(Reprinted from Di Yiddishe Heim, Winter 5752)
There is a well-known teaching in Chassidus that everything one sees and hears is neither accidental nor coincidental. The Almighty has brought these words or episodes to our attention because there is a particular lesson that we, specifically, should derive from them. Furthermore, pondering these words or events should in some way enhance our service to G-d. I must confess that regrettably, I have not yet figured out the teaching I was meant to learn from many things I have seen and heard. A few, however, have moved me so much that I have mentally reviewed them over and over, until I arrived at a lesson which I hope I have interpreted correctly, a lesson which has strengthened my religious feelings and deeds.
In chronological order: Thirteen years ago we were living in Tsfas, Israel, where we were sent on
shlichus by the Rebbe
Shlita. One Friday night I answered a knock at the door. The person knocking was a stranger to me, a woman in her thirties. She explained that she had seen the sign on our house "Lubavitch
mitzvah Campaign," and had assumed it was a Chabad House. Perhaps we offered a communal Shabbos meal, as she had heard was common in Chabad Houses all over the world. I told her that this was a private home and that, no, Chabad did not have a communal Shabbos meal in Tsfas, but wouldn't she please be our guest, since it was obviously Divine Providence that she had found our house. She readily accepted my invitation. I found her to be a very talkative woman, so it was no problem to get a lively conversation going before my husband returned from shul. She quickly got to her "story."
She had grown up in England in a "traditional" home, though not religious, as we understand the term. Her mother had been corresponding with the Rebbe Shlita for years, and had received several replies which gave her much strength and encouragement in coping with her difficult life and much tzoris. She herself had seen the Rebbe several months earlier when she had visited Crown Heights for a Shabbos. She had much respect for Lubavitcher Chassidim and the Rebbe, even though she was not particularly observant. I was feeling very comfortable with her as she regaled us with story after story, as well as very unusual dreams for which she wanted to hear our interpretations. At some point during the Shabbos meal we asked her if she had a profession. To our surprise, she said she was a gynecologist, and that she was looking for a job at Hadassah Hospital in Yerushalayim.
I recall that the moment I discovered that she was a doctor, my whole attitude changed. I think that was the first time I had hosted a real live physician at my table, and I immediately felt intimidated. As long as I had thought she was just a regular person I felt very much at ease, but now I felt a barrier emerging. How could I, a young chassidic woman in her early twenties, a graduate of Bais Rivkah seminary, be so friendly with a woman fifteen years my senior who had been practicing medicine in hospitals in England and Israel? Of course, I did not reveal my feelings to her. The Shabbos meal was a very lively one indeed, as she asked us question after provocative question, to which my husband and I responded as well as we could.
After a while I asked her, quite hesitantly, if I could ask her a medical question. My 5-month-old son was sick at the time and there was something bothering me about him. I did not know whether it was rude or acceptable to ask "business questions" of a Shabbos guest. On the other hand, it was quite tempting to discuss this problem with a knowledgeable person. Her answer was immediate and straightforward. "Why, here you and your husband have been sharing so much of your knowledge with me all evening. I am so ignorant of Chassidic philosophy and my formal Jewish learning is so elementary. I'd be happy to make an exchange. I'll answer your medical questions gladly if you'd be willing to answer my Judaism questions." My feelings of inferiority vanished after several minutes as I realized how true her reaction was. Although I could hardly consider myself the "Doctor of Chassidic Philosophy" she called me, I could honestly say that I had studied many more chapters of Tanya, maamarim and sichos than she had. Certainly, being raised by chassidic parents in Crown Heights and attending Bais Rivkah schools for fourteen years had given me much knowledge and insight into life, Judaism and Torah. I also felt that my varied experiences on shlichus in different schools and camps in the U.S.A. and Tsfas had given me a good measure of on-the-job training, and matured my attitude and opinions about many issues.
Countless times since that Shabbos I have recalled her words. (Incidentally, I am still in touch with her!) I believe Hashem wanted me to hear them in order to give me the self-confidence to be able to converse easily and naturally with people who have a high secular status, something which can easily intimidate a plain person like myself.
Since those days in Tsfas we have moved a number of times, and I have been involved in teaching and lecturing in many different places. I have developed close relationships and friendships with many people from whom I once would have shied away because of who they are. My life has been enriched by those people Hashem has sent my way, including an army sergeant, a surgeon, a pathologist and several psychologists, to name only a few. The hora'ah has become part of me: You can discuss matters of Yiddishkeit and Chassidus with confidence. After all, you are clearly as much an expert in your field as they are in theirs!
By now I was blessed with six young children, and like many of my fellow
shluchos, lived a very pressured life. Making a living is never easy for
shluchim; there is the never-ending tension of how to pay the bills and keep afloat. On top of the daily struggle to keep up with the endless household chores, despite the constant interruptions, including the phone and the doorbell, there is the effort to be a pillar of strength and role model for the people you are trying to reach out to. I was also very active in the English speaking N'shei Chabad chapter, teaching Chassidus in several places, and always worrying (as I have been ever since I can remember) whether I really was using my talents and skills properly. I wondered whether my priorities were right. Was I giving too much time to the community at the expense of my family? Or was I trying too hard to keep the house orderly instead of spending "quality time" with the children?
Precisely when I was feeling a bit overwhelmed by these problems, we got a phone call from New York from a well-known community figure. One of his wealthy financial supporters would be calling on us shortly; he wanted to prepare us with "the story."
Mr. F's only daughter, aged 18, had gotten into a mess -- perhaps we could help him. Despite the fact that she had grown up in upper-class suburban Long Island, and had received the best of everything, she had gotten involved with a bad crowd in junior high school and started using drugs. Eventually she left her luxurious home to live with a gentile boy-friend in a filthy place in Manhattan. Her heartbroken parents watched in disbelief as Rena dropped out of school, became a hard-drug addict, and discarded all she had ever learned at home. They tried to extricate her from this situation but to no avail. Suddenly, a few weeks ago, she had come home. She had broken up with her boyfriend and expressed a desire to come back to a normal life. She told her father, a somewhat traditional Jew, that she wanted to become religious.
You would think, said Rabbi B, that everything is fine now; but it is not so simple. The years of abusing her body with narcotics had taken its toll. Her lovely personality had undergone a drastic change, and she seemed to be stunted in her mental growth. The doctors could not tell yet whether this damage would be permanent. Mr. F had searched all over New York for a suitable place for his daughter, unsuccessfully. Now he was hoping that perhaps in Israel there was a program that would help her stabilize her life and learn about Yiddishkeit. Perhaps in one of the several yeshivos for ba'alos teshuvah?
"So, Greisman, get to work," said Rabbi B. "Find out about different programs so that when he calls upon you, you will be able to offer him something." Well, we both made calls and contacts and found that there were a few possibilities.
I'll never forget the night Mr. F and his daughter came over. I worked hard to make the house inviting, dressed nicely and tried to make a good impression on this man, a great admirer of the Rebbe Shlita and a financial supporter of many Lubavitch programs. Rena was a pretty girl with the body of an 18 year old, but within minutes her problem became apparent. "Daddy, look at their house. Isn't it nice? And look how pretty she looks. Is that a wig you're wearing? Daddy, doesn't it look real? Look at how many books they have!" I tried to be polite and gracious, but my heart was breaking for this adult who was behaving like a small child. As she walked around commenting about everything, her father's discomfort was painfully clear. While she was admiring herself and her new hat in the mirror, her father tried to talk to us about his situation. We discussed the possibilities and what it was that she needed to be "rehabilitated."
"You know, thank G-d, that I have been successful in my business. Money is no object. I will pay any amount to any person or institution willing to work with Rena and teach her Torah and help her return to real life. She is a tayere Yiddishe tochter -- a precious Jewish daughter. I'll give anything to get back the daughter I once had." At this point, his voice choked up and he could not speak. He put his head down on his arms and started crying. My husband and I felt helpless. Here was a man in his fifties, wealthier than we could ever, ever dream of being, crying like a baby in our dining room, hoping that perhaps we could offer him the magic solution: that x amount of dollars would reverse the terrible damage done to his bright and lovely daughter. The visit ended.
That night I could not fall asleep for a long time. "Dear One Above, Aibishter, what is the hora'ah? What is the lesson?" I reviewed the evening over and over. I recalled how my mother would often talk about 'healthy problems.' "Is this what You are trying to tell me? That I should not let my 'problems' get me down?" Perhaps He was trying to tell me that wealth is not necessarily measured in dollar bills and investments, that a family of mentally and physically healthy chassidishe shluchimlach are the true riches. The mother of a fellow shluchah once asked me, "Un vos is dein farmegen, Nechoma -- what is your wealth, your valuable possessions?" What a beautiful way of asking, "So how many children do you have now?"
All I can tell you, dear friends, is that Mr. F's visit was very beneficial for me. I confess that I don't even know the end of their story. My story, however, has not changed drastically. Our family has grown and the "problems" are the same. But as I grow older, I am able to put things into better perspective, praying that the "normal problems" of my growing family will resolve themselves in time, and that the values we are trying to instill in them will prevent them from becoming victims of the dangers lurking in our pre-Mashiach society. Seeing F's family plight so vividly was certainly a potent lesson about the difference between problems and PROBLEMS.
I have been teaching the Rebbe's
sichos in English for about eight years to women at the Israel Center in Yerushalayim. Baruch Hashem we have seen much success. Hundreds of women,
keyn tirbena, have been exposed to Chabad Chassidus for the first time, with many positive things happening as a result of this exposure. For me, the Israel Center, a project of the Union of Orthodox Jewish Congregations of America, has been an excellent location for classes. Many people have attended who might not have found their way to a Chabad House.
Several months ago, as I was leaving the center after a lovely morning with "my ladies," I passed a middle-aged woman on the staircase. She gave me a very warm smile and greeted me as if she knew me. Although I did not recognize her, I returned the greeting with a smile, thinking she must know me if she was so friendly. "I'm sorry, but I don't recognize you. Have we met before? What is your name?" Very self-effacingly, the woman said, "Oh, my name is F. You don't know me, I'm a nobody. But you're a somebody. I've seen you around and know your name. You're Nechoma Greisman." I must admit I felt very strange hearing that comment. I never thought of myself as a "somebody" whom a total stranger would greet with humility like that. My ego and pride were getting activated, and I was feeling rather guilty about it.
Then I recalled the story I had read in a N'shei Chabad Newsletter: Two men were discussing their station in life. One complained to his friend, "My whole life I strived to be a somebody, and here I am, still a nobody." Replied his friend, "How envious I am of you. My whole life I worked to become a nobody, someone with true chassidishe humility. But, alas, I still feel like a somebody." As I made my way home, Mrs. F's words reverberated in my head. What hora'ah could I derive from hearing flattering words like that? All they would do is make me feel conceited. Surely that is a despicable trait, especially in Chassidus!
Slowly, though, another idea took form. We are taught in Chassidus that no one says anything to a Jew unless it is bashert from Above (including insults and antagonistic remarks). I wondered whether the One Above, perhaps, was trying to tell me the following: "You have strengths, You have succeeded in reaching the hearts of many with the teachings of Chassidus. Don't think you can remain a 'private citizen.' These gifts have been given to you so that you should use them to their fullest. People know your name and your face and look up to you. Make sure you don't let them down. Make sure you always act like a chassid, since you are presenting and representing Chabad Chassidus in a place where many people observe you. The feeling of self must yield to the sense of responsibility for your job."
I recalled another chassidic episode, about a chassid who would periodically visit the Mitteler Rebbe in Russia and enjoy the new Chassidic teachings he would learn during his stay. Upon his return, he had to pass through many shtetlach. In each shtetl, the local chassidim would plead with him to review all he had learned from the Rebbe. Since this chassid was a gifted teacher, the people enjoyed his delivery tremendously, and would enthusiastically compliment him for the wonderful words he was sharing with them. The chassid was disturbed; he felt that he was becoming conceited because of the compliments. He shared this dilemma with the Rebbe, asking whether perhaps he should henceforth refuse to review Chassidus for others because of the negative effect it was having on his character. But the Rebbe's reaction was clear and swift: "A tzibbeleh zolstu veren, ober Chassidus zolstu chazern." "Even if you become an onion, you must continue to teach and review Chassidus." A strange comparison! The Rebbe Shlita once explained the meaning of these words. One of the unique characteristics of an onion is that on its own, uncooked, it is very pungent, but it can actually become very mild and flavorful when used to season other foods. At any rate, the Rebbe's words, as passed down through the generations, have been explained as follows: If Hashem has blessed you with the ability to inspire and enrich others, then you have no right to withhold this gift from them. The struggle with your ego is your personal ongoing problem. One must not be so selfish as to deny others spiritual joy because of some personal issue, even one as "holy" as this.
I wish to conclude with a prayer: In the name of my fellow shluchos throughout the world, in the name of my sisters and friends and peers who are trying their best to do Your Will from dawn to midnight, tending to our own "holy lambs" while trying to bring those who are innocent victims in their ignorance of Torah back "home." In the name of all those who are trying to inspire the uninspired to find joy and meaning in Yiddishkeit -- Al-mighty, we don't always have the time or peace of mind to meditate properly upon everything we see or hear, and derive the proper hora'ah You wanted to teach us. Please, Ribono Shel Olom, give us a hint. Make it easy for us to get the lesson, and to get it RIGHT!
A Letter to Children Who Have Lost Their Mother