It was close
to eight in the morning, less than five minutes after we had left our village, when
the car I was in approached the Shilo Junction. The driver clucked her tongue
and mumbled, “Poor things”. I looked up and saw the focus of her sympathy. Two
young women stood next to their crashed car. With long faces they surveyed
the damage. The front left side was smashed in and the headlight shattered. The
car would have to be towed. Thankfully, the two of them appeared uninjured. Enough
people had stopped to help so my driver continued on her way. She expressed
thankfulness that the women were okay. I, on the other hand, began to panic.
Some vehicle
had run into that car. Where was it? Who was inside it? My youngest daughter
had slept at her sister’s home in Ramat Gan the night before. She had taken a
ride that was supposed to get her to Shilo in time to be at work at eight
o’clock. While I was still in Shilo she had called me but I had not answered
the phone in time. When I immediately called her back there was no answer. At
the time I assumed she was without phone reception or had suddenly become busy
and unable to talk. Now the unanswered call took on a whole new perspective.
Did she not
answer because she was, G-d forbid, in the accident? Was she now on the way to
the hospital? We had a wedding the following night, the wedding of her good
friend who is also the daughter of my good friend. We were both so excited to
go! What would happen if she was in the
hospital?
In my mind I
knew I was being ridiculous. No news is good news. In my emotions,
however, I was out of control. My imagination was speeding faster than any
driver could ever dream of racing a car. Fifteen minutes later when my phone
rang and I heard my daughter’s voice I cried with relief. And then I laughed at
myself.
The day
passed and I finished what I needed to do in Jerusalem. Determined to get home
as soon as possible I found myself running to the Shilo bus stop. Worried that
I might have missed the bus I turned around to check the numbers on the buses
stopped at the traffic light. I did not stop running, though, and I plowed
right into a signpost. It hurt! I screamed! What I really wanted to do was sit
down and wail. Since I was in public, I controlled myself.
Thankfully
my glasses were not broken. I had a bottle of cold water in my hand and I kept
it on my face for the next hour. I just knew my face would be black and blue
the next morning. Would I be a sight at the wedding!
I do not
believe that HaShem wanted me to be punished when I ran into the signpost. I do
believe, however, that he was sending me a message, a strong message with a
heavy question. Do I believe the words that I say every day when I pray?
Do I accept
that it is HaShem Who has provided for all of my needs as I say in the morning
blessings? Do I trust that HaShem is righteous in all of His ways and pious in
all of His deeds as I praise Him in Ashrei? Do I think it is true that
it is HaShem Who sustains the living with kindness as I affirm when I recite
the Silent Meditation? If yes, then before I fall asleep every night and I declare
that HaShem is with me and I will not fear, the last line of Adon Olam,
I should believe it.
In the end,
although it was sore, I had no visible swelling or bruising on my face. As I stood
in the wedding hall I prayed that my friend’s daughter and her new
husband would be able to build a successful marriage and a true house of Torah
among the people of Israel in the land of Israel. There were many things I could have thought
about to worry for them. They have the army, the financial concerns of young
couples, and the normal adjustment to marriage ahead of them. I decided to
leave those worries to HaShem. Instead I danced for the bride and her mother with
joy.
Ashrei: Praise
Adon Olam: Master of the Universe
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