A baal simchah, it’s been noted, is the neediest person in the world

For how long after one makes a chasunah is he considered a baal simchah?

Through sheva brachos? Until he drops the diet? Personally, I would say that if you’re still tired from the simchah, then you’re still a baal simchah.

But recently, a smiley, gray-haired guy who’s already married off all his children and now finds joy in sharing his favorite jokes with those still in the parshah, ambushed me with his wisecrack, drawing out each word and watching my reaction carefully to ensure that I found it as hilarious as he did.

“For how long are you a baal simchah after you make a chasunah?” he asked.

“As long as you still have unpaid bills,” he answered with delight.

I didn’t find the joke particularly funny, I don’t find unpaid bills particularly funny, and if I ruined the joke for the other people he was hoping to use it on, then so be it.

That said, having been fortunate enough to walk our son to the chuppah, my wife and I get to come out of that happy exhaustion straight into preparing for Purim, going from simchah to simchah.

Perhaps I can take the liberty of sharing notes on a personal simchah and applying it to a national one, some lessons learned.

A baal simchah, it’s been noted, is the neediest person in the world.

All the décor, flowers, music, and food are worthless if there are no people at the simchah. People have to show up and be actively engaged for there to be a simchah.

If you’ve made a chasunah, you can remember the first guest who walked in — the one who saved you from the niggling worry of “what if no one remembers” or “what if no one comes,” and assured you that, yes, it would be okay. People would show up.

To guests, a simchah is a few hours, but to baalei simchah, the event is the culmination of months of deliberating, planning, and arranging. A lot goes into it.

When you make a simchah in Shevat, it is understood that weather is a factor, and you daven for cooperative climatic conditions. The wedding was in New York, but it was a cold, stormy day in Montreal, one upon which many people couldn’t get out of the city. An overturned airplane in Toronto created a ripple effect of panic, and numerous flights were canceled.

Over the course of the day, many of our guests had to change their plans. Some of them immediately texted to explain (sharing screenshots to prove it, like a junior salesman trying to get reimbursed for the bag of pretzels he bought en route to a sales call), while others opted to wait until the next day.

(Which is more advisable, telling the baal simchah you can’t make it? Or letting him figure it out for himself? The answer is that it depends on you and your personality — whatever feels natural to you is the right answer. Both were appreciated, the disappointment so profound it had to be immediately expressed by devoted friends, and the calm, rational cheshbon of those who reasoned that there was time enough to explain tomorrow.)

The above is mentioned only to underscore, again, how deeply runs the appreciation for those who are actually there at a simchah, the friends who convey — with their demeanor, expression, and smile — that they are happy for you, and that since tonight, something very big is happening in your life, it’s an important night for them as well.

Which leads us to Purim.

On that day, the Ribbono shel Olam is the Baal Simchah, the day on which He is asking for mishteh v’simchah, calling us to sit at His table and simply rejoice.

And a baal simchah wants guests who are there, all in.

It’s hard, especially when Purim is on a Friday, as it is outside Yerushalayim this year. You are being pulled in so many directions, and so much has to get done — how is it possible to participate in the simchah when the cholent has to be made, the house cleaned for Shabbos, when there’s traffic and backups and one child who’s drunk and another who’s angry because he’s not drunk and one more who’s late for the rebbi’s party and there’s really no point in going anymore?

But any baal simchah knows it’s not about how much time the guests spend in the hall, but how present they are when there.

Purim is about a lot of things. It is certainly a chance to honor relationships with family and friends by visiting and delivering shalach manos. It’s certainly an auspicious time to daven. It is a day to collect tzedakah and give tzedakah.

But the essence of the day and actual mitzvah is simchah, to be happy. Not to do happy things, not to smile as if you’re happy (though that’s never a bad idea), but to actually be happy.

Which means being present.

It means taking a moment to focus on the fact that He wrote a script especially for you, that He loves you and knows your pain, that He wants you precisely where you are, and that there is nowhere better for you.

L’chayim.

It means contemplating how, back in Shushan, the darkest, bleakest, most hopeless situation changed in an instant, the causes of distress revealed as catalysts of salvation, and that kein tiyeheh lanu, so… l’chayim.

At my son’s chasunah, there was a moment that illustrated what it means to “be there.”

Rav Naftali Jaeger, the rosh yeshivah of Sh’or Yoshuv, graced the simchah with his presence. Like all great talmidei chachamim, the Rosh Yeshivah exudes nobility, aristocratic in bearing and conduct. He came in, he danced, he wished well, and then he asked me where my father — in whose zechus he had likely come — was. My father seemed to have slipped out, and I couldn’t find him.

One of my relatives walked the Rosh Yeshivah out, all the while looking for my father, whom he couldn’t find. As they reached the door of the hall, he spotted my father and told the Rosh Yeshivah.

As this relative hurried to call my father, the Rosh Yeshivah asked him to wait a moment.

Rav Naftali took off his coat, placed it on the side, and then went forward to share his mazel tov wishes.

He took off his coat.

The small actions of a talmid chacham are heavy in significance.

If he was going to wish mazel tov, to participate in the simchah of another, he would not do so while in his coat — which denotes that, even if the body is there, the spirit is already back on the Van Wyck — but the opposite.

This Purim, take off your coat.

Lay it gently down, and find a moment to be there, to revel in the simchah. The Baal Simchah will appreciate it.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1053)