There has to be Balance

It could be me getting older or the fact that I live in a holy place. It may even be about the time of year. But lately things seem wonderfully concentrated, distilled to an essence that makes them easy to take in.

(photo credit: Zzvet for Shutterstock)

Take the elderly woman in shul yesterday. It was the afternoon Yom Kippur service. She struggled with all  her might to stand for Kedusha, an important part of the service where those who are physically able, must stand. As we finished Kedusha, I saw her slowly ease herself back into her seat. Her face was aglow with gratitude for finding the strength to stand for Kedusha at mincha on Yom Kippur, for yet another year.

Wow.

Meant To See

Would I have noticed that a year ago, or one year on? I was glad I got to see that. I believe I was meant to see that.

But of course, there must be balance, which means that the distillation of events is not always a happy occurrence. For instance my son’s hanachat tefillin on Thursday last, the first time he put on phylacteries at the Western Wall. Looking for a free chair on which to place my handbag and other paraphernalia, I came to a stack of plastic chairs topped with a bag. I asked the woman sitting next to them if I might take one. She snapped out a harsh, “NO,” to my polite request.

(photo credit: gh19 for Shutterstock)

Ouch.

I tried to reason with her, “I have a bar mitzvah,” I explained.

Weddings Trump Bar Mitzvahs

“I have a wedding!” said she, as if to say weddings trump bar mitzvahs.

“And clearly you’re using all of those chairs right now,” I said with as much composure as I could gather, chastising her, though I should have said nothing at all.

(photo credit: Shutterstock)

I moved on. I came to a second stack of chairs with a woman next to them. “May I take a chair?”

“No!” she snapped.

Whoa. What was it with this place?

She Found Them

 

At last I spotted an unclaimed chair and put my stuff down. At that moment, my daughter showed up. I told her I couldn’t really see where our men were on the other side of the mechitza and I’d pretty much given up. She went to scout things out and found them.

“Over here,” she said, beckoning.

Oy. Right next to that first woman who wouldn’t let me have a chair—the one with the wedding.  By now there were a few other women with her, and I asked one of them if she could just inch forward a bit. The first woman began screeching at me.

I Was Trembling

 

By now I was trembling. I showed her that my family was directly on the other side of the mechitza, the barrier that separates men from women. I said, “This is my eighth of eight sons and it’s his bar mitzvah and it’s happening right here.”

I said this with as much fortitude as I could. I’m not really one to argue with strangers, especially not in

Through the mechitza.
(photo credit: Varda Meyers Epstein)

public. But this was my baby having his bar mitzvah. I was compelled to plead my case.

She started again telling me about so and so getting called to the Torah for his wedding. I pointed to the opening in the barrier. “Look,” I showed her. “My son and my family are RIGHT HERE.”

She stopped arguing then. How could she continue to argue with me? Clearly I had a right to be in that spot at that moment. But she stared at me disapprovingly the entire time. I could imagine what she was thinking, “Those orthodox people think they own the place,” or something like that. Perhaps she was thinking disdainful things about my appearance. That’s what I was imagining, anyway.

Don’t Do Well

 

I don’t do well with stuff like that. I was shaking. I really had to struggle to stay composed.
It’s not like this group of women was even praying. They sat around gossiping loudly. They were foreigners and cared little for the decorum of this holy place.

(photo credit: Natan Epstein)

In a way, this whole hurtful business kind of added something to my moment by making me fragile and emotional, softening my heart so that it was more able to take in the import of this special occasion: my baby, the last of my 12 children, having his bar mitzvah. I shook but I also smiled. My heart was full.

When it came time to throw candies at Asher, my daughter Liba offered the bag of candy to the group of women next to us, the ones with the wedding and overprotective keeper of chairs and they happily accepted. I was proud of Liba. I never would have done that in her stead. She was right to do that.

Baseless Hatred

 

It was two days before Yom Kippur, a time when God-fearing people are on their best behavior. The 

View from between the mechitza slats
(photo credit: Varda Meyers Epstein)

Temple was said to be destroyed because of “baseless hatred” and here I had been exposed to exactly that at the final remnant of the Temple, the western retaining wall of that edifice.

There was no reason for this woman to snap at me as she had, and that was what upset me so. Both she and the other woman who said, “No!” when asked for a chair could have handled things differently. Both of them could have said, “I’m sorry, but I’m expecting a large group and I’m saving these chairs for them.”

They could have made an effort to point out chairs I might take from a different location, been helpful and kind.

(photo credit: Natan Epstein)

When stuff like this happens, during the Aseret Y’mei Teshuva (ten days of repentance), at the Wall, I have to wonder, “Where are we as a people? Have we grown from when the Temple was last destroyed?”

I don’t much like the obvious answer.

But like I said, there’s always a balance. This time, balance came in the form of an email I received Erev Yom Kippur. I was in between chicken soup-making tasks and found this message in my inbox from my manager at Kars for Kids, “Working together day in day out, it’s almost impossible not to inadvertently say something hurtful, or fail to treat someone with the respect they deserve.

As such I’m proposing, according to the Yeshiva custom that everyone say out loud that they forgive everyone B’lev Shalem (wholeheartedly).”

A Clean Slate

 

I was overcome. What a beautiful suggestion. It made it so easy, so possible, for all to start the year with a clean slate.

I did as my manager had suggested and said the phrase aloud, thinking of all my co-workers.

Then I thought of that woman at the Wall, the keeper of the chairs. Without hesitating I said with as much feeling as I could muster, “I forgive you b’lev shalem.”

(photo credit: Natan Epstein)

Gmar Chatima Tova—May you be inscribed in the Book of Life.

Birthday Blessings and Baseless Hatred

A Blessing On Your Head

hen I joined Facebook, I noticed that many of my Orthodox Jewish friends dispensed blessings to their Jewish friends on their birthdays. Not being orthodox from birth, I like to try out new customs for myself and see how they feel. In this case, I liked the idea that I had a special superpower on my birthday.

It reminded me of being a new bride. According to Jewish custom you see, a bride is granted whatever she prays for on her wedding day. Except that in this case, it seems, I had the power on a single day each year. I’d just never been aware of that power.

I didn’t look into why people were giving out blessings on their birthdays. It may be a Chassidishe custom and I am a Litvak. But it seemed like a nice enough custom to adopt; one that would result in no harm to anyone and might even be beneficial. Who can’t use a brocha—a blessing? Besides, the sudden assumption of power seemed a heady thing that I wasn’t about to forego.

And so it was that I made my decision. This year, when Facebook informed everyone it was the day of my birth, I would answer each and every birthday greeting I received with a blessing. Not only would I give out blessings, but I would do so in the same way my mother taught me to write thank-you notes: each and every blessing would be particular to that person.

No rote blessings would be allowed. There would be thought and intent behind my blessings. My blessings would be caring and specific. I didn’t want my power wasted on emptiness. I wanted that power imbued with and applied with meaning.

My friends seemed genuinely pleased with my largesse and in many cases, commented on how apt my blessings were—how much they desired those very blessings. But toward the end of the day, I received a birthday greeting from a fellow blogger and writer who wrote only half in jest, “Happy birthday. Are we still friends?”

Interesting, considering how many times I’d thought of unfriending this particular woman. My hand had even once hovered over that, “remove from friends button,” on the precipice, so to speak. But each time, I had refrained from completing the action.

The issue in question was this woman’s adamant dislike of Haredim, or black-hat Jews as we called them back in the alte heim (old country), expressed over and over again on her own blogs, in talkbacks, and in other people’s blogs. She had an utter hatred, it seemed, of my co-religionists, and could not be reasoned with on the subject. Though I tried. Repeatedly.

But every time I thought of unfriending her, I thought that if I just continued to be a shining example of the breed, I would ultimately persuade her and make her see another side of the story. It was a long shot. But it seemed to me that it was in both our interests for me to continue to try and cajole her into seeing a different, good side of Haredim.

So when she greeted me on my birthday, I thought of it as an opportunity to drive home the point. My blessing to her was, “May you come to see the good in all your fellow Jews and shun baseless hatred. May you learn to strive for the unity of our people and develop a true love of Israel.”

Yes. I’ll admit. It was a dig. She knew where I was coming from with that. But then again, she’d opened the topic by asking if we were still friends. She knew exactly what was between us and what it was that needed to be resolved.

As far as I am concerned, what needed to be resolved was a willingness to include me and other Haredim as part of her people and not single out specific negative actions perpetrated by a few rank individuals as justifying her mental exclusion of us from “her” nation.

Hatred: like an arrow (or several) to the heart

Consider this: a month ago, my grandchildren, who look quite obviously Haredi, came to visit me in my town, which is overwhelmingly of a National Religious character. My 13 year-old son took them to the park and immediately, the resident children at play, began to shout epithets at my grandchildren, “Stinky dirty Haredim,” they cried. “Go play in your own parks.”

Now, where did they learn that? You know the answer to that as well as I do. They learned this bias and hatred from their parents.

Starfish are People Too

It was a horrible, even traumatic experience for my grandchildren who immediately left the park and returned to my home to spend the rest of their visit indoors and safe from the hatred extended toward them during what should have been a pleasant visit to Grandma.

Going back a few months further, my husband and I attended the wedding of a friend and at our table, the guests vied to best each other’s jokes which focused on denigrating Haredim. They must have thought my husband and I were of them and not Haredim, though I wore my sheitl and was otherwise dressed according to Haredi shita (fashion).

My husband and I sat through it all, not saying a word, waiting it out, not wanting to create any kind of dissension at our friend’s daughter’s wedding. When I returned home, my whole body ached from the tension of holding back a response, of deflecting the hatred in each word and glance and trying to defend from any sort of penetration. Like the meltdown of adrenaline after an incident. Like the aftermath of fending off a rape.

I thought of all this as I typed and sent my blessing to my Facebook friend. Can you guess what happened next?

Of course you can. She unfriended me. She took offense at my blessing. She took offense at the obviousness of the lesson I was trying to impart: at the inference that she was at fault for her hatred rather than I for the sins of a few people who wear similar clothing to my own and adhere to the rulings of some of the same rabbis.

I shook my head in despair when I realized that this woman had finally found me annoying enough to unfriend me, rather than work toward resolving the issues between us.

This is the three-week period during which Jews mourn the destruction of the First and Second Temples due to baseless hatred. I hope that at least, from time to time, during the next 20 days or so, my unfriended friend will think about my blessing and let it sink in, as it was meant to be, as a blessing on both of us, for all of us, for our people.