It has been far too long since I wrote to you. I think about you all of the time, but my mental letters don’t always make it to the computer.
Lag B’omer seems so far away. It was the first Lag B’omer that I didn’t go to Meiron even though I could have. My last adventure there when the celebrations was erev Shabbos didn’t end in disaster, but it was close enough to keep me home, watching the lights go on from the comfort of my living room table with pretzels, coffee, and my husband (not in that order) part of the festivities. It is our anniversary, and celebrating it along with watching thousands of people stand watching the fames while drawing close to each other was exactly right.
Meiron is different than it used to be. It was once “owned” by simple (mostly Sefaradic) Jews who streamed in days in advance, pitched tents, and brought along sheep and goats plus a family friend (or relative) who was a shochet to make a barbeque possible, and quite startling to those of us like me who have never quite integrated the fact that lamb chops come form real lambs.
There was overwhelming generosity and great faith that was almost tangible. In the course of time more typical chareidim began to make the pilgrimage, and chassidim set the new tone. The generosity hasn’t changed – there is constant free food in the hospitality tents and free drinks from machines that are set up wherever you look. Life-size pictures of Baba Sali and bigger than life size pictures of the Lubavitcher Rebbe replace the ads you see on the highways. The music is constant, loud and rarely unaccompanied by dancing. I don’t know if everyone there can articulate what bonds them with Rebbe Shimon, whose love of torah and profound teachings made him the Moshe of the hidden aspects of torah, its internal heart, but they know it without being able to put it into words.
We were all counting sefirah before, but after Lag B’omer, the intensity became greater. Each day, with its challenges and the responses that I had been learning in a marvelous sefer called “Usfartem Lachem,” by Rav Frisch, one of the most famous Ashkenazi Kabbalists of our time, blessedly simplified for folks like us, opened doors that were easy to keep closed.
This week is the last one until Shavuous. The sefira of the week is Malchus, which means sovereignty. It is one in which we face the challenge of ruling our mini-kingdom (otherwise known as ourselves) and also those upon whom we have influence either consciously and purposely or neither consciously nor purposely. He lists specific ways to do this.
Number one is to follow Hashem’s directive to care for those who are suffering – the poor, those who are crushed by financial issues, those who are alone and friendless. These are the most important citizens of Hashem’s kingdom, and this is the week that drawing close to Him means drawing close to them.
Yesterday I went with Bnos Avigail to Rebbitzen Leah, Rav Nosson Tzvi Finkel zatzal’s wife. She has malchus down to an art. She greets me like we are old friends and equals (we are neither, although, ugh I was friends with her late mother-in-law). She spoke to the girls about the joy of torah, and told us several stories about what love of torah looks like in real life. Her tone and appearance are modest, and we all learned (I think) as much from who she is as we learned from what she said.
The way home, on a bus that the school had rented, a very dramatic and simultaneously undramatic event occurred. One of the girls who had remained in school, or possibly a girl from the seminary – I don’t know which – called her friend who was on the bus I was on. She told her that a siren was sounded and wanted to know what the drill was when you are on a bus and that happens.
There was one problem. The windows on the bus were the kind that don’t open and are high quality. That means that you can’t hear outside noise. In short, we didn’t hear the siren. I looked out of my window. “Maybe it wasn’t really a siren,”
I thought to myself. “Maybe it was just some kind of drill.” People were in the street, not running for shelter. I saw a young couple strolling with a carriage, several yeshiva boys hanging out near the entrance to their yeshiva. Yes, they did begin to run, but I thought that they may have noticed the mashgiach rather than trying to escape a missile. I was wrong.
There was a siren. Thank G‑d, it was intercepted. We are receiving unbelievable mercy and goodness.
It was only in the afternoon that I stepped back from my own life, and took in that it was Yom Yerushalayim. We have grown so accustomed to Hashem’s miracles that we are hardly able to step back and see them. When you are in the picture, you can’t see the picture. I am attaching a clip made by Hidabroot about the events of the day. It is in Hebrew, but just seeing the pictures tells you a lot.
And now, in just a few days we will be receiving the best gift of all, the torah that gives us life.
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