Self Doubt vs 20/20 Hindsight Vision

It is so hard sometimes to know what is the "right" decision.

Should I go to the hospital?

Will I get back home in time?

Should I let my Mother in Law pick up the kids and take them to my Sister in Law's, where they could spend the holiday with their granparents, aunt, uncle, and cousins?

What if she do not get home in time?

What if we do get home in time?

What is best for the kids?

What is best for the family?

What is best for me?

Well, it is after the fact. 

We got home in time, so it was good that we had the kids stay.

I feel a lot better, so it is good that I went to the hospital.

We made it home before sh'kiyah (sunset, after which time we are not permitted to drive), so it was okay that we left the hospital when we did.

But when we made each of these difficult decisions, we did not know what the outcome would be.

Wouldn't it be great to know in advance that everything would work out in the end?



Please daven (or send happy, healing thoughts) for RivkA bat Teirtzel.

With love and optimism,
RivkA

Lost and Found -- with a little help

Wednesday (two weeks ago), I could not find my handicapped parking permit.

Israeli handicapped parking permits are small plastic cards (like credit cards).  Since the card is easy to lose, I always keep it in the same pocket of my purse. 

There have been times, I admit, that I put the card down on our Shabbat Table, "just for a minute."  However, since I am a bit paranoid about losing it (replacing it would be a nightmare), I am pretty diligent about putting it back in my purse.

This time, the card was not in my purse and not on the Shabbat table.

After searching for several minutes, I stopped to think.  When was the last time I saw it?

I knew I had it the night before, in my husband's car.  We used it, when we parked for shiur (our Torah study class).

I had a visual memory of taking the card off the dashboard when we got home, but I had no visual image of putting it in my purse or placing it (temporarily, of course) on the Shabbat Table.

I must have lost the permit, somewhere between the car and my home.  I had a strong sense that I lost the card while getting out of the car.
I called my husband, and asked him to check the car.

He thoroughly checked the car, checking under the passenger seat and in between the seat and the door.  He did not find it.

If the permit was not in the car, it had to be in the house.

The girls and I searched all over the house.  We could not find it anywhere.

I dreaded the thought of applying for a new permit.  (Imagine your DMV bureaucracy, then multiply it tenfold!)

I could not shake the feeling that the card must be in Moshe's car.

Later that night, Moshe and I drove to the fundraiser, where I was scheduled to speak.  When we got in Moshe's car, I reached below the seat, feeling around that area, hoping to find my permit.

Moshe assured me that he had searched with due dilligence.

"I know," I answered, certain that he had, but hopeful that he missed something, since I could not figure out where else it could be.

After a few seconds, I felt something with my right hand. 

With a flourish, I pulled out the parking permit.

"How did you find it?" Moshe asked, clearly astonished.

"Did you look for it?"  I asked him.

"You know I did," he responded, somewhat insulted that I was questioning him.

"Did you ask God for help?" I asked him.

"No," he responded, looking at me curiously.

I smiled at my husband, as I replied, "I did."


(with special thanks to EK, who taught me that it is ok to ask God for everything, even the little things)


Please daven (or send happy, healing thoughts) for RivkA bat Teirtzel.

With love and optimism,
RivkA

Shofar

The call of the Shofar opens the gates of heaven.

It is our heartwrenching cry to the Master of the Universe, to hear our prayers, and have mercy on us.

It is a symbol, to remind God, of the ram that Abraham sacrificed in Isaac's stead. We hope that, even if we are not worthy ourselves, God will remember our forefather, who was ready to sacrifice his son.

We stand, humbled, wailing to God.


The first day of Rosh HaShanah, as the first sounds were heard from the Shofar, I felt the gate of heaven open, and knew that God was listening directly to me. Silently, I prayed to God. I want to live. Please, let me be written, for another year, in the book of life.

As I stood there, with my eyes closed, praying to God, tears suddenly burst from my eyes. Embarrassed, I quickly lifted my open machzor (prayer book), and covered my face. The sound of the Shofar continued to carry my desperate plea. With every t'kiyah (call), more tears fell, as, silently, I begged God, please, let me live.

Emersed in my private dialogue with God, I heard a voice calling me back. Standing next to me, my worried little daughter whispered ever so quietly and sweetly, "Ima, why are you crying?"

I put my finger to my lips, indicating that she should be quiet.

I could not answer.

We do not talk during t'kiyat haShofar (blowing the Shofar).

But that is not the only reason I did not answer.

I was overwhelmed by the power of prayer. I could not do anything, but plead with God, while those gates were still open.

There are several sets of t'kiyot during davening. During each set, I focussed on different prayers: I prayed, by name, for shidduchim. I prayed, by name, for good health (mostly for other cancer patients, but also for others). I prayed for our country. I prayed for my family. I prayed for help, in cleaning my home, and being a better parent/wife. I prayed, and prayed, and prayed.

I did not cry every time, though I cried a lot.

But I prayed stronger than I have ever prayed before.

And I cannot stop the tears, even now, as I write these words, and wonder if it is too personal to share...



Please daven (or send happy, healing thoughts) for RivkA bat Teirtzel.

With love and optimism,
RivkA