Rebbetzin Tziporah – connected

 

Dear friends,

You may feel that Chanukah is over, and now it is time to getting back to being sort of grey. There are no holidays coming up for a while (no, the fast of the tenth of Teves doesn’t count, but more about that coming soon…). 

There is a war going on, and by the nature of things nothing about a war is beautiful. Wars are ugly. I can’t decide whether a war such as this one, in which good is pitted against evil, has some hidden spark of nobility. 

I came to the conclusion that, after seeing the pictures of the beautiful news stories that keep coming about the newfound unity, and tragically, the terrible remorse and mourning that takes place when mistakes inherent to the kind of fighting that takes place happen, the combination of light and darkness is hard to interpret. No one says the equivalent of “this is their issue” not mine…

I put my name on a list asking for civilian volunteers. I didn’t expect to be asked to drive a truck down to Gaza. (Perhaps the fact that I don’t drive had something to do with their decision. Who knows?) I was surprised that initially I didn’t hear from them at all. When I heard from them, it was to go to a shiva house. I felt odd on the way there. I don’t know the people, don’t know what they think of charedim, and don’t know if they want me to be there. I never was at a secular shiva and also wasn’t sure of what the rules of the game are in that milieu. 

The first one was in a large beautiful home, with tables full of food and many people standing in small groups talking. I approached the mother and told her my name, explained that I know we haven’t met, and that I came just to be with her. We both cried, and after a few moments sat down together. I wasn’t there more than 15 minutes, but I was part of the mourning that envelopes klal Yisrael at times like this. 

This past motzei Shabbos was my second shiva call. I knew what to expect. It took place in the hall of a local synagogue so that the visitors could be accommodated. There was a guest book, and this time there was a difference. Over the food tables was a sign asking people to say the blessing over the food, and to let this mitzvah cause an aliyat neshama for the niftar.  There were several religious people there, some relatives, and some, like me, just there. 

The need to really know the mourners was clearly not a priority. It took a bit of time to find the mother of the soldier who had passed because most of the people I asked didn’t know what she looked like. It hit me then that this is probably an “only in Israel” moment. The niftar wasn’t famous – wasn’t a known personality in his life or in his death.

The Sfas Emmes tells us that the reason that Chanukah is the last of the open miracles is that its light is meant carry you through the rest of the exiles. The miracle of the war was not a freebee – the original group of brothers didn’t all physically survive.  Spiritually, they are alive, and the miracle of the lights testifies to this continually. 

When Moshiach comes, we will light the menorah according to the view of Bet Shammai, which is that you light them all on the first night, and then decrease one light each subsequent day. When Moshiach comes, we will see that the light was always there, and that that is the greatest part of the miracle.

It’s hard to keep this idea in both your mind and your heart. There are states of being called “expanded mind” and its opposite, “contracted mind” that are discussed in kabbalah and chassidus. The mind is the vessel that can contain Hashem’s light. The larger the vessel is, the more it can contain. 

What “stretches” your mind, and makes it able to open up (and touch your emotions) is simchah. If you try to reframe the realities that you face, and recognize that despair is your greatest enemy, you will feel connected, because you ARE connected. 

You are living in the world of Bet Shammai, even though in our present, we have to start small (Bet Hillel style, begin with just one light!). This may seem up-in-the-air. I am enclosing a short poem that tells you what living with both Bet Hillel and Bet Shammai feels and looks like.          

A Coat of Many Colors

My son returned from battle, his duffel bursting
with things that I had not packed for him.

Socks donated by a community in Argentina
A quilted blanked smelling like someone else's home
A blue towel from a family from the Moshav
Tzitzit from Jerusalem
A fleece jacket, gifted by a high-tech company
A scarf knitted by an elderly lady
Undershirts purchased by a Paybox group
A sheet that was given to him by a friend
Gloves bought by teenage girls
A jacket from the closet of someone who came and requested to give.

I spread out all of these garments
and weave together a new coat of many colors.
See, Yosef, your brothers were there for you

- Racheli Moshkovitz
(translation my dear friend Debby Howarth) 

The BA girls who shop, bake, and more, are also there. And the light, be”H will stay with them and with us. This is the light that may have been in Yosef’s eyes, when Yehudah approached him with G‑dliness in his heart and the will for tikkun in his words.

אָנֹכִי אֶעֶרְבֶנוּ מִיָדִי תְּבַקְשֶׁנוּ)  בראשית מג ט(

We all have to be like Yehudah. Yehudah said, “I am responsible for my brother.” So are you. So am I. So are we all.

Love,

Tziporah