I do not judge you. I do not debate your choices. You know that already. But I pray for you still

To my dear brother Yanky,

I feel so blessed to have a relationship with you.

Look at our differences: you’re on the west coast, I’m on the east; you’re completely secular, I’m as religious a Jew as anyone in our circles. You’re wandering and still trying to find yourself, I’m struggling and growing while keeping sacred the life I’ve chosen for myself. I have a large family, thank G-d, and you’re barely holding on to the succession of relationships that come and go.

Deeper yet. You’ve thrown open the gates of our origins — no, you’ve uprooted them. We grew up in the same environment, we went to the same schools and shuls. We heard the same speeches and sang the same niggunim. One image will never fade: you standing with your suit and hat, eyes closed, clutching the Torah on Simchas Torah, a swirl of family and fellow mispallelim pressing tight around you. I have frozen that scene, that dance, that pride and admiration that I felt for you; I refuse to let it go. But I would never remind you of that now — it has all become suspect, painful, something to avoid.

So why do we enjoy speaking to each other so much? Is it because we have had so much in common: shared parents, homes, and memories? Maybe. The chords that bind brothers remain in place for life. A past is a past, and no matter how detailed a painting is, the background frames and defines. But there are no commonalities in our present.

Perhaps we still feel connected because of our mutual courage to put our early challenges behind us and build on whatever ground we had. Can I whisper something in your ear, Yanky? This I’ve always admired in you: You could have stayed there, floundering in the black dirt of the past, but you refuse to get stuck in the mud. You’ve broken up, out, into your sunlight, leaving your darkness behind. It has defined your life’s mission; I’ve watched it from afar.

But now that we talk more often, you know that I’ve also taken a brave path, albeit with a different twist: I’ve thrown the seeds of courage and prayer into that dust and grime, and with Hashem’s help, a full life emerged. Do you respect me, as well, for the path that I’ve chosen and the courage I’ve had to create something beautiful in the environment from which you fled?

Are those the ties that keep us together? I sense there’s something more, Yanky.

Can you sense, with your spiritual antennae buried deep inside, that I pray for you still? Can your heart feel the ache in mine, can it sense my prayers — for your life to come together, for your wounds to heal? I do not judge you. I do not debate your choices. You know that already. But I pray for you still.

And while I do not question the path you took, I wish you could join me, my dear brother. How I long to build new bridges that can transport you into a life of meaning and purpose, bridges with enough height and span to overcome and overpass all the bridges that you have burned. Can you join me? Of course, the answer is no. I must accept that. But tell me that a part of you understands.

One more thing. I sense that you and I are not alone. This letter could have been written hundreds of thousands of times by hundreds of thousands of brothers.

In the meantime, I continue to enjoy speaking with you and sharing whatever we can. As for all the rest, our neshamos know what we mean to say.

Love,

Dovid

Rabbi Dovid Brenner is a mechanech in the Tristate area.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 854)