We’d come to the Holy Land the year before Operation Ezra and Nehemiah brought us here. Ah did we think we were coming to a land flowing with milk and honey. The only thing that flowed were Ummi’s tears when she saw our new home. It was made of metal. Metal pressed into lumps and bumps. We hung a curtain and made two rooms in the space.

And oh the heat. The heat in Baghdad was strong that unforgiving sun like a neighbor with a grudge. But in the summer months we were cool in the thick stone walls of our home. We’d hang wet muslins at the windows. As they dried a wetness came into the air.

But in the ma’abarot! In those huts we felt like we were in the fires of the Next World may they only burn our enemies. And there was nothing to do but run after the chickens and listen to the gossip. So if Abraham and I found that we could talk and talk and all of a sudden morning had become the evening what harm? What harm I say?

But oh no Ummi would have none of it. She wanted me to marry a Persian boy. Her father was Persian she thought all Persian boys were princes. And she didn’t want me to marry then at all not until we were in a home of our own. Out of the transit camp.

We’d already been in the transit camp for a year though and we weren’t moving anywhere fast. So Abraham and I found a minyan and a rabbi. The rabbi found a tallit and a ketubah. I found a white flower growing wild at the back of our hut. And we were married Abraham and I.

For all that Ummi shouted and predicted a terrible future she came around. Abraham may not be Persian but he is a prince. He told her that her bread tasted of the Next World and carried him to the times when his great-grandmother would stuff pieces of bread in his mouth as a babe. Ah how Ummi melted when he said that.

Finally the day came when the huts that hadn’t fallen down were taken down. We were put into buses and taken to apartments. My Abraham he works hard and he found a job in a printing press in Jerusalem. We had three daughters and after years that went by so slow and so fast we married them off one after the other each to a fine man. At every wedding I danced and I thought back to our wedding. No guests. No festive meal. There was a pain in my heart from that. My Abraham did he not deserve more than this?

So that was when I thought soon it will be the anniversary of our marriage. Forty years. I can make this into a special day.

First I reached into the kitchen cabinet and took out the jar of red lentils. I spilled out the lentils and took out the money I’d put away over the years. I counted it. Nice.

With it I could rent a hall and a band and if I was not too extravagant I could print invitations with curly letters. When I told Abraham he waved his hand. “Bah ” he said. “I have a wife. Why do I need another wedding?”

Usually I’m a good wife who listens to her husband. But I knew that he’d complain and pray out loud asking Elokim that his wife not turn into a crazy woman but he’d be happy in his heart.

When I told my daughters they took me into the bedroom and opened my closet. They took out each dress examined them all. “Not good enough ” they said. “Not good enough. Not good enough.”

My eldest daughter Rachel looked at me and said “You should wear a dress the color of a peach.” I snorted. Peaches are for eating. Anyway I told them there was no money for a new dress.

They looked at each other. “You bought us all our clothing. Now it’s our turn.” They took me to a fancy store and picked out a dress as though I were a small child. Yet when I looked in the mirror my breathing was funny. I stared and stared and then I laughed at a foolish woman who at the age of 57 preens herself like she’s 17.

The day came. All our relatives were there though they may have thought I’d gone a little funny in the head. All our friends and neighbors. Our rav. We served a beautiful meal and there was dancing and my daughters lifted me up on a chair like it was a real wedding. Like I was a real bride.

We sat at the top table Abraham and I. Just before we washed netilat yadayim he said “I have something for you.”

He handed me a bouquet of flowers. I don’t know the names of these things but fresh and sweet smelling and beautiful. He lifted his hand his wrinkled dark hand and pointed to the middle of the bouquet. In the center was a white wildflower. The same white flower I had picked all those years ago from behind our metal hut in the transit camp.

Who could have dreamed how it would have grown?

Striding Forward

Name: Irving Caplan

Dream: To walk my daughter down the aisle on her wedding day

It was just two years since the accident, and still raw. My daughter’s upcoming wedding was a ray of light in what had been days, weeks, months of interminable struggle. First had come the accident. A bike. A truck. A screech of brakes. A wild veering off to the side.

Then had come the doctors’ explanations. I’d sustained massive trauma. My spinal cord had been crushed. Just a second of impact, and I was rendered a paraplegic. My legs were paralyzed, my torso and arms severely damaged. Nothing would ever be the same.

It was a huge shock. Everyday things — eating, dressing, brushing my teeth — became not just a technical challenge, but moments of grief. My family was devastated. We’ve adapted to some extent, found ways around some limitations, but it’s an ongoing learning curve.

It would have been so easy to get depressed, and I knew those who never leave the house — who never get out of bed. I was lucky. I have a supportive family and loyal friends. There was a steady stream of people from our community who came and offered help and support. Although the truth is, what can they do? What can anyone do?

There were people who avoided me, crossing the road when they saw me, and I can’t really blame them. Before my accident, I also didn’t know how to speak to people who were disabled.

I was particularly fortunate to have an insurance policy that enabled us to adapt our home to my needs. Eventually, I was even able to return to work. I’m an engineer, so my work takes place in my head. I can still think, plan, and consult. Other people aren’t so lucky. Manual workers, drivers — there’s little they can do.

During my daughter’s engagement, she took me on a trip. Not an easy feat with my specialized wheelchair. We went to an exhibition on medical technology, and we noticed representatives of Rex Bionics. I was familiar with the name of the company — when I was in the rehab center, some of their technologies had been mentioned. Here, they were displaying an exoskeleton: a robotic mobility device with abdominal straps and harness to hold a person upright, legs held by straps and feet on wide foot plates, enabling one to walk. Turning to my daughter, I said, tongue-in-cheek: “Imagine having one of those. I’d be able to walk you down the aisle.”

My words caught the attention of the company representative. “When are you getting married?” he asked her.

“Three months’ time,” she replied.

“Well, let me see what we can do.”

I didn’t think much of it. The exoskeleton costs around £100, 000: it’s not something that can be casually lent out. It would also take practice to get the hang of, and I’d need help actually getting into the thing.

But a few weeks later, I got an e-mail from Rex Bionics. They’d be willing to make our day special and lend us the exoskeleton for the wedding. I couldn’t believe it.

I quickly made an appointment to see them. I was quite apprehensive. It’s a frightening experience being hoisted upright and trying to control a body that’s paralyzed. Their physiotherapist was on hand, and other staff members, too. I’m generally comfortable with new technology, but this took quite a bit of fussing until it was adjusted to my height and I finally got the hang of it.

When I managed to “walk” across the room, everyone cheered. I had this funny smile on my face. After so long in a wheelchair, to be on eye-level with other people was wonderful. People tend to treat you differently in a wheelchair. They don’t know what to say; sometimes they sideline you completely. To stand up means to take your place in the world.

I came home exhausted by it all; my daughter was thrilled. It looked like her dream might come true. But then we started looking into the logistics. The exoskeleton was large and bulky. I wasn’t sure there’d be space along the aisle to accommodate me and my daughter’s dress. It was slow. How long would it take to walk that far? And it was noisy. The model I used wasn’t that steady on carpet. I was also leery of diverting attention from my daughter on her big day.

We retired that wish, and entertained a different one, which I explained to the Rex Bionics staff at our next training session. Perhaps I could use the exoskeleton to walk to the front of the hall and welcome our guests. When I floated the idea, my family was enthusiastic. It would take three minutes for me to walk across the hall, and we found beautiful and inspiring music to accompany my walk.

As the big day drew near, I grew increasingly apprehensive. Part of that, I suppose, was a normal dad’s nerves in marrying off his daughter. But I had additional fears.

When the moment came, I looked around and saw that I was surrounded by family and friends — all the people who mean the most to me and had supported us as we struggled with our new reality. My daughter was radiant in her white dress, and beside her was our new son-in-law. I wanted to do this for them, for me, for all of us.

It took two people to buckle me into the exoskeleton. When I was in position, I saw my wife and daughter looking on, tears in their eyes. My own emotions roiled. Grief at what had been. Joy at my daughter’s marriage. Determination to make them proud. Gratitude for my family, who had been there through the deepest darkness and pulled me through, to this moment.

The music began to play. The machine whirred and cranked.

A slight jerk and then a forward thrust.

One step. Another step. Another.

Slowly but surely, I walked across the dance floor.

I dream of...

Breina, 57, Baltimore: I dream of going back to the time when all my kids were young, and at night I could walk around the house, tuck them in, and kiss their foreheads.

Tamar, 15, London: I dream that one day I’ll have the confidence to actually be who I am inside, without worrying about what others think of me.

Sarah, 54, Brooklyn: I dream of being at my oldest grandchild’s wedding. Every week, as I get my chemo, that’s what I imagine, and it gives me the strength to continue

Suri, 46, Monsey: I dream of walking with a light step and a light heart.

Simcha, 67, Tzfas: I dream of one day sitting down to a Seder and eating the matzah my husband baked with his own hands. I am not married, but I believe I will marry someday.

Shmuel, 79, Passaic: I dream of moving to Jerusalem, of buying a tiny apartment in the Old City, and every morning waking to the clear blue of a Jerusalem sky.

Ben, 19, baal teshuvah, Jerusalem: “I dream of being able to read Hebrew without the vowels”

Ruti, 29, Far Rockaway: I dream of giving up my secretarial job and launching a line of classy but affordable girls’ clothing.

Ruchi, 32, Miami:I often dream of being a dreamer. Less of the go-getter, type-A, hyperfocused-on-accomplishments type, and more able to look at the bigger picture and deeply value the things that aren’t concrete and tangible. I dream of one day being able to enjoy stopping and smelling life’s roses.

Shani, 24, Melbourne:I dream of a full night’s sleep.

Yehuda, 38, optometrist, Jerusalem: I dream of setting up a program whereby every single child gets a thorough eye exam — for no charge. And a pair of glasses, too, if he needs.

What fills Empty Space

Name: Shana Meller

Dream: To build a vacation suite for couples undergoing infertility or pregnancy loss.

I stood, staring at the wide expanse: hills, trees, a village in the distance, a vineyard. On this spot we were going to make it happen.

Here we were going to build our vacation suite, a place for couples to come and reconnect with themselves and each other. A place where they could rest and recuperate from difficult procedures. A place where they could remember that life is not just about having a baby, a baby, a baby. It’s also about being a person. Being a couple. Living.

My husband and I had learned the hard way. We waited six years to greet the daughter who now gurgled in my arms, pleased at being out with Mommy and Daddy. I lifted her up and held her high. “See, Tehilla! Take a look!”

When a couple gets married, they think the path is clear: sheva brachos outfits will make way for maternity clothing, and then for a rush of diapers and stretchies and nachas. So many assumptions. I could laugh.

We didn’t focus too much on our childlessness. We explored Eretz Yisrael. We worked and took courses. We visited family and friends. But there was the other side of our life, the side we shared with no one. Appointments. Specialists. Hospital trips. Injections. Second opinions.

And there was the relentlessness of it all. I remember speaking to my doctor on the phone. “And what if we’re not successful?” I asked before a difficult procedure.

“Then you come in again on Monday and we’ll start over again.”

Over again? It seemed too much to bear. That I’d have to go through all this again and again and again until I either gave up or we were greeted with success. It was such a terrible drain — on my body, energy, emotions. What resources was I supposed to draw upon to keep going?

Around that time, I met up with a friend for lunch. As she stood up to go, she reached into her bag and took out an envelope. She leaned over and stuck it under my plate. “Use it to pamper yourselves,” she said, and she slipped out the door.

I opened up the envelope. Inside were five crisp 100-shekel bills.

I felt my cheeks redden and unexpected emotion closed my throat. To be thought of. To be cared for. With shaking fingers, I placed the envelope into my handbag.

When my husband returned home that evening, I told him about the envelope. “Let’s put it toward a vacation,” he said. We went the next week. We found a tiny wooden cabin in the countryside. It was in the middle of nowhere, and when we arrived, we had to drive half an hour just to find a store that sold some bread and milk. Late that evening, as we sat on deck chairs in the garden, I felt a sense of peace that had for so long eluded me.

We talked. Not about treatments. Not about doctors. Just regular, plain old talk. I’d forgotten we knew how to do that.

We walked. We found a tiny, forgotten restaurant which served a loaf so crusty and soft and nutty I can still taste it.

In those three days, we found ourselves again. And in finding ourselves, we found each other.

Back home, I declared, “Every couple should have this chance.” I called a couple of wealthy contacts and put the idea to them: a fund that would enable couples undergoing infertility — or pregnancy loss: I knew from friends and relatives that there were almost no facilities for women who had had stillbirths — to rest and recuperate. They were quick to puncture my bubble. “A fund like that would need constant topping up. It couldn’t be sustained.”

“Hmmm.” I listened politely, not showing my disappointment.

Silence on the other end of the line. Then, “But I’ll tell you what could work.”

“Yes?”

“Buy a plot of land. Build a small, beautiful apartment. You can charge couples a minimal fee for upkeep. That would work.”

It would? The original idea was so much easier. This seemed like a huge project, out of our realm. But there was also a niggling excitement.

That night, at supper, I shared the idea with my husband. He loved it. For a few moments, we put aside technicalities and money and just allowed ourselves to imagine… A pastoral setting. A beautifully designed place, classy but cozy. We turned to each other. “Let’s do it.”

The first task was to find a plot of land. We visited moshavim, real-estate agents, dug up old contacts. But just as soon as we’d find the perfect location, something would crop up. Membership of a moshav was a requirement before we bought there, we discovered. There were zoning issues, permissions, laws. Such a tangle of complications.

One day I was talking to a good friend who had also been through the infertility circuit. I mentioned our idea and she got so excited. She told us of how she and her husband had just bought a tract of land on a nearby moshav to construct a spacious home. With her husband on board, she’d be willing to donate some of that land for our guest suite. It was a gift from heaven — and it was also a gift from an incredible family who wanted to make chesed the foundation of their new home.

I was already expecting when we went to see the place they offered us. In the months that followed, we planned our nursery and we planned the vacation suite.

Architects, designers, construction workers. A crib, the softest baby blankets, diapers. By the time we were dealing with plumbers and electricians, tiles and furnishings, our special gift, Tehilla, was already filling our hearts and our days.

Fundraising. There were days I could have thrown up my hands in despair, when there was another delay or a mistake was made in some measurement. But slowly, as our little Tehilla learned first to crawl and then to walk, our dream became a reality.

An empty space had become a place of connection. An empty space inside had fueled a project I could never have dreamed of. Each time we go down to the site, I unstrap Tehilla and watch her toddle around the garden into the apartment. She checks that I’m following, flashes me her toothy grin. And I can’t help but wonder if the best things don’t come from the hardest places.

For a Song

Name: Tzvi Samuel

Dream: To become a chazzan

One rule you learn when you get married: never listen to your wife. Otherwise, you’re going to be dragged into all kinds of things — family barbecues or trips to the beach or even courses in self-development — when all you want after a long day is to give the baby a hug, sit down on the couch, and fall asleep over a Chumash.

The problem with my wife Penina is that even when I tell her that no, a beach trip wouldn’t be a good idea — the sun is blazing and little Orit has such sensitive skin, it’s a long bus ride, and we won’t be able to find any secluded spot for a family — she still claps her hands and packs the bags and even calls half her family (and her family is large) to join us there. Even when I tell her that no, a course in self-development is not what I need, Penina goes ahead and enrolls me. I suppose she means well.

This course was every week, for six weeks, at 8 p.m. I work in a yeshivah as a cook. It’s a nice job, I’m good with food and I have a helper to chop and peel, and we have a few laughs together through the day, though I’m not the talking type. But I have to leave the house at five, just after Shacharis. Sometime after lunch is served, I sit down with a coffee and a piece of cake or two (if Penina knew…), but other than that, I’m on my feet the whole day.

I get home from work at 7:30 — that’s on a good day — so this course means running out the door as my bones clank along with me, and getting on yet another bus, just to listen to some lecturer with a voice so gentle it makes me fall asleep. If not right away, then within five minutes.

But is it worth arguing with Penina? I know better than that. So I went to the course, took a place near the back, and put my head down. After an hour and a half, I felt refreshed enough to go home and offer to go on a stroll with Penina, which made her happy.

One week, the instructor opened the session by talking about our secret retzonos: the things we’ve always wanted to do, but have never quite managed. A bell tinkled in my head. I sat up straight.

“There’s something I’ve always wanted to do,” I whispered to the guy sitting next to me.

“Yeah? Tell him.” His thumb jerked at the instructor.

I cleared my throat. “I’ve always wanted to be a chazzan,” I said.

Everyone looked at me. I’m a shy guy, and I could feel my cheeks turn red. I remembered a picture of a shul I’d once seen in the paper, all wood paneling and an aron kodesh inlaid with stained glass. I imagined standing at the front, leading the kehillah.

The instructor turned to me. “Can you sing?”

I sang every day as I cooked. Could I really sing, chazzanus sing? I had an uncle who was a chazzan, and when I was a kid, I hung out in his house all the time. Months before each Yom Tov, I’d stand beside him, peering into the machzor while he practiced. At times, he asked me to harmonize with him. By the time I was 15, my voice was already a baritone — and I knew every tune of every chag.

I couldn’t say all that. So I just nodded.

“You have a recording?”

I thought, hard. Then I remembered an old cassette I’d made when I was maybe 18. I nodded.

“Bring it in next week.”

Turns out wives aren’t so bad after all. When I asked Penina if she had any clue where this tape was, she turned the house inside out and upside down to look for it. Then she traveled to Petach Tikvah to search in my mother’s house. What do you know, she found it and brought it home.

When I saw how tired she was, I arranged for a neighbor to babysit and I took her out for dinner. When we came home, we put the cassette into an ancient tape recorder — also lugged home from Petach Tikvah — and pressed play.

What do you know? I really could sing.

But not anymore.

“Try,” Penina urged.

I wasn’t used to singing from my diaphragm, like my uncle taught me. All these years in the kitchen, I’d sung from some place in the back of my throat, against all the rules. I tried. I don’t know what I sounded like, but the baby woke up and began to cry.

So, one day long ago, I was able to sing. Not anymore.

Yet it ate me up, and the next day as I chopped carrots for soup, I tried again. A little better, but still a long way from what I’d been. Maybe I just needed some practice. One of the first niggunim my uncle had taught me was Kol Nidrei. Start with Kedushah, he had told me. All the davening is kedushah, but I understood. Now, as then, I began with Kol Nidrei. All that week, as I fried and peeled, stirred and seasoned, I sang: “A hay a hay ay ay ay ayayay ko-o-ol nid-rei.”

By the time my course rolled around, and the instructor asked me if I still wanted to be a chazzan, I was able to say yes. I played my recording and the guys were quiet for a long time. I suppose they didn’t think that I — ordinary, tired and heavy, my big hands chafed and red from the kitchen — could sing like that.

One of the guys asked for the cassette — he wanted to digitize it. I handed it to him, and the very next day he came to my home with 30 CDs. “We’re going to send them out to a bunch of shuls,” he said. He found a list, my wife found some envelopes and typed a letter, and there was this whole operation working for me. I looked at them; I didn’t know what to do. Penina waved her hands. “Go practice.”

I almost forgot about those CDs. Or I would have, had Penina not made me go for singing lessons in the meantime. For a long time — maybe three months — I heard nothing. And then, one day at work, my cell phone jangled. It was Penina, and she was so excited I couldn’t hear a word she said. “A shul… in California… Shavuos…” They wanted me! A shul wanted me.

I let Penina handle all the arrangements. A few weeks later, we were on a plane, then another, taking us across the world. I’d never been out of Israel before. The shul was providing tickets for all of us, and a place to stay, and we’d be hosted for all the meals. And I would sing. Yom Tov davening. Akdamus. Mussaf…

I can’t pretend I wasn’t nervous, though I told Penina it would all be just fine. She had made me buy a new suit for the occasion. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d bought a new suit, and even a tie — I just hoped I wouldn’t find it restrictive when I sang.

The kehillah was lovely. The shul was old, but well cared for, and the moment I stepped foot in there, I felt myself relax. Before the first Maariv, I stepped into the vestibule and did a little warm up. There was a little kid there, staring at me, I gave him a smile and wondered if he liked to sing.

Then I stood in front of the lectern and loosened my shoulders. I put my finger on the place to steady myself. And I reached deep into my diaphragm for my voice and began to daven.

Afterward, the people were very warm and kind and Penina rushed over to me outside, Orit sleeping in her arms. She was gushing and crying; I didn’t know where to look, though I realized she didn’t want me to look at the ground or the sky. So I looked at her and nodded and I thanked her for bringing me here, to this shul, to this place.

I couldn’t say much more. I never was a talker. But that night, I think she heard it all in the melodies of the prayers.

(Originally featured in Family First Issue 537)