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The “Ish Gamzu It” Story

 I’m on the phone with my friend who two weeks before Rosh HaShanah for the last seventeen years gives over to me her famous pep talk.

We talk about how hard these times are. “In times like these even the head of the Cheer-Up Squad at Hadassah Hospital is depressed!” I tell her. “The only way to survive these days is to Nachum Ish Gamzu it! To constantly remind ourselves that everything is for the best.”

“Only through bitachon comes simchah” we agree.

After we hang up I walk to my son’s bedroom to say goodnight. He’s had a long day. Actually a few long days battling strep throat — which I actually call “stress throat.” Yeshivah started about a week ago — and he’s been more home than there.

I open the door slowly so as not to wake him. He’s half sitting up in bed.

I X-ray vision the six pants eight undershirts socks and shirts I ran to pack in time so he wouldn’t miss a minute in yeshivah all still in the suitcase across the room.

“You want a drink?” I offer.

He nods so pitifully that even if he’d spent the whole summer karate chopping the couch and kung fuing the front door I’d dash off to South Africa to get what he needed. I go into “Menu Bar”:

“Tea?”

He shakes his head no.

“Coffee?” As if I’m a stewardess I joke to myself.

Another shake no. He’s not in the mood.

“Juice?”

The “no” shake.

“Water?”

He nods yes.

I go to bring the water still on automatic mommy pilot. Going through the mommy motions of: pack the clothes; buy the books sheets blankets and pillows one or two; give the pocket money hug and wave good-bye.

But I see this isn’t exactly how it’s going. It’s actually: Hello. Here I am back in bed with strep.

I bring the water and a cup of tea though my son didn’t ask for it. Because that’s what he’s supposed to want with strep throat.

I drag a small table next to his bed and put down the drinks and two Tylenols neatly lined up on a plate.

I sit for a minute at the end of the bed. “Maybe you could help me” I say.

He perks up a millimeter.

“I can’t decide what to write about.”

“What’s the choice?” he asks.

“Kings … or Nachum Ish Gamzuing it.”

He clears his throat. “What would you say about kings?”

“Well I’d talk about how hard it is today to relate to the idea of a king.”

He listens. “And … ?” In teenage language that means: “Continue.”

“Because in today’s world how do we decide or accept who’s the king? We vote someone in then we vote him out.”

My son turns over in his bed. He doesn’t relate to the subject. It’s too far away from him. He’s in pain.

He doesn’t ask about Nachum Ish Gamzuing it. He’s seen all the videos and read all the books about how deep faith that everything’s for the best turns dust into swords and daggers.

“Why don’t you write about me?” he asks half under the blankets.

Is he serious? Or joking? “What would I write?” I ask.

“About my life” he answers simply.

“What about your life?”

“Where I was born” he says. “What I went through.”

“And how you got lost at age two and a half in Beitar” I add.

First smile of the day. He turns more my way “Why don’t you write a story about two friends who were together all their years in cheder and yeshivah and then one year went to different yeshivos.”

Reality dagger. Okay Esther. Don’t you dare break down and lose it now. A deep inconspicuous breath. “And what would we write about them?” I continue.

He doesn’t answer.

I try to fill in his heavy blanks: “About how hard that is” I say.

Silence of a million words — like the color black which results from combining all the colors — fills the room. “And how the two of them were misgabber? How they managed to overcome their difficulty.

He turns back to the wall. “One’s not misgabbering.

Swords and daggers. “Soon it will be Rosh HaShanah and he’ll be back for Yom Tov!” I try inserting some light into the darkness. “What time does he finish learning?” I’m groping for solutions. “Maybe you could visit.”

I know that’s not the answer. I know there is no “answer.” No “solution.”

With deep faith and trust Hashem will help us. I have to — he has to — turn these words and daggers into dust.

“Everything’s for the best” I say at first robotically but truthfully.

Everything’s for the best!” I say with more conviction.

Then I see a little light in the darkness — my son’s smile breaks out from under his cover and he says “I guess it’s going to be the ‘Ish Gamzu It’ story.

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