashem loves you, Dalia,” I said. “Maybe He’s helping you avoid all the emotional upheaval and is leading you straight to the right one.”

“Mrs. Leiman,” Dalia confessed, “every time my phone rings I hope it’s you, calling me with an idea.”

“Dalia,” I said, “you have it wrong. Go into your contacts and replace my name with ‘Shaliach.’ And when you feel distressed about shidduchim, go daven, but not to me!”

She laughed weakly.

“I think it’s because of Uri,” she said. Uri was her younger brother. He’d been diagnosed three years before, and the treatments hadn’t yet been successful. “People see a sick sibling and they don’t even want to find out if the condition is hereditary. They just think ‘why should I get involved’ and say no automatically.”

Dalia’s situation wasn’t new to me. I have girls coming to see me all the time who are 21 or 22 and sometimes even 23, who tell the same story: They’ve never gone out, or gone out just once, or maybe once each year. It destroys their self-confidence and they begin doubting themselves.

Maybe there’s really something wrong with me.

Maybe I’m not pretty enough.

Maybe I’m not smart enough or funny enough or special enough, not like all the other girls around me.

Maybe it’s because we don’t have a lot of money and can’t offer support.

Maybe it’s because my sister isn’t frum.

Maybe it’s because my parents stand up for what they believe in, instead of just following the crowd.

Maybe it’s because my brother is sick.

I know how it feels.

When I was single, my family davened in a small shtibel. I was a regular Bais Yaakov girl, not at all chassidish, but this shtibel was my grandfather’s shul and there was no question that all his children and grandchildren would daven there. I never thought twice about it, until I started dating. People would hear where my family davened and say, “Really? They daven in a shtibel? That’s not the right type for me.”

It frustrated me. I had no control over where my family davened and these boys (or their mothers) were passing judgement without giving me a chance. Although we could easily have explained that we’re not at all chassidish and only davened there because my grandfather did, no one gave us the opportunity. I was rejected over and over again without anyone bothering to do any further research.

But as time went on, my frustration morphed into appreciation. Instead of seeing doors slamming shut in my face, I decided to look at it as a filtering process. Those who would never fit into my life were saying no. Great! That saved me a lot of headache and heartache — I could avoid the emotional roller coaster of getting involved and then getting rejected.

These boys obviously didn’t have the flexibility, open-mindedness, understanding, and acceptance that I was looking for. What looked like rejection was actually protection.

I told this to Dalia. “I wasn’t in control,” I explained. “I hadn’t chosen the shul and the whole situation wasn’t a result of my choices. It was clear that Hashem had created the situation. So it was ultimately to my benefit.”

Dalia hmmed.

“When someone suggested me to my husband,” I continued, “the shtibel thing just wasn’t an issue. It didn’t bother him at all.”

Dalia, who had been expecting some kind of dramatic denouement, was surprised. “Why not?”

“Because his family was just like mine. Not chassidish, but they davened in a shtibel too, for some technical reason. Actually, the fact that I understood people of different backgrounds was a plus for him. The filtering system, Hashem’s protection plan, worked perfectly.”

I like to think my story gave Dalia perspective as she waited for her turn to come. It did come, about eight months later, when she went out with Gavi, who wasn’t scared off by any strikes that may or may not have existed against her. He was the first boy Dalia dated — and the last.

I arrived at Dalia’s wedding right before the badeken, just as the music surged to herald the chassan. I learned forward and clasped Dalia’s hand.

“Hashem loves you,” I told her, like I told her on that phone call, eight months and a lifetime ago. “You avoided the agmas nefesh of dating and were given the chesed of just waiting. I told you that you only need one.” The music swelled to a crescendo. “And here he comes…”

To be continued…

Shani Leiman is a teacher, shadchan, and dating coach. She lives in Silver Spring, Maryland.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 712)