When I am not writing for Mishpacha I am writing family-commissioned holocaust memoirs. I am hired by a family who Baruch Hashem has a surviving matriarch or patriarch who has merited to see many grandchildren and great grandchildren rebuild their decimated family tree. One of these memoirs I wrote about the esteemed Mrs. Esther Schonkopf of Lawrence NY who became one of my favorite people on the planet once I got to know her and her equally outstanding family. 

After listening to the horrors of Esther’s war experience and the depth of her loss we aptly named her memoirs “There are No Words.”  Even though we did publish a book length story about her life and the people dear to her the English language couldn’t come close to conveying the pain of her loss nor the hakoras hatov she feels for her survival and that of her husband and baby Asher who is now a grown man with a large accomplished family. Sometimes a book just names itself.  I suggested this name when so many of our conversations began with her saying “Darling there are no words ” before she would then try to find the words to give over what she wanted to say.

 And so it is that this writer finds herself in the same quandary only this time for a positive reason. There are no words for the moment when my about to be bar mitzvah son put on his black hat and bar mitzvah suit for the first time just a couple weeks ago. I was stunned speechless. In a rush of feeling incompatible emotions overwhelmed me. The joy of having reached this special moment knowing that his commitment to put on tefillin for the rest of his born days is the first time that a bar mitzvah boy has expressed this desire in at least four generations of our family. And also the quaking in my heart when I apprehend that time is passing so fast my little boy just grew up before my eyes. No more tucking into bed at night no more walking him to his play dates no more hugs in public in front of his friends. When the black hat went on his head I could see him at his chuppah and building a life outside of my home and well what can I say…. even for this writer there are no words.

 I asked him the morning before he was to lay tefillin for the first time if he was excited. “Yes!” was his immediate reply. “Why?” I inquired. “Because I get to put on tefillin every day except Shabbos for the rest of my life!”

 In his mind and heart he had arrived. He was now gifted with the opportunity to be part of the minyan and to follow through on an obligation he looks forward to keeping. I “get to” versus I “have to” the difference between a life enjoyed and a life annoyed.

 Writing for Mishpacha magazine is a job and like any other sometimes it isn’t easy. I almost always love my Mishpacha work though and I think the reason is I think of it as “I get to…”

 Now if I can start working now on completing this sentence in complete joy with no trouble letting go:  I get to walk my son to the chuppah and see him build a home for himself with his aishes chayil….

 There are no words.  Please G-d help me get through the bar mitzvah first. April 5 2011.  It’s almost here.