Riva Pomerantz

Last night, while rushing to get ready for a bar mitzvah, I left my bedroom to find my daughter cowering on the couch.

"There are two scary looking women knocking at the door non-stop," she told me.

I noticed she had surreptitiously locked the safety latch at the top of the door. Warily, I looked through the peephole. And beheld a woman, dressed in a flowing caftan with two shawls draped over her head, pinned beneath her chin, accompanied by an older, shawl-clad woman clutching a young child. They didn't look so scary to me; they looked, well, unusual. I opened the door.

They asked if they could speak with me for a moment. I told them I was on my way to a bar mitzvah. They promised it would only take a short time. They were sweet and friendly and completely guileless. I smiled reluctant agreement.

The younger, heavily draped woman, began to speak. She spoke about how important it is to excel in loving each other instead of in-fighting and baseless hatred. She was sincere and straightforward. She went on to speak about the power of the Jewish woman in effecting salvation for the entire nation. She spoke, in a quietly impassioned way, about the need for the holy, exalted woman to conduct herself according to the rules of modesty, and the tragic results of breaches in tznius, modesty, that have sprung up today. She talked about the horrible sin of wearing wigs.

So I stood there, wearing my newly coiffed Shabbos wig, listening to this young, earnest woman, covered from head to toe in yards and yards of heavy fabric in 100 degree heat. And I listened to what she said, opening my mind to her words. She spoke for an hour. My daughter listened too.

Much of what she said resonated with truth. Some of it my logical mind automatically rejected; it's unimportant to repeat those parts in this post. After she left, kissing me on the cheek, I found myself turning over her emotional speech--a plea, really--to search for my truth.

"Why didn't you close the door on her?" a friend asked, when I related this incident, which left me pensive.

"Why should I close my door?" I said. "I'm always interested in hearing other opinions. Maybe there's something I need to hear from this woman, something she's been sent to tell me."

My husband disagrees. He points out--and rightly so--that wearing heavy coverings on the head and body is not an appropriate mode of dress for today's Jewish woman and that extremist views do more harm than good. I know my husband is wise and on-target and there is a lot of truth in what he says. At the same time, I am loathe to discount my last-night visitors out-of-hand. Even if they are 90% misguided, there is still that 10% I need to take to heart.

Again, there is that struggle; the struggle that I think defines all of Life, what King David referred to as the "gesher tzar me'od", the very narrow bridge. When is an open mind absolutely necessary in order to learn and grow? And when is an open mind actually dangerous because it lets too much in?

Yes, alas, tis true. My blog strikes at midnight, in the stealthy quiet of my bedroom, as I wearily close my eyes, the best blogging ideas begin to come forth. Trouble is, I'm half-asleep and I never, ever remember those thoughts in the morning. There must be some Freudian, or at least Pavlovian association here. Bed...Blog. Unless it's just alphabetical order.

In any event, the Twilight Zone nicknamed "Summer Vacation" has got me in its clutches, and basically, this paragraph-and-a-half is a long way of saying a short, "I apologize for neglecting my blog!" There! Am I forgiven?

There's lots going on in my life, most of it involving bored children and unmet deadlines, and always that striving for balance, sweet balance. I've just finished a couple of really interesting articles that you, if you are a valued Mishpacha Magazine reader, will enjoy (hopefully!) in the coming weeks. Plus, my new serial, Charades, has taken off with a bang. My characters have become so life-like in my head it's almost scary. The process of creating characters, for me, is like taking one of those tiny little pills, dropping it in water, and watching, fascinated, as this capsule turns into an enormous dinosaur or some other creature. My characters begin in my head as a little kernel of an idea, and then they take on a life of their own. This story is a fascinating one, to me. The characters and the dynamics at play are very intriguing, and the plot is going to take some very interesting turns. We'll see what reader reaction is like.

In any case, this isn't a blog full of insight or inspiration. It's just plain old me, saying hello, checking in to let you know that I'm still here, still committed to blogging even if my blog instinct is frustratingly, immutably, way nocturnal.

It's Rosh Chodesh Av, the beginning of the month of Av, and a sad month at that. We are taught that in the month of Av, we minimize joy; it is a sober and introspective time where our thoughts should turn to the sorry state of our Nation--broken, homeless, and leaderless.

One of the mourning customs we adopt from Rosh Chodesh Av until the ninth of Av is refraining from doing laundry. In times gone by, laundry was an all-day activity, and our Sages did not want our minds to be preoccupied by laundering when they should instead be focusing on the intense pain of Galus, exile. Today, despite easy-to-use washing machines, we still refrain from doing laundry, except for washing the clothes of young children in certain circumstances. So every Av, my laundry room slowly but surely accumulates a mountain of dirty, wrinkled, bedraggled clothes. And they sit there, woebegone, as I pretend to turn a blind eye.

You might think it would be a relief, of sorts, to be unbound to my washing machine for nine whole days. But instead I find myself finding it irritating and frustrating. That pile will build and I am powerless to stop it. It will wait for me, until the tenth of Av, at which point I will become a maniacal laundress, switching loads and folding for an entire day--maybe two--to catch up.

Today I was blessed with a new insight into my laundry distress. I thought of the clothes piling up, spilling over the hampers and onto the floors, looking unsightly--a blight on my home. I thought of the way the dirty clothes encroach on my private space, crowd me out, in a sense, of my (sometimes) tidy home. How the Master becomes the indentured servant; how the tables are turned and the state-of-the-art washing machine yawns, confused.

And I thought how apt it is for me to be feeling this way in Av. Crowded out of my own home? Held back from indulging in the pleasures of clean clothes? Feeling vaguely uncomfortable every time I walk into my laundry room? Yeah. It is a very miniscule microcosm of how Hashem must feel. Chased out of his Home by our relentless sins. Held back from enjoying the pleasure of His children doing His will. Waiting...hoping...that maybe today He can come back in and make right everything that is wrong.

More tragic than the mourning is the floundering realization that we may not even be aware of what we're mourning for.

I had the misfortune of walking into a store one day and encountering the woman behind the make-up counter. No, she did not have the shampoo I was looking for. No, she was very sorry, but wasn't I interested in some new make-up? After all, said the seller, I was looking very pale.

Pale? Moi? "But I'm wearing blush!" I protested. "And bronzer!" A quick glance in the mirror revealed my burnished face looking, at least in my sometimes humble opinion, just fine.

"Oh my!" exclaimed my self-appointed alter-ego. "Look at you! Your hair is blonde, your skin is pale--you can't wear THAT bronzer! You look positively washed out. Don't you see? You need a blush that's purpleish, like THIS!"

I took another long look in the mirror. And wilted. She was right--my skin looked sallow, almost yellow. How could I have been so misguided, wearing a terracotta bronzer when all this time I should have been wearing purpley blush? She quickly brushed on the wonder product.

"So I'll ring it up for you!" she said cheerily. "It's gorgeous!"

I mumbled weakly something about thinking it over and left the store, disheartened. A pause is a wonderful thing, a balm for the distressed soul. At least that's what I've found millions of times in my life. A few blocks away from the store, I suddenly had a little reality check: my blush was fine! I didn't need anything purple! In fact, I've gotten lots of compliments on my natural-looking bronzer. And yet the pressure to convert me into a purple person had swayed my whole worldview, if for a brief, blushing moment.

I could go lots of ways with this thought. I could look at peer pressure, at the influence of society, at the fragility of the human ego, or the importance of staying away from shopping. But I think the lesson I'd like to focus on is the critical need to surround myself with people whose perspectives and attitudes enhance and complement my own. Because otherwise my own ground is in danger of shifting and beauty can fast become monstrous in the eyes of the beholder.

There are two boys and a father
Who wait every morning
For the school bus
Perfect.
They are perfectly dressed
In matching clothes
Belts. Polished shoes.
Neatly folded socks.
White, white pants.
Hair perfectly combed.
Little boys, brothers
They wait
Every morning
With their father
And their perfect schoolbags
For their bus.
One morning, there is a perfect cake
Borne aloft by the father
Lovingly prepared by a perfect mother
To accompany one of the perfect boys
To school.
Perfect.
On mornings when I wait at the stop for my ride to work
I gaze at the perfection
Of the morning sky
And the luscious trees
And the birds serenading the traffic.
And I watch the perfect boys standing together
With their father
Who gazes at them.
And says, "Stop running around--you'll get dirty!"
And "Be quiet! Sit down!"
And "What's wrong with you? You're being wild!"
And never once smiles.
And I sigh.

Today, I am a woman. What I mean, of course, is that last night I single-handedly chaperoned twenty screaming eleven-year-olds to their teacher's wedding in Jerusalem. Yes, you may have my autograph.

We arrive at the mini-bus to find a group of anxious, cheeping girls who breathe loud sighs of relief upon glimpsing my adult presence, telling me that the driver "looks scary". As I alight, I am handed: two cameras, a cellphone, a card for the teacher's gift plus a pen, an envelope filled with the money for the scary-looking driver, a package of tissues and one of those rolls of gum that looks like tape.

"Can you hold this, Mrs. Pomerantz?"
"Can you hold this, Mrs. Pomerantz?"
"Mrs. Pomerantz, can you hold this, please?"
"Do you have a cold?" I ask Little Miss Entire Packet of Tissues.
"No," she says breezily.

It is a half-hour drive to Jerusalem. A very long and loud and lusty half-hour drive, and the scary-looking driver, initially quite cantankerous, turns out to be a raging speed demon as well. I say Tefillas Haderech (Prayer for the Traveler) with heartfelt concentration. The girls, unused to being out and about town at 9:30 PM, and excited at the thought of seeing their beloved teacher wed, are literally bouncing out of their seats.

Do you remember being eleven? I don't, but I imagine it's something very similar to what I am experiencing.

The "talk", which is another way of saying, "the excessive pitch and volume of twenty hyper voices" turns, of course, to weddings.

"I always joke with my mother about why she never invited me to her wedding!" giggles one girl. When eleven year olds congregate, I notice, they like to giggle.

"Ugh, you should see pictures of my mother's wedding! My aunt was wearing, like, a GREEN shirt! Everything was so old-fashioned!"

"I know. And those HAIRSTYLES! They're so funny!"

I gulp. These girls--y'know, the ones with the mothers with the old-fashioned hairstyles? Their old-fashioned mothers got married the same year I did. It's what? Twelve years ago? And we've already become the object of ridicule.

"Tell them not to leave me any garbage on the floor!" the driver exhorts, keeping a careful thirty kilometers above the speed limit.

I barely hear him. My mind is on another time and place, twelve years ago, when my husband and I swore that WE would always be cool, never old-fashioned. OUR kids would never look back at us and laugh. NEVER! No ridiculous bumps, leisure suits, or frilly-dillies. WE would be the coolest parents to ever hit Planet Earth.

Uh, I think we should start setting smaller goals.

Now they're eleven. They think they're on top of the world. One day I hope they'll have the privilege of overhearing twenty eleven-year-olds burst their bubble. It's a rite of passage.

On Friday afternoon, my hands deep in challah dough, there was a quiet knock on the door from a quiet man whose cause we happily support. He has a Kollel Chatzos, an erstwhile group of men who rise at midnight to learn Torah and Kabbalah all night long. We figure since we're unable to perform this beautiful feat ourselves, we are happy to have a share by proxy in this wonderful endeavor.

He is an assuming man, short and bearded, with kind eyes and an ever-apologetic countenance. He is sorry to disturb on a Friday, but he is not disturbing and we are happy to see him. While he lingers at the door, I venture away from my challah dough.

"Tell me," I ask, "In your kollel, you learn kabbalah. What is being said about...", I gesture vaguely, uncertainly. "About...Moshiach."

He smiles, sadly. I am searching for something deep and mystical; what he offers me is deep and classical.

"It is as the Navi describes," he says, referring to the many passages in Prophets where the era before the Redemption is described in vivid color.

I know it is what the Navi describes. The nations of the world ganging up on defenseless Israel, the mockery and scorn, the impending sense of doom. That is exactly what the Navi describes.

Then he says, "I have heard that Rav Mordechai Eliyahu awoke from his coma briefly and said that he had a dream that Moshiach was supposed to come on Pesach." My husband and I draw a bit closer to the door. "But two great tzaddikim (righteous scholars) prayed that Moshiach would not come."

"But why?" I ask, aghast.

"Because they saw that if Moshiach (Messiah) were to come, not enough of the Jewish People would survive."

It is a deflating moment, a moment that lingers long after the challah has risen and baked. I am reminded of the stark urgency of these turbulent times. When the Jews left Mitzrayim (Egypt), 600,000 strong, that number reflected only ONE-FIFTH of the Jewish nation. Four fifths died. It's a sobering thought, immediately followed by another one: What can we do to be amongst those who will be privileged to greet Moshiach? I really want to find the answer to that question. It is more than a question. It is a plea.

I read, with great interest and sadness, the beautifully written and poignant article by Azriella Jaffe in this week's Mishpacha Magazine about a young woman with cystic fibrosis, fighting for her life. But aside from the inspiration and message of the article, a much greater issue emerged, eclipsing even the backbone of the story. The tragic reality of this young woman is that her family has chosen to keep her illness a complete secret. She is living a lie, and much effort and energy is regularly expended to keep up the game. No one must know that she suffers from cystic fibrosis. No one.

The question that begs to be asked is: Why? Followed by an immediate: And who says? I imagine the answer to the first is "shidduchim" (matchmaking); I am unsure of the answer to the second. Has the family consulted with a prominent Torah authority who ruled they must keep the illness a secret? It seems absolutely impossible to me that such a ruling would be handed down; for two reasons. Firstly, Klal Yisrael (The Nation of Israel) is characterized by three inborn traits, inherited from our forefather, Avraham Avinu: rachmanim (merciful people), bayshanim (modest people), and gomlei chassadim (people who bestow goodness and acts of kindness upon others). We are taught, for example, that the reason Hashem has struck some of our nation with the challenge of poverty is to enable the rest of us to snatch the privilege of helping our brethren. Wouldn't the same apply to a physical challenge, such as cystic fibrosis? Wouldn't the community want the privilege of rising to the challenge, helping the family and this young woman through their difficult trial? Entire organizations are ready and waiting to help the chronically ill; why deprive them of the opportunity?

Secondly, hiding an illness of this sort implies something shameful about it, which is antithetical to Jewish thought which believes that everything comes from G-d. This young woman was given the challenge of cystic fibrosis the way some people are given the challenge of arthritis, or jealousy, or wayward children. Where does the need to hide come from?

Thirdly, here is a young woman who is suffering unimaginably, physically and emotionally. Doesn't she deserve, at the very least, the support of her friends and family? Why exacerbate her suffering by making her undergo her nightmare in complete and total isolation--actually, in something much worse than isolation: in a total, fabricated, charade? We know that "a sorrow shared is a sorrow halved". Why should this young woman be an island? Why should her family be tormented alone? Why would it even be permissible to increase her suffering through this modus operandi? It is really quite beyond me to understand.

If it is shidduchim the family is concerned about, and if that is the root cause of making their decision to hide their daughter's illness, that would raise a very, very thorny issue, one that we, as a society, have long evaded. That's for another post--probably juicy, possibly of a personal nature. Meanwhile, I cannot judge this particular family, and I imagine their decision was absolutely heart-breaking. All I can say is that my heart goes out to them and their poor daughter. May she be granted a refuah shelaimah (complete recovery) very soon.  

As I wandered around the party goods store on Tuesday, trying to glean some inspiration to infuse our home with the Shavuos spirit, I overheard a most amazing exchange:

"This vanilla extract is quite expensive here, I think. We'll get it from the other store," came a gentle, warm voice. "Come, children, you're doing such a wonderful job. Let's go now, please."

Okay, so she's one of those nicey-nicey mothers, you're thinking. Right?

Except that she's about 3 feet, 4 inches, and she can't be more than eight. And she has two very little children in tow, whom she is speaking to with all the dignity, maturity, and respect of a person ten times her age. I was so struck by this exceptional child. I tapped her on the shoulder and told her how impressed I was by how she spoke to her siblings. It made me truly wonder: where did this child's mother go right? How was she able to effectively train her daughter in speaking gently and wisely, in the art of patience and thought? I imagine the mother must model it herself; the apple seldom falls far from the tree.

Do you sometimes wonder about how your children treat each other when you are not around? Do you wonder what they are picking up from your personality and parenting? I do.