“Private Diary of Bernard J. Blusting, not to be read by my family”

ITwas around Succos when the mother of Sorah and Larry passed away.
The responsibility to clear out her apartment was theirs.
While doing so, they found many volumes of family photo albums, Sorah’s and Larry’s
old report cards, and various family mementos.
However, what brought Sorah and her brother Larry to my office was a large journal whose pages had yellowed and frayed, a relic of more than 50 years ago.
It was the diary which their father, Bernard, had kept decades ago. It was an impressive volume. On the inside cover was written: “Private Diary of Bernard J. Blusting, not to be read by my family.”
Both Larry and Sorah knew that their father — who had passed away twenty years earlier — had a kept a diary during the early years of his married life. Their mother would often remind them, “Now, don’t forget, once I leave this world, you must read your father’s diary. He never let me read it, but I’m sure your father wrote important lessons in that diary!”
Now, however, Larry and his sister Sorah were at an impasse. Sorah felt strongly that their deceased mother had given them explicit instructions to read the diary. Yet Larry was reluctant. So on this frigid February morning, they presented their dispute to me, seeking a Solomonic solution.
“I know Mom told us to read Dad’s diary after they were both gone,” said Larry. “But if our father never wanted anyone to read it, including our mother, I think it’s better we leave it as a closed book.”
My ripping the diary in two and giving them each half was certainly not going to fly, so instead I offered them the option of having me read it first. As I told Sorah and Larry, even if their father restricted access to the diary, that only seemed to apply to his family. They both agreed and gave me the diary.
As I began to read, I was surprised, but not shocked. Bernard J. Blusting wrote openly and candidly about the struggles and challenges the newly married couple had faced. He related in painful detail their trials and tribulations, and how numerous times he had contemplated ending the marriage.
It now became crystal clear to me why Sorah and Larry’s father did not want anyone in his family, including his own wife, to know of his inner pain. He wanted to spare them the hurt. His pain was real, yet so were his persistence and commitment to making the marriage work, in spite of the challenges.
Why Bernard never discarded the diary is anyone’s guess. Perhaps he wanted an outsider to know how he struggled yet persevered?
When Larry and Sorah returned to me after I had read the diary and asked if they should read it, my thinking was: If their father never wanted these struggles to be known, I’m certainly not going to reveal them.
I looked up at them and said with confidence and honesty, “I read your father’s diary. Your mother was right. He left you a legacy of proper behavior which you should incorporate into your own lives.”
“So, Rabbi, I assume you feel we must read the diary?” asked Sorah with anticipation.
“Actually, no,” I responded.
“But what about the important lessons you said we could learn from it?” she pressed.
“The most important lesson you should learn from your father is that not everything one records needs to be publicized. Your mother was right, your father left you with a great and important lesson. Namely, certain things are better off never revealed and rather should remain hidden in the inner recesses of our hearts.”

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1101)