One day, close to the end of the year, I took her aside and gave her a parting pep talk. “Osnat, listen to me,” I said. “I don’t  know what life has in store for you. I have a feeling there will be many ups and downs, but I can’t predict that — not for you and not for anyone. But I want you to know one thing, and to know it well: You are a good girl! No matter how much they will try to convince you otherwise, no matter how hard they will work to get you to compromise your standards, know that your essence is good and that you are good.” I felt my eyes fill and I was scared I would break down, so I ended it there.

That was back then. When she left school, I’d never thought I would see her again. And now she stood before me, in the flesh, looking so wonderful, so happy and graceful and comfortable with herself. I can only hope that her internal life matched her external.

I had to leave that shul early and walk quite a distance to the shul in which my husband is the rabbi, in time for his hakafos. As I walked, I wondered: Did my parting words have any impact in the new and improved Osnat? Or had my former student been guided along her journey by someone else? I’d love to know that the risk I had taken that day — of putting too much passion into my voice and sounding like a melodramatic teenager — had paid off.

Sometimes I try too hard to impress upon the youth how precious they truly are. I cannot fathom how it has happened that so many youngsters undervalue themselves, laboring under the false notion that social media “likes” will translate to permanent self-satisfaction, not realizing that the best it can offer is transient validation. I have often been criticized for saying the things I say, for being too emotional, for taking risks.

I wasn’t always like this.

Once I knew of another girl, a girl I might have influenced had I not been too afraid. I live with that regret always, and it spurs me on to take the risks I should have had the guts to have taken decades ago, when she still had a chance.

Let me explain: She was a skinny, angry, rebellious teenage girl who found no comfort in the system into which she was born. She could not find happiness in the Torah classes of her youth. I do not know the contributing factors that led to her unrest and disenchantment, only that they were many and all-consuming. She was not my student. I did not even know her name. I was a newlywed and had only two years of teaching experience. I was still rather green, but so eager.

You know the type, those who really want to make a difference, but are not always sure how.

It was Chol Hamoed Succos, during Simchas Beis Hashoeivah. It was late, and I was walking home with friends and family, enjoying the moment, when beneath the sounds of our conversation, I picked up a strange sound. It was laughter of sorts. But it sounded ugly instead of inviting, sinister instead of carefree. I turned toward the gleeful sniggering and saw an alleyway hidden in the shadows. As I walked toward it, the menacing laughter grew stronger.  It stopped completely when I came into view, and what I saw made me instantly sad. A girl, one girl, and a group of boys on a stoop, in a small alcove covered by the awnings of surrounding structures, their laughter dripping with cynicism. I do not know what they were doing, I did not stay to hear how they were talking, but my heart was torn for this poor girl who appeared to be searching for love in all the worst places. I wanted to walk into their circle and snatch her, to rescue her from what I could see ending only one of two ways: badly or really badly. I wanted to talk to her, to redirect her, to explain to her the danger she was courting, to tell her she is worth more, so much more, than the compromised state she was in.

I did none of those things.

The people I was walking with called to me, and warned me to stay away. I listened to them. I meekly sneaked off, distraught by the scene I had witnessed, but too timid to do anything about it. How I wish I could redo that moment! How I would do it better! I was young and did not fully understand the position into which Hashem had placed me. I was afraid that the disquieting laughter would be directed my way, and I didn’t have the courage to face that.

As I write these words, I am filled with shame.

Later that week, I discovered her name and vowed to look her up. But you see, it was already too late. The next time I was in the neighborhood, I was told she had died.

Overdose, they said.

Perhaps, even before our paths had crossed in that dark alleyway, I had already missed the proverbial boat. Still, I rue the judgment I made, to weasel away instead of taking a risk on behalf of a kid in pain.

Fast forward a number of years; years of accelerated growth courtesy of illness and loss (later written about in my book, Where Is the Daughter I Raised?). I had, by that time, become a different person. I was in the midst of my own struggles in trying to piece together a new life based on greater trust in Hashem, gratitude, and the relentless search for meaning.

It was a summer afternoon, perhaps a Sunday, I do not remember. The weather was nice; a few fluffy clouds in the sky, a soft breeze, temperature holding steady in the 80s. I was sitting on a small, grassy hill with an older cousin and her then single-but-looking girls, while my two little mischief-making boys roughhoused with the other children in and around the playground equipment.  Something caught my attention in my peripheral vision. I turned to fully absorb what was happening in the hill behind ours, where a funky little wooden gazebo was set up at its foot. Once again, the scene plays out, a bunch of teenaged boys, laughter that is recognizably unkosher, and a girl I did not know, but was easily recognizable as from the frum community.

Oh no! Not again, I thought, my head filled with remonstrations. What am I supposed to do now? I know I must do something, but what? Do I even know the words I should say? I’m still young — not yet 30! I don’t have the wisdom, or the right expressions!

But… should I simply repeat what I did last time Hashem sent me this scenario? Which was nothing!

Not that I had the power to save her from herself. That much I know. But maybe I could have helped her feel better, even for a small amount of time. Is that not worth taking a risk?

My cousins went quiet, following my gaze in the direction of the irreverent teens, who were keenly howling up a storm of unsavory energies.

“Shocking…!” tut-tutted one of my cousins.

“Shameful…!” another shook her head.

I got up and dusted off my skirt.

“Where are you going?” asked the first.

“I’m going to speak with them…” I answered.

“Are you crazy? What are you going to say?”

“I… er… don’t know!”

“Ester, don’t! You’re crazy! They’re just going to laugh at you!”

She’s right, I thought. They will just laugh. And I’ll walk away embarrassed. Who do I think I am? What do I think I’m doing? Saving the whales? This is stupid and naive of me. I should just sit back down and mind my own business!

No! Get up, walk over to them. So what if they laugh at you! So what if they mock you? Is your ego worth more than saving these giddy adolescent bubbleheads from going a step too far? A step that could, potentially, leave them stranded in an abyss, their whole lifetimes negatively impacted by one foolish, impulse-driven exploit. 

More determined than confident, I turned toward the rowdy group and walked right into the middle of their circle. Their laughter died down. They looked at me, the only one standing. On their faces they wore contortions of surprise, mixed with curiosity. Not friendship. No welcome mat laid out.

“Hi!” I began.

“Hi…” they all called out, in thick, slightly irritated unison.

“So I can hear you guys from over there….” I pointed to where I had been sitting, noting the concerned and incredulous stares from my cousins. “And I was just wondering… if you guys… understand… how dangerous this kind of behavior can be for you?”

Then I turned directly to the girl. Our eyes locked. “Especially for you!” We beheld one another for a moment before I went back to addressing the group.

“It’s not for nothing that our Torah discourages girls and boys mingling while young. It may feel like fun, it may seem like happiness, but it’s only fleeting happiness. It won’t bring you long-term joy. Not when you are too young to handle relationships.”

The teens were quiet. They didn’t laugh. They didn’t react at all. I had no idea if I was hitting home or not, but I had already begun, so I might as well continue.

Again, I turned to and addressed the girl, the person I was most concerned about, because it is always the girl who has the most to lose, and who is the more vulnerable. “Do you know how precious you are, as a Jewish woman?” I asked her. “Do you know the heights from which your soul has been derived, and the heights to which you can reach in this life? Jewish women are holy. We are sacred. We are not here to be looked at or used for entertainment. Our souls are lofty, and we are their guardians. Don’t sell yourself cheap. Don’t undervalue yourself. It will only bring you heartache. Your essence is G-dly, it speaks to everything you do….” I stopped. I was spent. I had nothing left inside me. All the rest of my words died before being released.

“Go home,” I half-whispered. “All of you. Break this up. It is not an appropriate alliance.”

I walked back on shaky legs to my cousins on the grassy hill.

“What did you say to them…?”

“Ester, honestly, you may have done more damage than good.”

I sat back in my spot. I couldn’t respond to my cousins; all I could think about was how that girl — whose name I did not even know — had stared silently at me throughout my pitch.

The rest of the day I tried to forget what had happened in the park. I did not see that there was any point in ruminating. I did what I did. What was said was said, and could not be unsaid.

I went on with my summer. My mother was coming to spend some of August with us, and I busied myself preparing for her stay, arranging activities for my little boys. I forgot about that day in the park.

Until about three weeks later, when my mother and I and the children were coming home from a day spent sightseeing. I walked up the garden path, thinking about what I was going to make that night for supper, when my husband showed up at the door and casually mentioned that some girl had come over while we were out and was looking for me.

“Oh? Did you catch her name?”

My husband shrugged, shaking his head.

“Oh well… I guess if I’m supposed to know, I will.” I dismissed the report and settled in for a quiet evening of supper, bath, and bedtime routines.

Suddenly, Shmuel Yosef called to me, “There she is, Ester. There’s the girl I was telling you about….”

I opened the front door and, huffing and puffing, the girl from the park came running up our garden path. How does she know where I live? I wondered. What is going to happen now?

“Hi…” she gasped, trying to catch her breath. “Do you remember me? From the park?” Breath breath. “I’m the girl you spoke to, when you told us it was not a good idea to hang out together.” Pant pant. “Well, I don’t think you know what you did to me…!” Deep breath in.

I got momentarily afraid. But she continued talking, not giving me a chance to answer.

“No, listen. That night, I cried all night. I realized I had been going down a wrong path. I listened to everything you said, and it is all true. I need to learn. I came downstairs the next morning, and I told my parents to sign me up for a seminary in Israel. I need to go learn…. I need to go to Israel; I need to figure out who I am and what I want out of life. I just came over to thank you for speaking to us that day!”

What? I couldn’t believe what I was hearing! This young lady was about to change her whole direction, her whole life. I felt like I was floating. This girl — whose name I still did not know — was switching paths because of a chance encounter and a risk I chose to take. I hugged her tightly.

Years later, I know this girl-from-the-park is a happily married woman. She’s raising a fine family of G-d-fearing Jews, a proverbial pillar in her community.

But what she does not know — what I had not understood at the time — was that my life, too, had changed that day she came to my house. No longer would I let the fear of failure stop me from doing what I felt I needed to do. No longer would I suppress my love for Klal Yisrael just because I didn’t want to be mocked for it! No longer would I allow my inner critic to get in the way of possibly helping save a person from his or her self-destructive behavior.

From that day forward, I would say the words my heart dictated and let Hashem take care of the rest.

It was many years after this incident that Osnat left our school and I didn’t hold back. Does she remember that little tête-`a-tête we had in the school corridor, when tears filled my eyes as I implored her to remember her greatness?

I don’t know. I may never know if I made any impact at all, but that is not important. What matters is this: Osnat was in shul, on Simchas Torah, looking beautiful and confident, so in possession of herself.

And I have no regrets.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 928)