Living 254

whisk

EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW • DR. MOSHE SCHWARTZ • OB-GYN

my take features shidduch resources

THE MAZEL TOV ISSUE

our days

FEBRUARY 3, 2016 / 24 SHVAT 5776 ISSUE 254

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Birth

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CONTENTS

24 Shvat 5776 February 3, 2016 Issue 254

YOUR DIY SIMCHAH: TIPS AND RECIPES FROM CATERER ESTER MOSBACHER

136

ISSUE 254 FEBRUARY 3, 2016 24 SHVAT 5776

Departments

A ZEST-Y SIMCHAH

26 Editorial

By Rechy Frankfurter

FOUR SISTERS AND A DREAM

28 Letters 40 The Rebbetzin Speaks

By Rebbetzin Feige Twerski

42 Parshah

By Rabbanit Yemima Mizrachi

44 Nuggets

By Chaya Gross

liv254_whisk_cover.indd 55

46 Women to Know

Rebbetzin Rachel Smith

96

in Whisk

of London

By C.S. Teitelbaum

56 Bytes

Inside Whisk 94 Hello Cooks

By Miriam Glick

By Victoria Dwek

84 Shidduch Resources

96 DIY Simchah

152 Jamila

How to prepare a beautiful bas mitzvah

By Rachel Berger

154 Swept Away

By Esther Mosbacher

By Peri Berger

100 A Pinch of Zest

157 Our Days: Expanded Section

The rhythm of our lives

176 Kaddish Chronicles 178 The Back Page

18

88

By Dina Neuman |

AMIâ&#x20AC;¢LIVING

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F EB RUA RY 3, 2016

Four sisters and a dream: the Zest Bake Shop

By Victoria Dwek

106 Girl on a Diet

By Rabbi Mordechai Kamenetzky

1/28/16 9:37 PM

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2 4 S H VA T 5 7 7 6

Help choose the next one!

All Under One Roof ARTISTIC FLORAL ARRANGEMENTS

TABLE LINEN RENTAL & PURCHASE

EXQUISITE GIFTS & WRAPPING

BRANDRIGHTMARKETING

WEDDING DECOR & EVENTS

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CONTENTS CONTINUED 24 Shvat 5776 February 3, 2016 Issue 254

Features Continued 122 Positively Single Four former singles share their stories

By Chanie Asher

128 Dreading Your Child’s Wedding?

Some parents suffer through it

By Ruchy Stern

136 Let the Pen Decide How graphology can help your shidduch

By Shiffy Friedman

144 Dear Me

122

Married women look back and write letters to themselves on their wedding day

By Dina Neuman

Features 58 Simchah Trivia Celebration customs around the world

By Dina Neuman

65 My Take Would You Look at the Time?

By Leah Weiss

Don’t Leave Me Hanging!

A Simple Way out of the Broken Engagement Crisis

Find Me a Sitter

The Silent Telephone

By Chaya Glick

65

46

157

128

By Evelyn Grubner

By Reina Feiner

By Sarah Massry

88 Truth or Consequences The ugliest earrings ever!

By Judy Jacobs

112 The Clean Bill Dr. Moshe Schwartz has delivered over 12,000 babies in Brooklyn

By Rechy Frankfurter

20

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AMI•LIVING

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2 4 S H VA T 5 7 7 6

ADVERTISERS’ GUIDE 24 Shvat 5776 February 3, 2016 Issue 254

A Time. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43

Couture of the Rack. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87

Mega Health. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 142

Simpson Jewelers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 180

Accentuations by Design. . . . . . . . . . . 4

Crystal Cookies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163

Mendel Meyers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91

Sizzle Restaurant. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109

Airbrushing by Leah. . . . . . . . . . . . . 148

D&W Furniture. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 174

Mesamche Lev. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49

Sruly Klein Photography. . . . . . . . . 165

Ami Magazine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 66

Dimensions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30

Mezzo . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161

Andre Reichman. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 126

Emerly Bridal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 164

Miri Wigs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45

Stern’s Furniture . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 115

Apotocarei. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31

Evening Elegance. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47

Miri’s . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5

Appliance Direct. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29

Event Planner NY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8

Monsey Mansion. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 177

Artzeinu Tours. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 138

Exquisite Gowns. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163

Mosaica Press. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121

Baron Medical Supplies. . . . . . . . . . . 78

Finds and Co.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151

My Chocolate Place. . . . . . . . . . . . . 121

Batya’s Kitchen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141

Flower Formation. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59

Neuro Links. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67

The Lingerie Boutique. . . . . . . . . . . 167

BC Design . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 169

FOF Tops Limited . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167

Novella. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28

The Little Store. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 177

Beary Baby . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163

Future Mom Maternity. . . . . . . . . . . 169

Off The Avenue Gowns . . . . . . . . . . 149

The Palace. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37

Bella Fleuri . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15

Generations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 170

Oh Balloons . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 177

The Present Touch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147

Sympinny Orchestra. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82 Tahau. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 116 Taubus Furniture. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79 Teen Boutique . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 126

Bella Sabatini Premium Teas. . . . . . 95

Glatt Mart . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27

Onyx . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51

The Viennese Table. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 118

Blanket Express. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32

Gut Instinct Design. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150

Organicer. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141

The White Bow. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 117

Blossumbleu. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119

Home Sweet Home. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135

Paradise Manor. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151

Brachs Bed and Bath. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83

Homery. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38-39

Perfect Settings. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12

BreadBerry. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105

Hostess. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18

Personal Cook Ruth Bendkowski. 109

Bridal Couture. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 177

Impressions. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81

Petite Sweets . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 169

Bridal Elegance. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17

It’s a Favor. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 140

Pine Park Kitchens . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109

Bridal Fantasies. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 156

Jacob Jewelers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 175

Planit Israel. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6

Bridal Studio. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54-55

Jewel Galaxy. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161

Powder by La Pelcha. . . . . . . . . . . . 159

Unique Elegant Seating. . . . . . . . . . . 80

Bright N Clean. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155

Junee. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61

Private Label Couture . . . . . . . . . . . 161

Vaad Harabanim. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7

Bundles of Joy. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103

Kallah Registry. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85

Project Diamond Ring. . . . . . . . . . . . . 36

Vintage Gifts. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 156

Buzz Electronics. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35

Katz Furniture. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 177

Regal Furniture. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16

Vivi Wigs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 133

Carmona . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14

Kineret Flowers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23

Renaissance Furniture. . . . . . . . . . . . . 33

Welcome Home. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161

Celuette . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72

Klein’s Moving. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 169

Rennaisance Wig . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2-3

Chair Cover Gemach . . . . . . . . . . . . 172

White Glove Events . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135

Kosher Village. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 139

Rikki Wigs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21

Chanteur Wigs. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53

LaMaRang. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 160

Rivkie Serruya Makeup Artist . . . . 117

Chiffons Cakes. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103

Lingerie Shop. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 163

Royal Wines . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24-25, 92

CocoArt. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114

Living Quarters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10

Run for Batya. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107

Chocolate Bar. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91

Lowinger Caterers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9

S & W . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11

Chuppa. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62-63

Makeup by Elisheva. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34

Satmar Meats. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 179

Cindy’s Fashionista. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 165

Makeup by Esty. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86

Shticky Shtick. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 156

Yedidim. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13

Classique Cheesecake. . . . . . . . . . . . . 71

Makeup by Shevy Rumpler . . . . . . 167

Shuly Wigs. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143

Your Top Priority. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 131

Copy 57. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 165

Maxi Health. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 110

Silver Lining . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125

Zemiros Group. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 165

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Tnuva . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 173 Toss It . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 171 Toubin Catering. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 167 Undercover Waterwear. . . . . . . . . . . . 44 Unik Antik . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69

Whoopi. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 Williamsburg Vacuum. . . . . . . . . . . . . 77 Yad Batia L’Kallah. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90 Yad Eliezer. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73

Photo: Mendel Meyers

Wrapped . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41

7 1 8 - 8 7 1 - 6 6 6 1 | S A L E S @ K I N E R E T F L O R I S T. C O M 5 3 0 6 1 3 T H AV E | B R O O K LY N , N Y

Sarah’s Kiddush Parshas Noach, 1993

Bubby & Zaidy’s 50th Anniversary Sukkos, 2002

Don’t remember which shabbos...

Dovid’s Bar Mitzvah, Parshas Re’eh, 1998

Uncle Aryeh’s Aufruf Parshas Vayikra, 1988

Imma’s 30th Birthday Parshas B’shalach, 1991

BARON HERZOG Creating Memories {& Staining Tablecloths} Since 1985.

Dear Readers, Having been felled by the flu and bedridden for a couple of days, just being able to go about my normal routine seems like a luxury and a reason to celebrate. I am actually so grateful to be up and about that I’m almost euphoric. At moments like these, the lyrics to a song come to mind: “Along with the sunshine, there’s gotta be a little rain sometime.”

To me, these words have always meant that we need a few drops of rain every now and then—nothing too dramatic, just enough—to appreciate the “ordinary” sunshine of everyday life. And what a simchah that truly is!

Editor in Chief Rabbi Yitzchok Frankfurter

Editorial

Senior Editor Rechy Frankfurter Managing Editors Victoria Dwek Yossi Krausz

In “You Are Not Alone,” several women share the shameful secret that they did not feel joy at their own simchos. In fact, they are so guilt-ridden about being ingrates that they only agreed to share their feelings if they could remain anonymous; even the author is using a pseudonym. However, we humans are complex beings. Nothing is ever black and white, and what these women describe is more complicated emotionally than being unappreciative of Hashem’s brachos. I’m sure that the article will resonate with many readers.

Feature Editor Yitta Halberstam Mandelbaum Coordinating Editor Malky Goldstein Copy Editors Basha Majerczyk Mendelovicii Rabbi Yisroel Benedek Rachel Langer

A friend of mine once confided that she had gone through a very difficult period after marrying off her daughter. “Hashem has given you so much nachas,” she constantly berated herself. “Your daughter is happily married to an excellent young man, and all you can feel is sadness? Where is your hakaras hatov?” She was very bewildered about why she felt this way. I believe that had she read this article back then, she would have realized that she was not the only person to have had such an experience. Knowing that others have gone through the same thing is the first step toward healing. The good news is that today, years later, my friend’s feelings are a distant memory that she can hardly relate to anymore.

Editors/Proofreaders Dina Schreiber Yitzchok A. Preis

Art

Art Directors Alex Katalkin David Kniazuk

Not so for others. Many years ago I sat next to a woman at a simchah and was very surprised when she told me that even though her son had been married for 15 years, she was still upset that he had not found his bashert until the age of 37. She felt that he was still trailing behind; even though he was her bechor, her younger son was the one who had made her and her husband grandparents, and would soon be making them great-grandparents.

Food

Food Editor Victoria Dwek

Advertising

Executive Account Manager Zack Blumenfeld

In the course of the editorial process for “Positively Single,” one of this week’s features, I got to speak with a few of the protagonists. Fortunately, none of them harbored any such feelings. On the contrary, they had many positive memories of their single days. It was important to them that readers get the message that being single does not prevent a person from living a satisfying and fulfilling life.

Executive Sales Directors Surie Katz Esther Friedman Sarah Sternstein Europe Advertising 44 7891 297 866

This week’s issue is chock-full of simchah-related topics, from advice about shidduchim, weddings and other celebrations to stories of generosity of spirit. Included are an exclusive interview with Dr. Moshe Schwartz, who has so far delivered around 12,000 babies (!), most of them in our community, and is still at it; and Rebbetzin Rachel Smith of London, who at age 72 still sets tables at weddings. Both of these people are beyond retirement age, but as Dr. Schwartz says, “If I can make someone happy, it’s worth the hard work.”

Advertising Coordinator Malky Weinberger Markowitz Distribution 917-202-3973 347-675-7456

Ami Magazine

P: 718-534-8800 F: 718-484-7731 info@amimagazine.org

For the blessing of simchos, we can only pray. To create simchah for others, we need the blessing of a generous spirit.

Ami Magazine. Published by Mehulol Publications LLC. All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or in part in any form without prior written permission from the publisher is prohibited. The publisher reserves the right to edit all articles for clarity, space, and editorial sensitivities. Ami Magazine assumes no responsibility for the content of advertisements in the publication, nor for the contents of books that are referred to or excerpted herein.

26

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AMI•LIVING

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F EB RUA RY 3, 2016

May we all be blessed with both.

Rechy Frankfurter

rechy@amimagazine.org

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2 4 S H VA T 5 7 7 6

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LETTERS

Marriage Counselors

Should not be canceled In reference to “Beware of the Marriage Cancelers,” Issue 251

Dear Editor: Thank you for a wonderful publication.

I must mention my disappointment with the headline you chose for the cover of AmiLiving last week. I was sure the article would expound on the many benefits of marital counseling, and eventually you did get to the positive aspects. Still, I was left feeling slightly saddened that at this time, when the stigma of therapy is just beginning to lift somewhat, and couples are finally reaching out for help, your headline might deter some from doing so and solidify the preconceived notions of others.

I agree that consumers should be educated. They should know what to look for and what to look out for, as with any purchase, and certainly with any type of health care. However, I find it hard to understand why your article paints marriage counselors with a broad brush and elevates a relationship coach above all others.

Laura Doyle’s personal experience of counseling 18 years ago, which prompts her to state, “First, kill all the marriage counselors,” is not a reliable measure of

today’s counseling. I don’t know a single therapist who would focus on the negative as a counseling intervention. It’s ludicrous.

Marital counseling is a difficult field, and only in recent years has empirical research on its effects become available. Even with that added benefit, it is exceedingly complicated. To begin with, it is harder for a therapist to manage two clients than one, especially when those clients are explosively angry and each is seeking validation.

Often, by the time the couple come to counseling, they have allowed their problems to fester for so long that it isn’t just the initial problem that needs tending to—there is a lot of collateral damage as well.

There are also those who come in body but not in spirit. They have suffered too long, and while they feel that they owe it to the kids or to the marriage or to the opinions of others to try to save it, their efforts are halfhearted; they’ve already checked out in their minds and in their hearts. The other spouse may not know this and will often blame therapy, when in reality that is far from the case. This is just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the complexities of marital counseling.

Your premise that good counseling is important is, of course, valid. Unfortunately, instead of getting straight to informing the public what they can expect or should look for in marital counseling, the article warns heavily of the damage that may be caused by poor counseling,

which is akin to warning those in dire need of medical care to beware of quacks.

Sincerely, O.E. Brooklyn, New York

Marriage Counselors Must be professionals In reference to “Beware of the Marriage Cancelers,” Issue 251

Dear Editor: Your eye-catching headline “My Marriage Counselor Ruined My Marriage,” sensational though it sounds, unfortunately rings true. “Can marriage counseling make things worse?” the author asks.

Unfortunately, as your article notes, it can and often does.

Sadly, there are individuals who call themselves marriage counselors or therapists but have no training or credentials in this area. In some communities they have somehow managed to garner a successful reputation nevertheless. These individuals may be well-meaning, but since marriage is an extremely complex dynamic involving distinctive personalities, they may wreak havoc, causing an already sour relationship

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LETTERS

to go completely downhill.

It is imperative that people increase their awareness of whom to consult when faced with challenges. Educate yourself about the person whom you are planning to consult about your personal issues. Qualified practitioners have a résumé, references, and a supervisor, and are registered with a professional body. Don’t be afraid to ask the counselor or therapist to provide you with his or her résumé, references, supervisor’s contact information, and upto-date registration.

You are entitled to gather information about the therapist’s working style, confidentiality, and success rate and anything else you want to know.

All practitioners working in a therapeutic capacity should have regular supervision with a qualified professional. We are all human and thus fallible. An educated supervisor guides the professional to step back and reflect on his or her work with clients. A supervisor reminds the practitioner of key factors in working with people—for example, recognizing potentially biased reactions, maintaining appropriate boundaries, and acknowledging when the therapist’s feelings are triggered by particular cases.

Registration with a professional body indicates that practitioners are accountable

for the way they work. Registration demands that the practitioner act within an ethical framework incorporating guidelines on conduct and performance—for example, practicing only within the limits of their expertise and referring to other professionals when a case is beyond their scope. Registration requires therapists to have appropriate supervision and to further their professional development so that they are continuously building their skills.

Lastly, the price demanded by a professional is by no means an indication of that person’s high standard, integrity, or competence. A caring professional will ask for a reasonable fee, understanding that those in emotional pain may well be in economic distress, too.

Thank you, Ami, for raising public awareness of this sensitive and important topic.

I.M.W.

MRSA Survivor

Update from a grateful wife In reference to “Clean Bill,” Issue 246

Dear Editor: My article on MRSA was published in the Chanukah edition of your magazine.

After spending three weeks in the hospital, my husband was transferred to the Boro Park Center. With the help of Hashem, the great rehab there, the wonderful administration and volunteers, my husband’s stay was made as pleasant as possible. I was even able to make a beautiful Chanukah party on the premises for my entire family.

On Thursday, January 14, I watched with tears in my eyes as he walked out of the Boro Park Center, baruch Hashem, after spending two months there.

When I stood in front of my candles this Friday night—something that I did not have the privilege to do in the past three months since one is only allowed to light an electric bulb in a hospital or rehab facility—I thought about how appropriate it is for all of us to say the brachah of Shehecheyanu for an ordinary day, one in which we are capable of carrying out routine activities.

I would like to add that MRSA has become an epidemic. It strikes all age groups, including newborns. Please do not neglect any pimples you see. If you have one that persists, tell your doctor that you want it tested for MRSA. Once you are diagnosed with MRSA, there are three options you can also use: colloidal silver, apple cider vinegar, and olive extract. You can get these items in any health food store.

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I have MSUD

And am leading a normal life In reference to “Clean Bill,” Issue 250

Dear Editor: My name is Yehuda F. I am 35 and live in Lakewood. I was born with maple syrup urine disease (MSUD), and what happened to the baby in Florida seems to have mirrored what my mother (and I) went through.

The newborn screening had just been instituted a few months before my birth in July of 1980, but the results were not available until I was 10 days old, by which time I was in a coma. My mother, an extremely intelligent teacher, educated herself medically and during my childhood became quite medically astute, to the point where she was able to diagnose family members over the phone. This, combined with her keen foresight and creative baking skills, contributed to the fact that I was able to have a normal, happy childhood. We were fortunate to be under the care of Dr. Selma Snyderman, at that time of Bellevue Medical

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When I was going out on shidduchim, we ran a special genetic test to match me against my future wife through my doctor’s office in Mount Sinai Hospital. Two important things were determined then— that my future wife was not a carrier for MSUD, and that the mutation of MSUD that I had was not the standard one and would not have been detected by the Dor Yeshorim test. (As a matter of fact, we are doing a retest now to provide data against which my siblings can test their own children for carrier status when they enter shidduchim.) This mutation is actually a more lenient variant, which is why I am able to tolerate some protein.

Still, I know my (and my mother’s) experience can be of great help. Dr. Melissa Wasserstein, Dr. Snyderman’s successor in Mount Sinai, has referred new parents of children with MSUD to my mother for insight, support—and recipes.

I still remember when I went to visit another pioneer in the field, Dr. Holmes Morton. He established the Clinic for Special Children in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, where he serves Old Order Amish and Mennonite families, who have a higher-than-normal incidence of rare genetic diseases—including MSUD— because they stay in the community and marry cousins. They were astounded that we had thought of the idea of using the formula to substitute for milk in coffee,

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Center, who was a pioneer in the field of genetic metabolic disorders.

Other than fruits and vegetables, the only foods I ate were baked products made with wheat starch rather than flour, potato products such as kugel (containing no eggs), and of course, the formula, which is what I live on.

When I was eight, I was diagnosed with diabetes, which further limited my diet.

I eventually switched to a sugar-free formula manufactured in England, and my parents were able to have the OU go down to the factory, just for us, to determine if it was kosher. On Pesach it’s more challenging since I can eat very little matzah. I can have some, but I use the smallest shiurim for a kezayis—one kezayis rather than two for motzi matzah, a small piece for koreich, etc. Aside from that, I can only have potatoes, fruits and vegetables, minimal matzah and no eggs, nuts, chicken, meat, fish, milk, etc. The formula I drink contains kitniyos; I drink it, but I have to keep away from everyone else when I do.

I was also able to fast on taaneisim over the protests of Dr. Snyderman—who feared an increase in ketone levels—but we were able to pull it off uneventfully.

There have been occasions when I was hospitalized because my protein level rose too high, but generally everything was okay. I am married and the father of four children, all healthy, ka”h.

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LETTERS

and that my mother had come up with alternate recipes for kugel, kokosh cake and latkes, to name a few.

I can be reached through Ami. I would imagine that speaking to someone who has MSUD and has been able to marry, have a family, and experience a normal Jewish life would provide a great measure of comfort and encouragement to all those suffering.

Hatzlachah!

tions relating to myriad components.

Such informations disseminates fear and dread among a significant number of your readers who are taking tamoxifen, of which I am one.

S.M.

More Information

Yehuda F.

Finding a good marriage counselor is key

Reading the Fine Print

Dear Editor:

Beware of what you print In reference to “Clean Bill,” Issue 251

Dear Editor: Publishing a statement about a connection between tamoxifen and uterine cancer was a mistake.

Patients should be careful not make healthcare choices in regard to serious illnesses on the basis of articles in a magazine.

The excellent doctors who help patients make these decisions understand complex studies that are printed in academic journals. These studies are based on the research of thousands of highly educated, dedicated professionals who present graphs, charts and data that involve subtle distinc-

In reference to “Beware of the Marriage Cancelers,” Issue 251

I appreciate Racheli Sofer’s attempt to warn readers about bad marriage counseling, as well as her attempt to balance her attack with a few mentions of “good therapy.”

Basically, Mrs. Sofer listed one failing repeatedly—emphasizing the faults of one spouse. More research would have shown such items as (1) working with a spouse alone to the exclusion of his/her partner; (2) the therapist allowing his/her own personal issues to cloud the assessment of the couple; and above all, (3) not having sufficient training to do marital work.

I assume that the goal of the article was to enable readers to assess their own experience in therapy and determine whether it is worthwhile. I suggest that you turn

to the research on couples therapy to get that answer—specifically, to the work of John Gottman, PhD (who, by the way, is an Orthodox Jew).

Gottman’s 33 years studying couples and how they change has yielded nine building blocks for a successful marriage— seven “floors” and two “walls” that comprise what he calls the “Sound Relationship House.” They are (1) working to understand your partner’s inner world, (2) sharing fondness and admiration, (3) turning “toward” rather than “away,” (4) having positive statements override negative, (5) knowing how to manage conflict, (6) making life dreams come true, and (7) creating shared meaning. These are the seven “floors” of the house, supported by two “walls”—(8) trust and (9) commitment.

If your therapist is helping you build a Sound Relationship House, you are in the right place.

Chaim Horwitz, PhD Director, Mt. Laurel Center for the Family Lakewood, New Jersey

Sheimos Notice: An ad on page 51 in Issue 252 and on page 59 in Issue 253 contained sheimos. Please treat these pages accordingly.

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I

f you are planning a simcha, these pages really speak to you. Your to-do list is probably growing each day while you’re busy with phone calls to the caterer, florist, photographer and printer. As you turn these pages, the ads and articles capture your interest. Perhaps you’d like to try one of the advertised services, or benefit from some of the ideas in the articles. Even if you’ve basically got it all figured out by now, you’re still out for some inspiring simcha thoughts to keep your mood up while you run on extra doses of caffeine to make it to the big day.

But think for just a moment about the many singles and their parents who are still waiting to make a simcha. They put on a cheerful smile as they wish you mazel tov, and graciously attend their neighbors’ and friends’ vorts and weddings. They turn these pages with en entirely different eye. To them, the pretty floral arrangements and wedding gowns are viewed with a pang. Some of them even find it too painful to open this supplement. Why be exposed to the excitement of simcha planning, which only increases the hurt?

one of the sides. You can also call an official shadchan to share your idea.

All it takes is some thought and a few minutes on the phone. If one idea doesn’t work out, don’t be discouraged! Every reasonable suggestion is appreciated by the people involved, and helps bring them closer to their bashert.

Even if you’re not the shadchan-type, this is something you can definitely do! Hundreds of people have joined this effort to suggest shidduchim voluntarily, with astounding results. Shadchanim have their hands full, and they simply can’t think of everyone. By pitching in to help, you can make an “Write down the names of important difference. the singles you know and

care about and try to think of possible shidduch ideas.

Call up a friend or relative and discuss possibilities.”

Okay, you’re thinking. So what can I do about it?

I’m busy preparing for one of the biggest days in my life! Why mar the joy by thinking about other people’s pain?

No, this isn’t about sharing the pain. It’s about sharing the joy! We’re offering you the opportunity to supplement your own simcha by bringing joy to others. Yes, you can make a difference to the people who are waiting out there, longing to read these pages for their practical value. All it takes is a few minutes of your time!

Find a quiet moment and start a new list. (Don’t use the margins of your wedding plan sheets!) Write down the names of the singles you know and care about and try to think of possible shidduch ideas. Call up a friend or relative and discuss possibilities. If you think a shidduch idea is appropriate and might work out, please don’t hesitate to pick up the phone and suggest it to

“I was very hesitant at first to call up my second cousin with a shidduch idea for her son,” says Hadassah P. “When I finally took the plunge and made that phone call, I was pleasantly surprised to see how grateful she was to me for thinking of them. In the end, although my idea didn’t work out for them, my cousin gave me a different name of someone who she felt was a more appropriate match to the girl I suggested.

And guess what – the shidduch really happened!”

So while you choose the flowers and the band, try on gowns and cross items off your endless list, take a few minutes to make that shidduch phone call. What better way to supplement your own simcha?

The zechus of thinking and doing for others l’shem shamayim will surely enhance your simcha, increasing the joy and the bracha. When the band will pick up a lively tune and your heart will overflow with gratitude to Hashem, you will know that you did your share to bring simcha to those who are waiting for the music to begin.

Mazel tov – oif simchas by EVERYONE!

HOMERY – WHERE HOME HAPPENS Shopping at the Homery is not for the faint of heart. Unlike your usual local hardware store, the Homery is a rare interbreed – comparable to the best of Bed Bath & Beyond, The Container Store, and Crate & Barrel combined.

food huggers, Homery has something for everyone. Incredibly, the indecisive-color-kallah now fills her wagon with bright green kitchen gadgets and mixing bowls. Obviously bright green is the way to go.

When walking into Homery, one immediately gets taken aback by the sheer vastness of the store. With over 10,000 square feet of space, every item is displayed prominently and beautifully.

I smell the mikvah before I see it but am not surprised to see a guy standing there, ready to help you dip your stuff or if need be, they will toivel it for you and deliver it to your door.

With good reason, the Homery has become the ‘it’ store for kallah’s all over. It’s impossible not to love shopping at the Homery.

I quickly skim through the rest of the store and note how nothing is ordinary at the Homery. Think you want a simple colander?

Think again. Color? Collapsible? Handles? Shape? Size?

The first thing I notice are the small appliance counters at the center right. Two attendants man the counters, available to answer any question one might have.

I marvel at the salesman’s know-how as a customer asks why one water urn is $20.00 cheaper than the next same-size one. I am even more astonished when he clarifies patiently their different heating capabilities, and suggests she takes the cheaper one since she doesn’t like her coffee burning hot anyway.

Impressed at the honesty and knowledge of the Homery, a further walk doesn’t disappoint. The first wall to the left will simply take your breath away.

The entire wall is lined with containers and baskets. If you struggle with organization, one look at this wall will cure your procrastination and motivate you to get organizing! From cutesy to sophisticated, there’s a basket, a box, a container to match.

Kallah’s not only spend an awful amount of time in this aisle, but they revel in it too!

The next aisle is the homemaker’s sanctuary. Along the long wall is a huge variety of high quality pots and pans in every color imaginable. Every home cook knows that a good meal starts with a great pot. One kallah with her mother, and what seems like a personal shopper, contemplate a Rachel Ray set of pots and pans. The bright green, banana yellow, or a muted pastel mint? I am pretty sure I hear the kallah call the grandmother for a third opinion as I walk away.

Afterwards I spot the kitchen thingamajigs, bowls, strainers and more. Impeccably presented, there’s gadgets in every color, for every task. From egg timers to banana slicers, carrot curlers to

There is an entire aisle devoted to unique giftware. I want to gift myself everything. Oh, and the aisle of electronics. And bath accessories.

But it’s the show-stopping showroom in the back that should really make my husband glad I forgot my credit card at home. The table is set spectacularly, royally. There are napkin rings, napkins, tablecloths, chargers, candlesticks, cutlery, dishes, and more.

The selection is overwhelming. Ornate, contemporary, traditional and sophisticated.

As if on cue, our kallah and entourage arrive. In this cozy niche I learn that the personal shopper is actually a specially trained kallah shopper who is available by appointment through the Homery, at no extra charge. “Our shopper has been great with steering us clear from unnecessary purchases and telling us which items are worth spending more for,” The kallah says.

Proprietor of Homery and himself a father of marrieds, Mr. Green, knows how difficult the financial stress can be when marrying off and therefor offers each kallah 10% off from her order - and that is on top of the already low prices Homery is known for!

Follow Homery on Instagram and Facebook for free giveaways, promotions, specials, and the latest on Homery news. But more importantly, visit Homery at its core – their stunning store. It won’t disappoint.

Because if home is where the heart is; Homery is where the heartiness happens.

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THE

REBBETZIN SPEAKS

ALL TALK

WHAT COMES AFTER VENTING?

W

hen I looked down at my hands and saw how bruised and discolored they were, I was startled at first, until I remembered that a few days earlier a nurse had tried and failed several times to find a vein for a routine blood test.

The sight of black-and-blue blotches triggered a memory of Dr. Jack Klieger, our devoted family physician of many years.

Towards the end of his life, he was subjected to infusions, blood tests and needle pokes. On one of my last visits to him, his hands were discolored, with angry red, black and purple patches testifying to the many medical procedures he had undergone. I expressed my concern.

“So long as it’s my hands that are bruised and not my brain, I won’t complain,” he said.

Dr. Klieger was exquisitely devoted to his patients. In contrast to the current medical climate, which seems increasingly dispassionate and “professional,” he was concerned not only with the physical wellbeing of his patients but with their emotional state as well. When Dr. Klieger

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ordered a diagnostic—biopsies, X-rays, scans or blood work—he would personally oversee and expedite the results. He understood that leaving a patient in limbo was not only insensitive but downright cruel. He appreciated our Sages’ teaching “There is no greater joy than the resolution of doubt.”

Even when a report is negative, G-d forbid, having a concrete diagnosis enables a patient to come to terms with his situation, consider his options, and begin drawing on an inner resilience that moves him towards well-being.

The torturous state of limbo is not limited to anxieties about health. It also applies to the familiar indecision that plagues many

a voice from Heaven to inform her decision.

At long last, by the grace of Hashem, she took the leap.

Bella described her new state as one of relief—and liberation. There really is no greater simchah than the resolution of doubt, the shift from hypothetical to concrete, from provisional to committed.

Elana described her experience in psychotherapy as joyous. Therapy allowed her the freedom to vent about the insensitivity of her boss, the tedium of her daily chores, the intolerable passive-aggression of her in-laws, the inattention of her husband, and the chutzpah of her neighbors. She said she felt that venting to anyone who would listen was cathartic,

Even if nothing changes, you will be left with inner peace. individuals in shidduchim. Consider Bella, who met a young man who had come highly recommended. After several dates, it became apparent that he was a person of substance who lived up to his reputation in every way. Nonetheless, doubt began to gnaw at her. She requested additional meetings, which brought her no closer to a resolution.

Paralyzed by anxiety, Bella decided to call off the shidduch—only to find herself returning again and again to thoughts of this young man, who she now understood was truly a worthy candidate. It was clear that she had been hoping for no less than

2 4 S H VA T 5 7 7 6

relieving the pressure of her inner steam engine. For example, she opined, if parents couldn’t vent their feelings about colicky infants, exhausting toddlers, or noxious teenagers, no child would ever survive long enough to see adulthood. Finding a safe place to blow off steam, like a therapist’s office, was useful and necessary.

The caveat, however, is that it is easy to misuse venting. Complaining and whining incessantly may substitute for action. Psychologists caution that for those who vent constantly, bemoan their helplessness, and see themselves as victims of circumstance, it is imperative that they confront the real

Rebbetzin Feige Twerski is the mother of 11 children and many grandchildren, bli ayin hara. Alongside her husband, Rabbi Michel Twerski, she serves as rebbetzin to her community in Milwaukee and counsels people all over the globe. The rebbetzin is a popular lecturer, speaking on a wide variety of topics to audiences in America and overseas. She is the author of Ask Rebbetzin Feige, and more recently of Rebbetzin Feige Responds.

www.AzureLCS.com

issues and make changes in their behavior. One therapist calls this “confronting the duck,” a metaphor borrowed from cookbook author Julia Child on the daunting task of boning a duck.

She says, “You may think that boning a duck is an impossible feat. Do not be intimidated. Take your knife and confront your duck.”

Of course, the “duck” can be any situation. Confronting the duck means using all of our energy to push ourselves through fear and begin acting in a positive and assertive way.

A scenario in which action is far more effective than venting is one well-known to family therapists—the common dynamic where a wife, frustrated by her husband’s lack of attention, registers her annoyance in sweeping accusations and denunciations made in anger. A more productive approach would be for the wife to “confront her duck” in a state of calm, deliberating about how she might express her vexation in an impactful way. Instead of endlessly declaring, “You never pay attention to me!,” she could consider stating, “When I’m talking to you and you’re looking at your phone, it makes me feel marginalized and unappreciated.”

A similar approach is necessary in dealing with wayward children. Instead of yelling, “You’re wretched and worthless, and I can’t take this anymore,” a more effective approach would be to say, “I love you too much to stand by and watch you self-destruct. We no longer share positive experiences, and I am petrified that with the impulsive, ill-considered choices you are making, you will end up really hurting yourself or worse.

Unless you get help, I cannot interact with you anymore.”

Likewise, yelling at a teenager about homework isn’t as effective as explaining, “When you don’t do your homework, you compromise your future. You may not see that now, but because I am older and have experience, I know this to be a fact of life.

I can’t force you to do it, but if you choose not to, I can’t protect you from the consequences.”

In short, all the energy used to vent is now channeled into constructive action. You may not always get what you want, but even if nothing changes, you will be left with inner peace— because at the very least, you will have acted instead of merely talking about acting.

Venting has its place; it is cathartic and draws support. But in excess, it can be poisonous, a diversion that keeps us from “confronting our duck” and acting. At the end of the day, taking action offers us lasting dignity and the supreme joy of selfrespect. 

PARSHAH

by Rabbanit Yemima Mizrachi

How to Make Decisions

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This

week’s parshah starts with words that are directed toward men and women alike: “V ’eileh hamishpatim asher tasim lifneihem, these are the judgments which you shall put before them.” As Torah Jews, we all constantly make judgments.

Subconsciously and consciously, we’re always weighing our options. Do I want to have a clean house or be a calm mother? Invest

more hours at work to bring in more money, or be a more available wife?

Sometimes the speculations seem minor, but the decisions are incumbent upon us nevertheless. Should I prepare another dish for dinner or take a short nap? Should I do homework with this child or play Rummikub with that one? Nobody will make that decision for you, and you want to do it right.

The difficulty of the decision-making process is compounded by the knowledge that in many cases, both choices are technically sound. You’re not weighing the consequences of a mitzvah over an aveirah; it’s the choice between two apparent mitzvos that throws you off. Should you volunteer for the local chesed organization or spend more time with your loved ones?

Rabbanit Mizrachi is one of Israel’s most popular speakers, with tens of thousands of students. Her lectures are attended by hundreds of women.

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What can you do when you find yourself weighing the pros and cons of one duty over another, trying desperately to determine what’s right for you at that moment? Let’s look into this week’s parshah for guidance.

Our Torah has established for us a crystalclear guide and with this clarity we can achieve peace and happiness in the heart and home. The mishpatim in the Torah increase shalom among people. Thus, we’re permitted, and even encouraged, to forgo a mitzvah if doing it will detract from peace in the world.

Let’s use the example of tzaar baalei chaim to explain this concept. The parshah gives us a scenario in which a person encounters two men; one is about to load his donkey and one is in the middle of unloading his donkey.

Faced with this choice, the person is required to help the latter so that the animal will not suffer unnecessarily. However, if the other person is an enemy of his, he is obligated to assist him first in order to conquer his yetzer hara (Bava Metziah 32:71). Imagine that— the person you loathe is the one you should help first!

But what happens to the important mitzvah of tzaar baalei chaim?

Sometimes promoting peace means doing the opposite of helping—it means leaving the situation altogether. If you know that certain situations upset you and stir up resentment inside you, the right decision is to avoid them.

What does oneg Shabbat mean to you?

Many women (myself included) envision a lavish spread with five main course options and fifteen dips. It sounds so lovely, so royal! But what happens to your home in the process? Is the plan all about pots and

A PROJECT OF A TIME

W O M E N ’ S

H E A L T H

The Best Is Yet To Be pans? What happens to the mitzvah of tzaar baalei chaim? Why shouldn’t your husband and children enjoy a calm, pressure-free environment?

That’s where decision-making can get tough, because the yetzer hara has a wickedly clever way of getting to us women; he knows exactly how to speak our language, how to say the words that will influence us most. But with our clarity, we can always remind ourselves that the highest rung in our ladder of values is the imperative to keep the peace.

As Jewish women, we are constantly inundated with difficult

We are inundated with difficult decisions.

How do we know which ones to choose? decisions. How do we know which ones to choose? The answer is to take a step back and see the whole picture. “Mishpetei Hashem emet tzadku— yachdav.” If we look ahead and see what each decision will bring about, we will know what’s right for us at the moment.

In Parshat Mishpatim, the Torah tells us, “Lo tateh mishpat… v’lo tikach shochad.” How can you know if you withheld the truth?

How can you determine if you were guilty of bribing yourself or others? You can avoid these transgressions only if you are true to yourself. When we opt to look the other way and choose the more glamorous option just because it feels better to us, we are withholding the truth from ourselves and our loved ones. And when we bribe ourselves into thinking that the supplementary paycheck will help pay tuition, whom are we kidding?

A Torah life is all about clarity. It’s all about peace. And when you fulfill your personal “naaseh v’nishma,” doing what you know is right for you to do, you will merit naaseh v’nismach, experiencing true joy. 

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For married women only

GOLDEN NUGGETS // By Chaya Gross

BRINGING FORTH BLESSINGS

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“Perhaps in your life you once desecrated the Name of Hashem, and therefore the gates of Heaven were closed to your prayers.” ings. Perhaps in your life you once desecrated the Name of Hashem, and therefore the gates of Heaven were closed to your prayers. When you answer ‘amen yehei Shemei Rabba’ loudly, with kavanah, you sanctify the Name of Hashem. If you do this, im yirtzeh Hashem, you will soon stand under your chuppah and at your own son’s

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The man took Rav Hutner’s words to heart. Beginning at Minchah that day, he answered loudly to Kaddish, with great concentration.

A few weeks later, he became a chasan— and a year later he honored Rav Hutner with sandeka’us at his son’s bris. 

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av Yitzchok Hutner was born in 1906 in Warsaw, Poland. After his marriage to Masha Lipshitz, they moved to Brooklyn. He was renowned for his extensive Torah knowledge, deep wisdom and wit. He is most famously associated with Yeshivas Chaim Berlin, which is renowned for its Torah scholars. In 1980, Rav Hutner was niftar and was buried on Har Hazeisim.

Once, at a bris in the Chaim Berlin beis midrash, Rav Hutner noticed a man on the side who looked as though he were undergoing some hardship. Afterward, Rav Hutner invited him to his office to talk. He gazed silently at the man with extreme compassion, and suddenly the man broke down in tears. Between sobs, he explained that he was an older bachur who had not yet been zocheh to set up his own home.

“I am an erliche Yid who sits and learns Torah,” he said. “Nevertheless, despite the numerous suggestions I have received over the years, I am still single.”

When the bachur had composed himself, Rav Hutner spoke. “There is a segulah from our gedolim that answering ‘amen yehei Shemei Rabba’ can bring forth many bless-

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PERSONALITY // By C.S.Teitelbaum

AGE: 72 LIVES: Stamford Hill, London CHILDREN: 11, ka”h OCCUPATION: Running a chuppah reception gemach

Table done by the ladies of the gemach

Women to Know

THIS WEEK WITH

Rebbetzin Rachel Smith

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or those who still believe that the UK is light-years behind the US, it’s time to pay a visit—or better yet, make a simchah—across the pond. The communities in England all boast something that their American counterparts don’t have: a gemach for preparing and setting up chuppah receptions at cost price, sparing baalei simchah excessive catering fees.

Stamford Hill, Golders Green, Gateshead and Manchester each have a gemach with its own special operations. Here, Ami spotlights the Stamford Hill gemach.

“At the end of the day, making the couple happy is what’s most important.”

—Rebbetzin Rachel Smith 46

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EARLY DAYS

Mrs. Leisel Spitzer, a’’h, founded the chuppah reception gemach 45 years ago. In those days, when catered chuppos were reserved for the affluent, baalei simchah made |

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the food in their own kitchens. Overwhelmed by the idea of doing that volume of baking, a friend of Mrs. Spitzer asked the balebusta if she could lend her a hand.

Mrs. Spitzer gladly enlisted a crew of friends and they put together a beautiful event.

Word spread and more requests found their way to her. After a while she formed a group that became known simply as the chuppah reception gemach. The group charged baalei simchah the cost price for the food, drinks, paper goods and tablecloths, and nothing for the labor of setting up the chuppah, except to request any amount the family wanted to donate to hachnasas kallah. Thus the gemach greatly lessened families’ chasunah expenses.

Amazingly, Mrs. Spitzer continued to run the gemach single-handedly even after she moved into Schonfeld Square nursing

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PERSONALITY // By C.S.Teitelbaum

Table done by the ladies of the gemach

home, although she continued to tease her longstanding volunteer, Rebbetzin Rachel Smith, about one day taking charge of the gemach. The rebbetzin, however, always insisted that until 120 she would remain nothing more than a “shmearer,” helping to prepare small sandwiches and the like before each chuppah.

Soon enough, Mrs. Spitzer handed the reins over to her chief assistant, the rebbetzin, who has been running the gemach on her own for 15 years.

ONE-WOMAN BAND

Rebbetzin Smith is the wife of the esteemed Rav Dovid Smith, z”l, of London, a close confidant of the Satmar Rebbe, Rav Yoel Teiltelbaum, zt”l. Rav Smith, a renowned talmid chacham who served as rosh kollel of Kollel Chaim Ozer in Stamford Hill and authored several sefarim, was niftar 19 years ago, leaving the rebbetzin with their youngest three children to marry off. The rebbetzin was used to managing alone; she had, and still has, many kehillah commitments, most notably heading the gemach. This job includes making bulk orders, coordinating their delivery, paying the bills each month and much more.

I enter her immaculate home and find this wonderful woman at work. I remember a moment too late to lower my head as I descend to the basement where the gemach supplies are stored, but the bump is worth the price of seeing how the gemach is organized. This is a chesed that is performed generously and with style. The shelves hold tins of tuna, jars of mayonnaise, containers

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of eggs, towers of disposable trays, and rolls of plastic tablecloths. I also see glassware and dishes in all shapes and sizes, along with collections of napkins in a variety of hues.

My tour is interrupted by the doorbell. The rebbetzin heads back upstairs to receive a paper goods delivery while I continue browsing the shelves. I feel like a kid in a candy store as I peek into boxes lined up to be taken to a hall. When she returns, the rebbetzin shows me her tightly packed file cabinet, or her “computer,” as she calls it, with its orderly handwritten lists that are very much like Excel spreadsheets.

The gemach does not cater only to the needy.

It is used by families who may well be able to afford a catered affair but who would rather use the services of the talented gemach ladies. These families might pay for some lavish extras, like a tea and coffee bar, for added elegance, but they can still offer the gemach a generous hachnasas kallah donation and even come home with change. Baalei simchah such as these keep the gemach running, and their donations are used to help needy kallos.

“What greater zechus can parents buy for their young couple’s happiness?” the rebbetzin asks.

The gemach system remains relatively unchanged from its early days. Aside from baked goods that are now purchased, and upgrades in style, Rebbetzin Smith still boils five dozen eggs each morning for the bridge rolls [small soft rolls filled with egg and a garnish, popular in Britain] and washes, checks and peels the garnishing vegetables. Only then does her day take off, and she sometimes doesn’t return home until early evening.

Rebbetzin Smith’s pool of 35 dedicated volunteers are able to relax at the end of the month, a time when many Jews do not make weddings.

Not so for the rebbetzin, who is still busy sorting out all her suppliers’ invoices and replenishing the stock of goods for next month’s 30 or more chuppah receptions. The only times she has a breather are on Shabbos and during Sefirah and the Three Weeks. “I’m often asked to do kiddushes,” she says, “but I won’t give up davening in shul on Shabbos.”

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PERSONALITY // By C.S.Teitelbaum

volunteer, told me that she recently asked the rebbetzin if she ever has time for herself.

“Yes,” the rebbetzin replied. “Sefirah!”

Mrs. Dankowitz, whose own trademark creativity gives the chuppah receptions their artistic touch, says the rebbetzin really can’t retire because “no one would be able to pull off what she does.”

Echoing her admiration, Mrs. Ellen Getter, who has been volunteering for the gemach since Mrs. Spitzer’s days, says their work can hardly be considered a sacrifice since they derive such great satisfaction from entering an empty hall and leaving behind a simchah. It is Rebbetzin Smith who carries the entire burden. “I imagine the weight of those endless tins of tuna and dozens and dozens of eggs on her scales in shamayim, and I envy her Olam Haba!”

CHANGING TRENDS

I ask this veteran baalas simchah, who has more than a thousand receptions to her credit, how simchos have changed over time.

“Simchos used to be so much simpler,” she muses. “Sometimes I wonder how Mrs. Spitzer would have accepted this. Back then, we used white foam paperware for receptions, and people were happy!”

With changing trends, they’ve had to upgrade, first to mirror dishes and then to glassware; Lucite plasticware replaced paper goods. But since the baalei simchah are paying for these costs, she has no problem with their choices. She wants them to be happy—though she admits that she is sometimes baffled by the parents’ nitpickiness when it comes to things as trivial as pastry toppings.

“Will these things really make the couple happier?” she asks. “At the end of the day, isn’t that what’s most important? And this attitude rubs off on the kallah, who also starts thinking it’s about the topping!

“When I got engaged, my mother straight away encouraged me to make suppers. ‘You can burn it in my house, but you can’t burn it in yours,’ she’d chide. Then she’d bring me a pile of my father’s and brothers’ shirts and tell me to iron them for practice. And I’m glad she did.

Today, a young kallah would give her mother a

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look that says, ‘Where’s the cleaning lady?’”

It’s obvious where the rebbetzin got her homemaking and culinary skills. In fact, she’s the one who shows her volunteers how to plate the food and arrange the platters. “I like things nice and neat,” she says matter-of-factly.

Decked out in plastic gloves and aprons, the volunteers expertly spread eggs, tuna and smoked salmon on 25 dozen fresh bakery bridge rolls, deftly garnishing them with olive slices, diced peppers and cress, according to the rebbetzin’s precise directions. They relish the camaraderie and conversation that takes place around the table.

Rebbetzin Smith says she has many older volunteers whom she values greatly because they are available when the younger ones are not; weddings often take place during the hours that are prime time for families, when the mother must be home. She says she herself only started volunteering when her youngest started school.

FROM START TO FINISH

When parents make a shidduch, one of their first calls is to Rebbetzin Smith. They provide several dates to see when she is available, and they know that at maximum she will do two chuppos a day. Two months before the wedding, she calls the baal simchah for the chuppah schedule, the family’s exact requirements (including any food allergies), taste preferences, color scheme, tablecloth design, type of paper goods, cake and drink varieties—everything but the flowers, which the baal simchah takes care of.

Payment is due in full three weeks before the wedding.

On the day of the chasunah some 15 volunteers arrive at midday to start setting up. The gemach’s paid driver transports all the boxes from Rebbetzin Smith’s basement to the hall, and she takes care of deliveries that are made directly to the hall.

Then the food preparation begins. Bridge rolls are filled and arranged on platters. Fruit is peeled, sliced and cubed; cake slices are arrayed on trays.

The tables are positioned and tablecloths are draped prettily over terraced surfaces. Fishballs and fish platters are distributed; egg kichel and

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special moments

PERSONALITY // By C.S.Teitelbaum

Table done by the ladies of the gemach

herring are decoratively plated with pickles, cucumbers and cherry tomatoes, and juices are poured into jugs. The yichud room is prepared with a posh set of Villeroy and Boch china that is over ten years old and has lasted surprisingly well.

After several hours of work, the volunteers clear the tables, sweep the floors and place the empty boxes in the hall’s kitchen for later use.

They can now go home…except Rebbetzin Smith, who waits to greet the baalei simchah and stays on until the chuppah is over. When there are two chuppos in one day, she will attend the larger one and appoint someone to oversee the other.

A new crew of ten volunteers comes in afterward to clean up. They wash the glassware and trays, bubble-wrap them and store them in their boxes, funnel the juice back into the bottles, pack up all leftover food for the baal simchah to take home, and replenish the cake trays for the mitzvah tantz.

LABOR OF LOVE

Although the gemach’s operations are tightly organized, a reception—as with any event— might not always run seamlessly. Volunteers are first booked, and then Rebbetzin Smith’s daughter gives them all a reminder call. Often, one or two have a last-minute appointment and cannot make it, which means more work for those who are left.

And then there are the occasional hiccups,

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such as a supplier sending a mistaken order to the catering hall, or a delivery being made to the wrong address that had the same street number, but was on a different street.

The volunteers have many stories of siyata dishmaya. Among them is Mrs. Suraly Lew, who made a one-year commitment to the gemach for an aliyas neshamah for her mother-in-law, who loved simchos, and is still there 12 years later. She recounts the time a fish delivery was delayed, which meant she had to wait around as the baalei simchah were having their pictures taken in order to put the fish out as soon as it came. Suddenly one of the tables gave way and all the contents went sliding to the floor, landing in a creamy heap. Mrs. Lew had a chance to fix the table and clean up before the fish arrived.

Mrs. Esther Rothbard, a volunteer of 16 years, notes that the ladies work with such genuine pleasure that although they sometimes arrive at a hall before the heat has been turned on, the chill is thawed by the warmth of their joy and camaraderie.

To illustrate how the volunteers go beyond the call of duty, she shares a memory of a kallah who forgot her sheitel at home. The hall was in an outlying area, and with no time to waste, one of the volunteer drivers rushed out to bring it. One can only imagine what it was like in the early days, when there were no mobile phones and the three main halls were not in walking distance of the community.

“For any problem, like delayed delivery or missing cake knives, we had to go outside the hall to use the public pay phone,” the rebbetzin says, laughing. “Today’s youngsters would hardly believe me.” She recalls, almost with awe, when the first volunteer bought a mobile phone and how indispensable it turned out to be.

Conveniences notwithstanding, I would venture to suggest that it’s the old-world style and goodheartedness of these ladies that gives the chuppah gemach its unique charm and blessing.

May they always be busy with simchos! 

What Every Kallah Needs To Know Before Choosing Her Wedding Gown

By Bridal Studio

M

azel Tov! You’re a kallah! And you’re looking forward to the most exciting and memorable day of your life. There will be flowers and music, family and friends. And at the center of it all – there will be you, resplendent and stunning in your beautiful wedding gown.

But purchasing or renting that gown may seem daunting. After all, according to Leah of the Bridal Studio, “This is the dress that defines you as a kallah.” Leah knows of what she speaks. She’s helped dress countless kallahs until now, and understands many starry eyed young ladies, this guidebook does wonders to help them make the crucial decision of choosing a gown. ◆ Here are some of her secrets: SILHOUETTE: While every gown is amazing, certain ‘looks’ are more flattering and slimming to each individual kallah. That’s why kallahs should familiarize themselves with the various styles and silhouettes.

A-Line: Resembling the letter A, this silhouette is usually flattering for all body types.

Ball Gown: A natural or dropped waist with a dramatically full skirt.

Fit-to-Flare: Also known as a modified A-Line, this style is fitted to the upper thigh and then gently flares out at the bottom.

Mermaid: A fitted gown with a seam at the knee that flares out to a very full bottom.

Sheath: A slim gown with a straight shape.

FABRIC: There are many rich and elegant fabrics to choose from, and some can be combined with synthetic fibers for a luxurious look at a more affordable price.

Choices include silk, satin, organza, taffeta, tulle, charmeuse, chiffon, brocade, damask, and faille (pronounced ‘file’).

A WORD ABOUT LACE: Though some skirts and bodices are entirely overlaid by lace, more often lace is used as an accent on sleeves, necklines, and hems. There are dozens of popular styles of lace, including Alençon, the soft and intricate Chantilly;

the heavy, brain-enhanced Battenberg; and the whispery point d’esprit, which is little more than subtle patterns of dots on a net background.

EMBELLISHMENTS: Embellishments are to a dress what icing is to a cake. That cake may be delicious, but it’s the frosting that everyone sees first! Some kallahs shudder at the word embellishment, fearing that too many sequins will turn from gorgeous to garish. In fact, wedding gown embellishments can be both tasteful and genuinely pretty.

Here are just a few options: Appliques: These are fabric cutouts that are sewn onto the dress. Often the cutouts themselves are embellished by embroidery, beading, or sequins.

Beading: Tiny beads made of polished glass, crystal, metal, gems, or other materials are sewn (or sometimes glued) onto the dress. Bugle beads are cylindrical and lend themselves to edgings and curved designs.

Austrian crystals are especially popular.

CHOOSING THE PERFECT GOWN How does a kallah know when the gown she’s trying is perfect for her?

Leah says that often a kallah’s face will light up and her expression says it all. “It’s my favorite part of the job,” says Leah. But for those who aren’t sure, she suggests that every kallah ask herself the following: Do I love this gown?

Is it comfortable to wear?

Is it within my budget?

Does it fit my look?

Is it overpowering or does it flatter me?

And finally – Could this be the gown of my dreams?

Pearls: The smallest are seed pearls, applied singly or in strands. Baroque pearls are irregularly shaped. Like wedding gowns themselves, pearls are most often seen in shades in white and off-white.

FIT: There is no “perfect figure” when it comes to finding the right wedding gown.

Each kallah must find the one that reflects her personal style and that flatters her most.

First, know yourself. There’s a big difference between shopping for everyday clothing and zeroing in on the perfect gown. The job of a bridal consultant is to match a kallah’s figure with the shape that looks the best on her.

“Everyone wants to look thin,” says Leah.

“And sometimes the gown that looks best on a girl isn’t the look she was dreaming about since she was three.” When that happens, Leah allows the kallah to see herself in the mirror and decide if this is really right for her.

Other times, Leah says, the dress is wearing the girl. “I see too much dress, not enough kallah,” she explains. That’s when she steps forward and says, “You’re too pretty for this dress. We don’t want to miss your face because we’re too busy looking at your dress.”

GOING TO GREAT HEIGHTS: For those kallahs who wish to look taller, Leah suggests the following: Go for a gown with long, uninterrupted lines, such as a sheath or mermaid style.

High necklines add length.

Gowns with fitted waists and full skirts can sometimes cut shorter women in half (visually, of course) and make them look undersized. The solution? Choose a dress with a basque-waisted bodice that ends in a V at your lower waist line or wear the highest heels you can.

Limit any beading, embroidery, ribbons, and/or lace to the chest and shoulder areas. ◆ The Bridal Salon is located in Williamsburg at 170 Williamsburg Street East. For more information or to schedule an appointment, call Leah at 718.782.8900

BYTES

// Morsels of Wisdom, Wit and Popular Advice By Miriam Glick

Just Say

s t r a Sm

Appreciation goes a long way when it comes to marriage Scientists at Georgia University questioned married couples about their finances, communication style, and how grateful they felt towards their partner. Interestingly, the level of gratefulness consistently predicted how happy the person was in the marriage.

“It just goes to show the power of saying ‘thank you,’” said study leader Dr. Allen Barton, a postdoctoral research associate at the school’s Center for Family Research. “Even if a couple is experiencing distress and difficulty in other areas, gratitude in the relationship can help promote positive marital outcomes.”

“Importantly, we found that when couples are engaging in a negative conflict pattern, expressions of gratitude and appreciation can counteract or buffer the negative effects of this type of interaction on marital stability,” added co-author Ted Futris, an associate professor at the school.

“This is the first study to document the protective effect that feeling appreciated by your spouse can have for marriages,” Barton said. “We think it is quite important, as it highlights a practical way couples can help strengthen their marriage, particularly if they are not the most adept communicators in conflict.”

SOLVE THE SOCK “SHIDDUCH CRISIS.” KEEP SINGLE SOCKS ON A CLIP UNTIL ITS MATE IS FOUND. ANY SOCK HANGING FOR A WEEK WITHOUT A MATCH SHOULD BE THROWN AWAY.

FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH DISCOVERED? A 13-year study of 75 women in rural Guatemala, sponsored by Simon Fraser University and the University of British Columbia, found that those women who had more children aged more slowly than those with fewer kids.

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Examination of the participants’ chromosomes revealed that the mothers with more children had longer telomeres, which help slow the aging process. Telomeres, the protective DNA caps on the ends of chromosomes, are an important part of the human cell that affect how our cells age. They are likened to the plastic tips of shoelaces, which help keep the laces from unraveling. Similarly, telomeres keep the chromosomes from fraying.

“The slower pace of telomere shortening…may be attributed to the dramatic increase in estrogen, a hormone produced during pregnancy. Estrogen functions as a potent antioxidant that protects cells,” explained professor of health sciences Pablo Nepomnaschy.

COMPANY COMING? HOW TO GET YOUR CHANDELIER SPARKLING FOR YOUR SIMCHAH BEFORE REMOVING crystals, turn off the light and take a picture! You’ll want to know exactly how to hang all those crystals back up.

PLACE a large blanket under the chandelier to catch any crystals that may fall in the process.

REMOVE each piece and place in a bowl of hot water with a mild detergent.

RINSE OFF every piece under hot water and lay out on lint-free cloth to dry.

PUTTERD AROUN the

HOUSE

DON’T FORGET to dust the light bulbs before re-hanging the crystals.

POLISH each crystal with a lint-free cloth and reassemble the chandelier.

OVER 2 MILLION W E D D I N G S T A K E P L AC E I N T H E U N I T E D S T AT E S E V E R Y Y E A R .

Myth: Fact: NEWBORN BABIES CAN’T SEE VERY WELL.

BABIES ARE BORN WITH FULL VISUAL CAPACITY.

This myth may have surfaced because babies are extremely nearsighted. “A newborn can only see about eight to 12 inches away,” said Roni Leiderman, PhD, associate dean of the Mailman Segal Institute for Early Childhood Studies at Nova Southeastern University in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. “A newborn can see just far enough to make out your face when you’re feeding him.”

Your baby’s eyes may also seem to jerk unsteadily but that’s normal. “Parents may notice that their newborn’s eyes move erratically at times, but that’s normal because the baby doesn’t have full control of the eye muscles yet,” explained pediatric occupational therapist Anne Zachry.

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Mazel Tov

By Dina Neuman

Brissim, bar mitzvahs and chasunos, oh my! Making a simchah is a joy and a privilege, but it can be very stressful.

And while comparing our celebrations and milestones to other cultures, l’havdil, is a case of apples and oranges, sometimes a peek there can be quite entertaining.

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Trying to fit into an outfit suitable for a bris eight days after giving birth can reduce the most stoic woman to tears, but I’ll take it over the Indian tradition of tossing newborns over the side of a thirtyfoot building, to be caught on stretchedout sheets below. It’s an ancient tradition that is said to instill courage and intelligence and bring about good fortune.

I say its child abuse.

Potato, potahto.

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In a Vietnamese tradition, the kimpeturin is confined to her home for a month after birth. Her household swells with two new members—the baby, of course, and her mother-in-law, who moves in for the duration. Wonderful or terror-inducing? It all depends on your relationship with your mother-in-law. (Mine is wonderful, by the way. And on a completely unrelated note, my mother-in-law is reading this. Hi, Mom.)

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Even before the kiddush or bris there are other parenting decisions to be made. Nursing or bottle?

Crying it out or the no-cry approach? Cosleeping or everyone in their own beds?

Organic food or regular? Stay at home or work?

While these topics are guaranteed to transform most civil gatherings in the park into full-fledged Mommy Wars, in Bali no one argues with attachment parenting.

For the first 105 days of a baby’s life, his feet are not allowed to touch the ground. To avoid this, the new mother holds the child continuously until that time has passed.

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For my bas mitzvah party, I invited my whole class for pizza, birthday cake and picture-frame painting. And although I spilled paint on my new dress and may or may not have burst into tears in front of all my friends, I think I had a much happier birthday party than a Mentawai girl, who celebrates her coming of age by sharpening her teeth into little points with a rock and chisel. She calls this beautiful.

Isn’t it amazing how standards of beauty are so different depending on the culture? At least, I would say that to her.

I mean, I would have to; she has scary pointed teeth.

“Today I am a man!” our boys announce in front of the shul when they become bar mitzvah, even as their still-highpitched voices attempt to prove their declaration premature. In the Hamar tribe in Ethiopia, boys prove that they are “men today” by undergoing a ceremony in which they are whipped by the men of the tribe. This is followed by a run across four bulls’ backs, and then, I hope, some herring and schnapps. They deserve it.

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Leaving your childhood behind takes on a whole new meaning if you are a member of the Algonquin tribe of Quebec. Boys on the verge of adulthood are given a powerful drug that strips them of their childhood memories.

If, as adults, they mention anything about their childhood, they are given a second dose of the drug. I wonder if a tiny bit of the stuff would erase the part of my childhood that involves a paint-splattered bas mitzvah dress.

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“Are you really going to leave the house looking like that?” some mothers ask their shidduch-age daughters. Appearances are certainly important. Young girls of the West African Fulani tribe would agree with that, as well as with the saying “No pain, no gain.” Those on the verge of marriage must not grimace or show any pain as their faces are tattooed for several hours with a sharpened stick.

8 10

Ah, the bride on her wedding day. It took a lot of tefillos and siyata diShmaya to reach this special day, but just look at her in her lovely white gown and veil and…layers of garbage?

Well, yes; if she is a bride from certain parts of Scotland, she would be tied to a tree as her family and friends throw horrible, gross things at her. The point seems to be that if she can handle this, she can handle anything, including her new marriage.

I’d say she could use new family and friends, too. May we only share simchos!

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The whats and whens of the gifts exchanged by the chasan and kallah depend on the customs of our various communities. In Fiji, the most important gift is not what the happy couple exchanges, but what the groom gives to his future father-in-law. Hint: It’s not a watch or a bracelet.

Give up? It’s a whale’s tooth. I can’t vouch for the practicality of obtaining a tooth from the largest mammal in the world, especially one that lives underwater; nor do I see what use said incisor would have in everyday life, but I wouldn’t say that to anyone’s face, at least not while they have a giant whale’s tooth. (I might have a fear of pointy teeth.)

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Think the phrase “on the market” is a rather crass and inaccurate term for being in shidduchim? You might be right if you are from America or England or Israel, but in China there is actually a market where concerned parents meet to find matches for their children. Due to the only recently relaxed singlechild laws and a preference for male children, there is a lopsided boy-to-girl ratio in China. At the matchmaking market in Shanghai, parents bring cards or papers with pictures and information about their children’s age, education, salary, personality and other information, which they hang from strings or boards, or hold aloft in their hands. For the many worried parents who can’t wait to dandle a grandchild on their knees, putting their child on the matchmaking market is a way to make those dreams come true.

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A Different Kind He loads box after box into the minivan, his daughter swiftly lowering the middle seats for additional space. A large smile spreads across the girl’s face as the last of her order is brought out from the warehouse. The flush on her cheeks, the sparkle in her eyes, and her confident stature are telltale signs of an ecstatic kallah. As her father stuffs the last two quilts against the window, the kallah settles into the car, never even noticing the tear that discreetly escapes her father’s blue-grey eyes.

They travel home, the kallah blissfully unaware that her entire shopping spree did not cost a penny. Her father, overcome with gratitude, can’t talk, afraid the tears will come unchecked. Later, he sends a letter to Chuppa expressing his feelings in heartfelt words.

For Shaya and Sury Fuchs, the couple who have been at the helm of Chuppa for the past five years, such letters simply reaffirm why they do what they do. It’s the delighted kallos especially, though, who give them the energy to move forward. When speaking with Sury, she related that a kallah who received assistance from Chuppa texted her last week, “Every time I cook dinner, serve my husband, sweep my floors, or joyfully fold my towels, I am reminded once again of Chuppa’s generosity and kindness. My husband and I want to extend the joy to another kallah. Please charge my credit card for $50 a month. Thank you, Bashi.”

Chuppa’s kallah is the girl next door. She is chasidish, Litvish, heimish, or modern.

She is your sister, your friend, your neighbor. She is the principal’s daughter, the valedictorian, the hardworking secretary.

In fact, she could be you. Yes, really! The average Chuppa kallah’s parents are hardworking people with a decent income. They live within their limited means and are not regularly recipients of tzedakah. But when it comes to marrying off a child, the astronomical expenses choke them dry. Many of our kallos’ parents earn a nice living, but by the time they marry off child number four, they are drained. Our kallah is truly a regular member of our community.

There is hardly a woman who can’t re-

member her very first set of dishes or pots. Setting up your home for the first time is a special and meaningful event that you remember fondly. Certainly every kallah should experience that thrill! Doesn’t every kallah deserve to start her marriage on the right foot?

pots lining the shelves.

Further down the room we reach the linen, towel and bathroom center. Every kallah gets two quilts and four high-quality pillows. From our elegant selection of linen, each kallah gets to choose two sets that are custom-ordered according to her bed size.

Setting up your home for the first time is a special and meaningful event that you remember fondly. Certainly every kallah should experience that thrill! Doesn’t every kallah deserve to start her marriage on the right foot?

That’s where Chuppa comes in. Chuppa provides a kallah with everything she can possibly need and want to set up her first home. Each kallah gets an appointment with a dedicated volunteer at Chuppa’s stunning showroom. Chuppa takes care to pair a kallah with someone of the same cultural background and “language.” They always confirm with the kallah the name of the volunteer beforehand in order to avoid uncomfortable situations, such as the matching of a teacher and a student.

No two kallos are ever in the showroom at the same time. Even on Sunday, Chuppa’s busiest day, kallos will be seen in the showroom back to back, yet no kallah is ever rushed; each receives at least two hours of undivided attention. Giving to the kallah b’derech kavod is a core requirement of Chuppa.

I meet with Sury at the showroom for a tour. At first glance, it looks like an upscale Home Goods! My eyes keep wandering to the display shelves. We stop at three beautifully set tables. There is a grand selection of dishes, cutlery and glasses from which the kallah gets to choose, according to her preference. Each kallah receives a service for eight, both milchig and fleishig. I marvel at the up-to-date styles, envisioning a set or two of them in my own home. I take note of the array of tablecloths and placemats, which coordinate with the dishes. How exciting it must be to put it all together!

The pots and pans as well are of top quality. I see Farberware, T-fal, and Korkmaz

Now the fun begins! The kallah selects from a variety of shower curtains, rings, towels and everything else needed to spruce up her bathroom. Chuppa doesn’t forget the little things, like hampers, irons, ironing boards, cleaning supplies, and even kitchen gadgets and small kitchen appliances like percolators and Crock-Pots.

“Not only do the kallos ‘shop’ at the showroom entirely for free, but they also get to walk out with the complete order, which is stored at the warehouse next door,” Sury explains.

In addition to housewares, Chuppa provides gift certificates for each kallah to use at The Lingerie Shop/Princess Boutique, Family Hose Center and The Shell Station. Also, contingent on various factors, Chuppa will treat the kallah to a day at the Jersey Garden Mall with a personal shopper. A shopping spree includes six or seven pairs of shoes, boots, sheva brachos outfits, coats, and a complete everyday wardrobe.

Even some extras, like a wallet and bag, are included. The kallah and her personal shopper form a special relationship by day’s end.

As the kallah exits the car, weighed down by her many new purchases, the feeling is always one of contentment. “Often, after I hug the kallah goodbye, I will feel a tear on my shoulder,” Sury shares.

Speaking of a day at the mall, Sury relates, “A while back, a wonderful kallah and her mother came by to meet me. We were discussing linen choices when I turned to the kallah and said, ‘We offer a day at the

of Chuppa mall with a personal shopper. Are you comfortable with Nechama Tepfer and Mimi Gross taking you shopping?’

“As the kallah was about to answer, her mother, visibly surprised, asked me if this Mimi Gross was the one who was married to Reb Shloimy Gross, a”h. When I confirmed that it was indeed the same Mimi Gross, she shook her head and told me, ‘When this kallah was young, she was diagnosed with cancer. Reb Shloimy Gross helped us out significantly, often taking our little girl for treatment. He was an angel in our time of need. I can’t believe his wife will now take this same little girl shopping!’”

Sury ends with small smile, “Mimi indeed took the girl shopping; her husband sent her on shlichus after all!”

Chuppa is unique among similar organizations. It has zero overhead. The Chuppa showroom and the attached large warehouse were donated by the well-known philanthropist and baal chesed Reb Abraham Berkowitz and his son-in-law, Reb Zevi Silberstein. The second showroom, for kallos who can only manage night appointments, is in a fellow volunteer’s home.

Sury turns to me and says, “Chuppa is comprised of the most amazing volunteers.

There’s a group text for all the volunteers and you should see how fast the responses come, no matter what the request is. The only complaints are from our middle-aged volunteers who can’t text fast enough and often lose out on volunteering!

“Furthermore,” Sury continues, “we have no office—we work out of our homes or cars. Every dollar we raise goes directly to the kallah, facilitating hachnasas kallah in its purest form.”

that remains after sponsors’ contributions. Chuppa desperately needs more sponsors—or rather, its kallos need more sponsors. Chuppa helps over 200 kallos a year. During busy wedding seasons, Chuppa helps as many as 35 kallos a month!

Chuppa has been fortunate to receive many a generous donation from a baal simchah on the day of his child’s wedding. What a tremendous zechus accompanies a kallah as she walks down to her own chuppah!

As our meeting winds down, I ask one more question of Sury. “What is it that keeps you going day in and day out?”

“Over the years, we realized that there is a tremendous need for an organization that takes a hands on approach while dealing with kallos. Each kallah has her own story.

Chuppa is there to create a happy endingand a beautiful beginning. Because no kallah ever stands alone under her chuppa.”

Chuppa is under the direct guidance of the Eizenshtat Rav, and has personal brachos from the Skulener Rebbe to continue doing what they do.

They say, “It take a village to raise a child.”

Chuppa says, “It takes a community to marry one off.” Chuppa takes care of our communities’ kallos. Isn’t the onus on you to help them do so? It’s our community.

It’s your community. Commit to giving your monthly donation now! Donate whatever you can afford. Our kallos are depending on you; our kallos need you!

May all of klal Yisrael be zocheh to make simchos b’simchah. Only oif simchos!

Chuppah relies mostly on donors who sponsor a specific item with a recurrent monthly donation. There are big-ticket sponsors for pots and dishes, and smaller sponsors for items such as kitchen gadgets, tablecloths and small appliances.

Despite the low overhead and low wholesale prices Chuppa receives, there is still an annual budget of over a million dollars. Reb Shaya fundraises to cover the amount

Chuppa 1560 58th Street, Brooklyn, NY 11219 www.chuppa.org / info@chuppa.org 347-449-3501

Visiting the Chuppa Showroom: L-R: Bobov Dayan, Brizduvitz Rav, Eizenstadter Rav, Rabbi Ben Zion Goldberger, R’ Shaya Fuchs of Chuppa.

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Would You Look at the Time? BY LEAH WEISS Don’t Leave Me Hanging! BY CHAYA GLICK A Simple Way out of the Broken Engagement Crisis BY EVELYN GRUBNER Find Me a Sitter BY REINA FEINER 18

The Silent Telephone BY SARAH MASSRY |

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WOULD YOU LOOK AT THE TIME? THE SIMCHAH IS BEAUTIFUL, BUT WILL IT EVER END?

By Leah Weiss

D

ear Mechutanim, Last night’s wedding was beautiful! The kallah looked magnificent, so effervescent and personable, the chasan dapper and refined.

The orchids were garden-fresh and crisp, flattering the shimmery silver tablecloths dreamily, and the dinner music was soothingly complementary. I enjoyed my meal, the unidentified appetizer, and especially catching up with cousin Bassi from L.A. and Tante Rochel who flew in from Florida.

And your kids? My, oh my! Down to the littlest, each one looked so elegant, so comely, it must have taken months to get them dolled up and perfected like that!

And those shoes on Sari and Chayala?

Where did you get such perfectly colored lilac-and-cerulean-fused pumps? I heard a woman mention in passing that you had them dyed to match the gown. Makes sense—it’s a wedding, the gala event for which you’ve been praying and saving up for years.

I know that hours went into planning the perfect music, finding the chuppah song that would move everyone to tears. Indeed, I did cry at the chuppah. The choir was really hartzig and poignant. May everyone’s tefillos be answered speedily.

When the couple made their grand entrance, sweeping through the front door glowing and radiant, the blasting music had everyone excited and revved up. The

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AT 3:30 A.M. I WAS WONDERING IF I WOULD BE ABLE TO FUNCTION THE NEXT DAY. crowd was thick, but that didn’t deter the youngsters from grabbing hands and bopping, twirling, prancing with abandon.

I watched and smiled at the wonderful simchah, the vibrant joy.

By 12:30 I was getting a bit tired. I don’t usually wear high heels, and boy, did my feet throb! I exchanged a knowing smile with a woman leaning on the wall near me. The look on her face mirrored mine. I perked up when I heard “L’shanah Habaah,” but soon learned it was merely a tease to get the crowd pumping, not to finish the dancing. Three times this shtick was pulled before the final “L’shanah Habaah” was sung with a flourish. Most guests had left by then, leaving the once-vibrant room sparse.

To be sure, there were plenty of guests who would have loved to leave, but

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couldn’t—sisters and brothers of either mechutanim. Close friends and family.

Grandparents. Some cousins. One or two guests could be seen tiredly rubbing their eyes and grabbing a chair for the mitzvah tantz, wearily settling in for the next little while.

By then it was 1 a.m., yet the mechutan was nowhere to be seen. Oh, yeah, there you are, in the corner drinking l’chayim and warmly bidding someone good night. My feet were safely ensconced in warm and fuzzy slippers, so I was fairly rational, but what I couldn’t understand was, why weren’t we bentching?

Didn’t you see that group standing at the left? They were all waiting to bentch and leave. Didn’t you look at Zeide Shmelkovitz, nodding off on the side, his shtreimel

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nearly tipping? I am not usually a judgmental person, but at that hour, fuzzy slippers notwithstanding, I cannot understand why 45 minutes were just wasted like that.

Baruch Hashem, bentching was finally underway and the mitzvah tantz started immediately thereafter. At 2 a.m., the badchan was still warbling about some uncle and the many mitzvos he does and how he gives tzedakah and blah blah blah. I couldn’t help wondering why I felt like I was at a funeral. The uncles dancing with the gartel was beautiful—the real mitzvah tantz is so sweet. I loved how the badchan started singing “Hinei mah tov umah naim—brider!” and instinctively, the brothers wrapped their arms around each other and danced together in a tight circle, forming a fierce fortress of protection. It was inspiring, I admit, probably because they were my brothers.

At the next round I tried dozing off in a respectable, unnoticeable way, but was quickly pulled awake by my embarrassed daughter. By 3:30 a.m., I was wondering how I would operate at work or talk to my kids calmly the next day.

I noticed the other side’s bubby, a sweet woman with a flawlessly coiffed sheitel, stand up and leave. Her daughter smiled at me apologetically. “My mother usually stays until the end,” she said. “The grandchildren’s weddings are such a joy for her, such nachas, but it’s 3:45…she isn’t young anymore, you know?”

Yes, I know. How dare you take this pleasure away from a Holocaust survivor?

I wonder about Nochum, who just got a new job after a long stretch of unemployment and is under tremendous pressure to perform well. How can he possibly go to work on two hours of sleep? He won’t leave; he is your brother.

Remember how you danced in that circle just before? You are his brother too. Please keep that in mind.

If my pleas still don’t make a dent, dear mechutan, then think about your own chasan and kallah. You do love your child, don’t you? Do you really think the kallah and chasan want to hear about their uncle’s siyum haShas in 1995 or listen to a badchan’s jokes at 5 a.m.?

I get it. You spent a fortune on this wedding night, and you want it to last and last. I do get it, I’ve married off a child or two myself. But procrastinating the wedding’s end won’t stop your child from getting married, from ultimately leaving the nest. It is time to let go, and to let us go home as well. 

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DON’T LEAVE ME HANGING! A SIMPLE REQUEST FOR FOLLOW-UP

By Chaya Glick

S

o I finally meet the elusive Mrs. F. at a wedding.

“So good to see you,” she smiles as she rushes past me. Then she turns around. “I was thinking of a shidduch for your daughter. Call me.”

And with that she disappears, never to be heard from again.

The End. This is basically the story of my life. Actually, the story of my life since I started shidduchim for my children. The story of impossible-to-reach, elusive shadchanim.

If I sound frustrated, it’s because I am.

No one ever said having a child in shidduchim is easy. It’s not, and I know it. I spent many years preparing myself for the day my daughter would turn nineteen and enter the shidduch stage. I prepared for how hard it would be to hear “No” and how hard it would be to say “Yes” and how hard it would be to find a quality boy. But I never prepared myself for how hard it would be to reach shadchanim.

Some people claim their phones are ringing off the hook. Mine isn’t. I know I am not Rockefeller, and I am not the greatgreat-great-grandchild of the renowned Rebbe of Pokoldorf. But I do know that my husband and I have raised a beautiful family and that I have a daughter who is beautiful inside and out, and I know that I am determined to marry her off to the best boy no matter what it takes. But I never realized how much it takes.

Here’s an example.

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I finally reached Mrs. R. after calling her for a week.

“Actually, I was thinking of a shidduch for your daughter,” she said.

I heard the shuffling of papers in the background.

“Klein from Lakewood. Ever heard of them?”

After playing Jewish geography, I realized that I knew the family, and if the boy was a good boy, it would be a pretty good match.

“So I’ll call them,” she said. “I’ll let you know.”

Famous last words. After not hearing from her for a week, I tried her again. And again. And again.

I would have had no problem if the Kleins had said no. I would prefer to have people say no to me than to have to agonize over saying no myself. But I want to hear it. Why couldn’t the shadchan have had the courtesy to call me back and let me know what happened? If she didn’t have time, she could at least have sent me a text. I understand that making phone calls is time-consuming, but today you can send a text or an email or a message on WhatsApp. You don’t have to spend more than a few seconds. You don’t even have to feel uncomfortable reporting a no. Just write a few words.

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AFTER NOT HEARING FROM HER FOR A WEEK, I TRIED HER AGAIN. AND AGAIN. AND AGAIN. Sorry, the Kleins say it’s not for them. Will keep on thinking.

It takes less than a minute and lets the family know exactly where they stand.

I have experienced this many times—a shadchan drops a name and then disappears off the horizon. If you make a suggestion, please have the decency to follow up. It’s basic courtesy.

Back to Mrs. F., the shadchan I met at the wedding. After I called her about 15 times over a two-week period, she finally picked up.

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “That boy got engaged last week.”

I don’t mean to knock shadchanim. I need them; I am completely dependent on them to turn my daughter into a kallah. I am simply asking them to have the courtesy to return the phone call or respond via text or email. It doesn’t matter how—just let me know where I stand.

Please don’t leave me hanging! 

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A SIMPLE WAY OUT OF THE BROKEN ENGAGEMENT CRISIS LET’S INSTITUTE A NEW PRACTICE TO PROTECT YOUNG COUPLES

By Evelyn Grubner

W

hen my friend “Rochel” was anticipating the arrival of her oldest son’s kallah from out of town, she was tempted to cook a perfect meal in honor of the young woman who was destined to be her daughter-in-law. It was only half-jokingly that I advised Rochel, a gourmet chef who can spend hours adapting recipes from stacks of culinary magazines into exotic Shabbos delicacies, to hold off on the high-end menu and serve more standard fare so as not to intimidate the freshly-engaged kallah.

But in the end, it didn’t matter what Rochel served since the young woman ate nothing during the meal except a few bites of the requisite challah. When Rochel and her husband brought up their concerns with their son, he admitted that he had suspected something over the course of their eight brief dates, but he had shrugged it off; weren’t all girls on diets? As Rochel and her husband suspected, the kallah was suffering from an eating disorder, and by the following Monday morning, the shidduch had been broken.

This is not at all a singular occurrence.

Having been involved in shidduchim for three decades, I have questioned scores of young men and women who have gone through broken engagements and divorces in the hope of seeking some clue about how to prevent them. What I dis-

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HE ADMITTED HE HAD SUSPECTED SOMETHING OVER THE COURSE OF THEIR DATES BUT HAD SHRUGGED IT OFF. covered was shocking.

It seems that most broken engagements occurred following a Shabbos seudah; things began to unravel on Motzaei Shabbos due to serious doubts that surfaced after the family saw what transpired at the Shabbos table, culminating in an official decision to dissolve the engagement

by Monday. In some cases, people were hesitant to break off an engagement despite warning signs they witnessed at a shared Shabbos meal and went through with the marriage—only to have it end in divorce a short time later.

What is it about a Shabbos meal that has this make-it-or-break-it effect? When a newly engaged couple are together for a Shabbos meal, the stage is set for a slew of interactions that may reveal a neverbefore-seen side of the chasan or kallah,

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as in the case of the kallah with the eating disorder. In fact, a few months ago Rabbi Shais Taub dealt with this same issue in his advice column [Ami #236], responding to parents who discovered their daughter’s chasan’s alcohol addiction when he exhibited an abnormal preoccupation with alcohol at their shared Shabbos meal.

Based on this disturbing trend of broken engagements following a Shabbos meal, I’d like to propose a simple fix that may solve a complex problem: Have a couple eat a Shabbos meal together at the home of one set of parents before they become engaged.

Most date destinations are sterile environments that can’t come close to revealing what a Shabbos meal can. Enormous insights about a bachur, for example, can be gleaned from seeing him on a Friday

https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1khTP3jNxxnR_L3r2rcmDp3GRGuXa0HoSyy8VNrvv0Sc/edit?invite=CJGyv6gC&

night at the young woman’s house, watching him interact with the girl’s parents, grandparents, siblings or even the hired help—much more than what the young lady can find out while on a date at a hotel lounge.

I have actually seen many relationships strengthened by a shared Shabbos seudah, such as the time a kallah graciously helped the chasan’s mother clear off the table, and the time a chasan played games with his kallah’s young nephews. One shared seudah will give both the host and the guest a glimpse of what their own Shabbos table may look like once they are married.

When I brought this idea up with a shadchan in New York, he was completely against it, claiming that no one would get married if they ate a preengagement Shabbos meal together.

He insisted it would be better to wait until they are engaged, when they would be forced to work things out, instead of abandoning the shidduch before they make any kind of commitment to each other.

I was aghast at his reaction. Is our sole aim to get couples under the chuppah, while ignoring the lifelong repercussions of a choice that produces either misery or divorce?

Experience has shown me that pressuring couples to get married despite their misgivings can be very dangerous.

I know a wonderful bachur whose marriage ended in divorce after six painfilled weeks. He admitted to me afterward that he was reluctant to break off the engagement and innocently thought they would just work it out during the

course of their marriage. This young man concurred that if he had experienced a Shabbos together with his kallah and her family before the engagement, he would have backed out immediately, and all those involved would have been spared intense anguish and heartache.

A shared Shabbos meal before the engagement is an unparalleled opportunity for a young man and woman to get a close look at each other and their families, and to make an informed decision before any formal commitment is made. In the current shidduch environment, where there are too many broken engagements and increasing shanah rishonah divorces, the institution of this practice could save countless families both the stigma and the crushing heartbreak of a broken engagement.

In the same way that we as a community have successfully incorporated Dor Yeshorim as a prerequisite for engagement, preventing untold despair among young couples, let us add to the checklist a shared Shabbos meal, providing as much assurance as we can that new homes in klal Yisrael are built on a solid foundation.  Evelyn Grubner, a Toronto-based shadchan with an MSW from Wurzweiler School of Social Work, has been involved in the global shidduch scene for over 30 years.

She feels compelled to share her insights into the dating world in the hope that we can solve the ever-increasing number of broken engagements and shanah rishonah divorces in the frum community. She can be reached at missisgee@aol.com.

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You contribute: $1,000 for tefillin and a small celebration $500 to provide a pair of tefillin

You contribute: $1,000 for a wedding sponsorship $2,600 for a wedding package

We will send you: A “Baby’s First Mitzvah” certificate acknowledging that this birth was the inspiration for a unique act of giving.

We will send your son: His own “Mitzvah Memento,” a certificate in recognition that he has shared his special day with a boy in need.

We will send you: A decorative certificate for your new home elegantly depicting the joy you brought to others.

Yad Eliezer

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www.YadEliezer.org

FIND ME A SITTER

OR LET US BRING OUR BABIES TO THE SIMCHAH

By Reina Feiner

E

very time I get a wedding invitation, my heart sinks. And it’s not because weddings conjure up bad memories, or because I’m too fat to fit into anything decent, or because the music is so loud it gives me a headache, or because I’m a vegan who can’t handle the smorgasbord, or because I have social anxiety and can’t take crowds—all of which are excuses I’ve been given for no-shows at my own simchos.

The truth is, I love weddings. I love the flowers. I love the music. I love watching the glowing bride smile bashfully at her groom when the veil is lifted and the couple’s eyes meet. I love watching the weeping-with-emotion mother, the bursting-with-pride father, the little girls dancing round and round in their party dresses feeling like princesses. Hey, I’ll admit it, I love the smorgasbord too.

What I don’t love is looking for a babysitter.

In the city where I live, finding a babysitter is harder than finding a top-rated cardiologist. And if you do manage to hear of someone who watches kids for a price, well, that top-rated cardiologist is more likely to have an opening for you—plus he won’t cancel on you at the last minute. So looking for a babysitter is an exercise in frustration.

But miracles do happen. Sometimes you finally do get a teen who’s willing to sit in your living room for ten dollars an hour.

But she wants to study for her tests or gab on the phone with her friends, not burp or —gasp!—change your baby. So although, with enough persistence, I might be able to cajole some teenager into relaxing on my

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I WANT TO PARTICIPATE IN YOUR SIMCHAH. BUT THE LOGISTICS INVOLVED KIND OF MAKE IT IMPOSSIBLE. couch while my kids snooze upstairs, she’s not taking care of my infant.

Hence, the sinking feeling when the wedding invitation arrives. I want to participate in your simchah. But the logistics involved kind of make it impossible.

Here’s what usually ends up happening.

My husband and I get to the simchah, and he waits in the car with the baby while I run in and say mazel tov. Then it’s his turn to run in while I stay in the car and watch the baby. Such fun! It’s wonderful to be part of someone’s joy for a whole 60 seconds!

Also, since we live in Lakewood and many of our simchos are in Brooklyn, it often takes at least five hours of effort to spend five minutes at a wedding. (This includes time spent looking for a sitter, calming the older kids who are anxious about the sitter, getting dressed, driving to the wedding, etc., etc.)

Oh, and there’s also the expense of gas, tolls, and the reluctant teenage employee’s fee—all so the baalei simchah can scratch their heads and wonder if they actually saw you.

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Not that long ago, my husband and I were newlyweds living in Israel, where it was perfectly normal to bring babies to weddings. When a cousin got married in an exclusive hall, my baby came along, dressed in her finest. She sat on my lap grinning from under her huge headband at other guests, many of whom held babies of their own. Shocker: None of the babies were rowdy, destroyed flower arrangements, were snarky about the guests or disparaged the mechutanim. I can’t say the same for all the other people at the event.

So here’s my proposal: Why not institute the same practice on these shores? While an overtired toddler probably would not do well if dragged to a wedding past his bedtime, I think it’s time to bring on the babies! Mommies would actually get to attend the wedding, and those little cuties inspire such happiness that I’m sure they’d only enhance our simchos. So what to you say? Maybe that next invite can be addressed to Rabbi and Mrs. Feiner and Baby.

Well, a mother can dream… 

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THE SILENT TELEPHONE

TIPS FROM SHADCHANIM ON ADVOCATING FOR SINGLES

By Sarah Massry

I

t’s the question burning in every parent’s mind: How do I get shadchanim to think of my child? How do I get the phone to ring?

Perhaps one of the most difficult aspects of singlehood is the lack of suggestions.

Dates and suggestions, even ones that don’t lead to engagement, equal hope. The months or sometimes year-long dry spells are terribly disheartening.

AmiLiving asks renowned shadchanim: How can we get the phone to ring? How often should I call a shadchan to remind him or her that I have a son or daughter? Should I offer shadchanim monetary compensation for having my child in mind?

MRS. TZIREL RUBINSTEIN, Dating coach and mentor:

How often should a shadchan be called?

Hishtadlus is in order, but at the end of the day it really doesn’t affect the outcome.

It is exclusively the Ribbono Shel Olam who is the ultimate mezaveig zivugim. Every boy and girl will become a chasan or kallah at their destined time. I’ve been privileged to witness, over three decades of shidduch involvement, how people turned worlds over

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to find shidduchim for their children or themselves and the yeshuah arrived when they least suspected it through the most unexpected way. The Yismach Moshe z”tl quotes in his sefer, “Hayeshuah nimshach l’fi habitachon, the yeshuah follows according one’s trust.”

An older bachur once came to the Tosher Rebbe, zt”l, exasperated over his plight, beseeching a brachah and hadrachah. The Rebbe warmly responded that “Hashem wants you to be a chasan just as much as you do.”The bachur asked, “So, Rebbe, what am I to do now?” The Rebbe answered firmly, “Nothing!”

If you’ve met shadchanim and haven’t heard from them, there are three scenarios that can possibly be the reason: They’re thinking of you but simply cannot come up with an appropriate match; they’ve sug-

2 4 S H VA T 5 7 7 6

gested shidduchim on your behalf but haven’t gotten a response from the other side; or they’re overwhelmed with other shidduchim and you are not on their mind at this time.

It is only the last scenario that you can possibly do something about. A gentle reminder with a text, email, voice message or phone call every few weeks is appropriate.

Don’t worry about feeling like a nudge by gently pursuing a shadchan. Most shadchanim understand where you’re coming from and the anxieties that come along with it, and welcome a friendly reminder. It is when people become overly aggressive, obsessive and hostile that a shadchan will view them negatively.

Meeting a shadchan at a simchah and rebuking him for not returning your call or not redting you shidduchim will certainly alienate and dissuade him from contacting

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you in the future. I was recently quite astonished to witness this happening while conversing with an accomplished shadchan at a simchah, who was being approached by several individuals with admonishing comments.

After all is said, we must be careful not to overdo our efforts in the name of hishtadlus because if it’s not the destined time and there are no results, it can lead to disappointment and burn-out that shows up on dates and is detrimental to the dating process.

Should monetary compensation be offered to shadchanim up front?

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Monetary compensation up front is not required. It’s up to each individual to do as they feel. However, it would certainly obligate the shadchan to network on your behalf for some time.

Speaking of compensation, there should always be compensation for shadchanim, even if a shidduch does not work out. There is actually a dearth of shadchanim, resulting in phones that do not ring. If compensating shadchanim monetarily became the norm, for example, $50 per date from each side, we could look forward to an abundance of shadchanim networking tirelessly, redting shidduchim, and people’s phones ringing endlessly with suggestions. There is no fundraising to be done, only public awareness to be raised that everyone should be compensating their shadchan. It is vital that the public be educated so that compensation for dates becomes the acceptable derech in an effort to improve the landscape of shidduchim for the benefit

of the klal.

Presently, the devoted askanim of Kesher Sara who’ve been meeting singles and organizing daily shidduch meetings, are taking on a project of changing the mindset that the askanus of shidduchim is for free. They recognize the importance of publicizing this message for the greater good of the klal. It’s a simple and very effective way to answer the cry of so many whose phones don’t ring. The incentive of compensation will translate into more shidduchim being redt, yielding more dates, resulting in more engagements. It’s simple arithmetic that makes sense.

Those of us who’ve been on the battlefield and in the trenches of shidduchim for decades see this as the most realistic solution that can be easily implemented and bring actual results.

MRS. CHANA ROSE, Flatbush shadchan:

How often should a shadchan be called?

Firstly, you can’t just sit home and wait for those phones to ring. You have to be proactive. Call shadchanim, send out the résumé; tell whomever you meet that you have a child in shidduchim. You never know who the shaliach will be. Shadchanim set up the most dates; they do not make the most shidduchim. Anyone can be your shaliach.

I have no timeframe as to how often one can call. I do tell people that it’s better to email me, and if they have a particular question I’ll call them back. Shadchanim

SHADCHANIM SPEAK

do not have time to answer every phone call, but making the call as a reminder is great, as long as a callback isn’t expected. I once had a father who called three times a week for two years. One day, as I was leaving the house, the phone rang with his reminder message. I was on the way to photocopy yearbooks at a printer in Brooklyn. When I got there, one of the partners told me about her 21-year-old son who was just about to start shidduchim. I redt the girl whose father had called to remind me about his daughter as I left the house, and the rest is history.

Reminders do help. Without reminders, it is impossible to remember everyone! I had no problem with the father calling me three times a week, but he had patience. It took two years, but I never forgot her! So be proactive.

Should monetary compensation be offered to shadchanim up front?

Offering money to shadchanim to have you in mind doesn’t really work well for me; all it does is cause pressure. (I guess that’s the idea, to make the shadchan feel an achrayus.) Also, I have had too many people complain to me that they gave shadchanim or shadchan agencies money up front and never heard a word from them, not a phone call or an email.

I wouldn’t want someone to have taanos on me; the job is difficult enough. If you do give money to a shadchan up front, make it clear that you have no expectations. It’s just part of your hishtadlus. I do think that after someone has redt you a shidduch and you went out, it is nice to show hakaras hatov, be it with flowers for Shabbos or

money. Shadchanim do remember those who show hakaras hatov.

At the end of the day, there is only one address we need to send reminders to—the Ribbono Shel Olam, the mezaveig zivugim.

He knows where we are, what we need, and when we need it. All the hishtadlus is busywork until Mister or Miss Right comes along.

MRS. ESTHER GARTENHAUS,

Marital and shidduch consultant and kallah teacher:

How often should a shadchan be called?

Even though we all know that Hakadosh Baruch Hu is the sole solution, we are mandated to do our hishtadlus and contact those who can help us achieve our goal of marriage. A staggering number of singles and their representatives call and send résumés to shadchanim; it’s impossible for the shadchanim to call back or respond to everyone.

Try to expand your horizons. Don’t only call shadchanim—contact some old, dear friends, warmhearted acquaintances from shul, any nice, positive person you’ve met anywhere who you think can be helpful.

By spreading your wings and speaking to lots of people, you will feel less confined and open many interesting possibilities.

Remember—anyone can be a shadchan!

Another important aspect of the hishtadlus factor is for singles to be seen. Shadchanim deal with hundreds of papers; it is a good idea for the singles to actually show their faces! If you have a single you are

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advocating for, suggest that he or she accompany you to simchos and social meeting places. Ask them to help you with some errands or deliveries. You don’t have to tell them why—just be sure they get around!

The dynamics vary. It’s wise to ask each shadchan candidly what works best for them.

In fact, it’s pretty crucial to find this out!

(By the way, this holds true for any shadchan/ client relationship, whether one pays them for their time spent working or not.) Some work best without any pressure whatsoever, and will be glad to call you if they have something pertinent to discuss. Others request reminders and may ask you to call/ text in from time to time—perhaps monthly?

But always, always keep it friendly, upbeat, positive and complimentary! Warm, sincere words go a long way!

Should monetary compensation be offered to shadchanim up front?

To alleviate the situation, we need many more communally or philanthropicallyfunded groups of salaried shadchanim. We need these experts, these Heavenly messengers, to be compensated for their time

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HAKADOSH BARUCH HU IS THE SOLE SOLUTION, BUT WE ARE MANDATED TO DO OUR HISHTADLUS. so that they can indeed spend more time doing what they do best. At this point, it is certainly appropriate to fully acknowledge the unbelievable work in this field that is being done by volunteers. It is a chesed of the highest nature and the s’char is unimaginable. However, the need is overwhelming, and the supply of shadchanim should be proportionate to the need.

Another excellent idea is to compensate the shadchan by the hour, or by some clearly defined time frame or assignment. You are

2 4 S H VA T 5 7 7 6

requesting a service and you are paying for his or her time; it’s neat and sweet, fair and square! You both feel like mentschen—the requester feels dignified, and the shadchan does not feel exploited or taken advantage of.

RABBI MOSHE ORENSTEIN, Shadchan:

How often should a shadchan be called?

I’ve heard from gedolim that it is proper for parents to call the shadchan once week.

Try to be an easy person to deal with.

Don’t say no to everything the shadchan suggests without giving reasons. Be nice to the shadchan and tell him or her why you are saying no.

At times, parents strive for something that is out of the realm of what their child really needs. Parents should be in touch with who their child is and what their children need. Not every girl needs a top boy in Lakewood—there aren’t so many top boys.

Realistic expectations will lead to more suggestions. 

COMMUNICATED

BRACH’S BED & BATH JUST WHAT THE DOCTOR ORDERED

By Julie Ackerman

Lack of sleep is one of the most frequent grievances reported worldwide. Fortunately, shopping at Brach’s Bed & Bath pretty much guarantees an early bedtime priority that transcends consciousness.

It’s not the shoppers fault. Brach’s simply sells sumptuous linens that draw you to bed.

A true comfortable night of sleep, starts with quality bedding. Brach’s carries hypoallergenic and white-goose down filled comforters and pillows.

Imported from Hungary, these comforters and pillows are of superior quality that makes all the difference on the judicious sleep scale.

To further enrich your bedtime experience, Brach’s has a knowledgeable and supportive sales staff, available to guide you from table linens to bed linens, custom pillows, towels, and everything in between.

Especially popular is the exclusive jersey linen.

New to the USA and sold only at Brach’s, the plush jersey linens are not only wash and wear, but last through multiple washes and remain as comfortable as the first time. Their trendy patterns are diverse, including both, funky and elegant. In fact, many mothers come in with their kallah’s to shop for all her bedding needs but can’t help walking out with an unexpected set of lavish jersey linens for themselves too.

Brach’s is well-known for their unique luxurious European linens. Made from the finest Egyptian cotton, their line of exclusive designer European linens are truly spectacular. Their designer styles feature ample variety in design and fabrics. Be it stripes, paisley, floral, artsy or suede, cotton, sateen and more, there is the perfect linen set for you.

As well as bed linens for adults, Brach’s also sells linen for kids and coordinating crib sets.

As the frontrunner of all bedding needs, Brach’s sets the trend with fashionable designs and styles.

If you are ready for a fashionable, chic look straight off Italy’s beds, Brach’s will make you feel right at home! Furthermore, one dominating component in all of Brach’s merchandise are the superior quality and design. But it is the shopping experience that makes the difference between night and day.

shidduchresources The sheer volume of emails, letters, phone calls and faxes we receive about the shidduch crisis is eye-opening.

This column is our contribution to addressing this crisis. A more complete list appears on our website, www.amimagazine.org. This is a joint communal effort, so we need to hear from you! Shadchanim and activists, please contact Esther Gartenhaus at matchmaker@amimagazine.org to list your services, shidduch meetings and pertinent activities!

FOR COMP THE LETE L I GO TO ST, amim agazin e.org

General Shidduchim Sara Freed matchmakersara@gmail.com / specializes in second-time shidduchim for chasidishe and heimishe individuals, ages 25 and up Gitty Goldberg 917.519.9498 / ygcubed@gmail.com Mrs. Hadassah Hoffner 718.309.5700 Binyan Adei Ad 718.256.7525 Mrs. Pearl Klepfish 718.338.8106 Rebbetzin Elisheva Koenig 718.258.8475 / 718.377.2631 / elishevakoenig@gmail.com Mrs. Libby Lieberman Mazal.brocha@gmail.com Mrs. Devorah Meyer 718.213.0761 / M, T, W 8–10:30 p.m.

Mrs. Shaindy Mitnick 347.322.0001 / afternoons and evenings / shaindymitnick@gmail.com Mrs. Chava Most 612.888.7908 / Fax: 732.226.8979 / sensitiveshidduchim@gmail.com / specializes in shidduchim for individuals with physical, medical, fertility and/or genetic conditions Rabbi Ahron Mueller 848.299.2598 Mr. Motti Neuhaus (Brooklyn) mottineuhaus@yahoo. com / contact for appointments as well as for special shadchanus arrangements Mrs. Adina Reich adinareich@gmail.com Résumé Center ifoundashidduch@gmail.com Mrs. Chana Rose chanarose36@verizon.net Sasson V’Simcha Not-for-profit community organization in Toronto / 416.256.4497 / sassonconnections@rogers.com Mrs. Joy Scher proudbubby1@aol.com Mrs. Baila Sebrow 516.239.0564 / bsebrow@aol.com Mrs. Chaya Segal 718.854.6315 / evenings / specializes in shidduchim for older singles Simchas Olam simchasolam@yahoo.com Mrs. Blimmie Stamm 732.363.1554 Mrs. Malka Sussman 416.787.5147 Mrs. Henny Vogel writeaway@yeshivanet.com

Israel

Mrs. Yehudis Abir 02.586.3310 / evening hours / judyabir@gmail.com Mrs. Shulamit Goldberger 02.561.1019 V’hareinu B’vinunei Yiddish-speaking organization / shidduch for zivug sheini / 011.972.54.849.9440 For Singles in Israel Only Shoshana Lepon, veteran shadchanit. Please send résumé and pictures to lepon@012.net.il.

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Mental Health/Emotional Issues Shoshana Goldman 718.983.9187 Temima Gross 410.358.7017 / temiragross@gmail.com

Ohel’s Simcha Program / Sarah Kahan 718.686.3262 sarah_kahan@ohelfamily.org fcbrecher@gmail.com

Public Announcements Shadchanus Services–hire by the hour. Hire your own private shadchan to network for you!

Shadchanim and interested parties, please contact Mrs. Hennie Mandelbaum at 718.490.9817 / 718.951.0067 for more details.

Looking for single girls/women and young men of all ages on medication for emotional or physical issues. 1) Please email résumés anonymously with only a contact phone number.

2) Kindly write “special” on subject line. 3) Please include all pertinent information and how condition affects daily life/ projected marriage. Email to ifoundashidduch@gmail.com.

Shidduchim workshops in Brooklyn, Lakewood, or your town! Premarital/shidduch hadrachah workshops with Mrs. Esther Gartenhaus for post-highschool girls/young women. Call 347.482.8429 to schedule your workshop and for private appointments.

Exciting service available!

Well-known shadchan Mr. Motti Neuhaus is meeting groups of singles throughout the US. For details, email mottineuhaus@yahoo.com.

Looking for girls or boys in the chasidishe /heimishe community who have dealt with emotional or mental conditions and who are stable and emotionally ready to get married. Please email info to hopeitsgonnabeashimchahsoon@gmail.com.

We welcome your letters, comments and shidduch questions, as well as helpful ideas, advice and tips on shidduchim. Contact us at matchmaker@amimagazine.org, by phone at 718.534.8800, or by fax at 718.484.7731.

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As we go through the day with devices glued to our fingertips, what better way to use them than to help others?

Shidduch Connect is based in Wesley Hills and is looking to add more shadchanim all over the Jewish world. If you are a shadchan and would like to be added, contact Shoshana at 917.355.8453 or Esty at 917.865.1699.

Photo: Mendel Meyers

New Shidduch Initiative Looking for dynamic single girls to coordinate personal email blasts on behalf of a brand-new shidduch initiative! Looking forward to hearing from you. Email egartenhaus@live.com.

Care to Connect Care to Connect is a grassroots community effort with one goal—getting our beloved singles dating and married.

It combines tefillah and ahavas Yisrael with real action.

Select a single whom you know well, and for a period of two weeks, network actively for that person on a daily basis using one form of communication (phone call, email, conversation at the grocery, etc.) Believe it or not, it isn’t time-consuming! After the two weeks, you can continue to focus on the same single or on a new one. If you think of a suggestion, be the shadchan

or reach out to a list of designated Care to Connect shadchanim. Visit caretoconnect.org for more information.

A Match Made in WhatsApp No time for shidduch meetings? Can’t get out in the snow? No issue here!

Join Shidduch Connect, the WhatsApp group with a focus on networking.

With shadchanim from the US, Canada and Israel, our goal is to network and connect to help singles who don’t have connections of their own. Every day we share one single’s profile with our group, which has 100 members and is growing.

Further inquiries are made privately.

Esty Bengio MUA (972) 055-669-0608

estybengiomua@gmail.com @estymua English, Spanish & Hebrew

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Henna & Personal Courses . . .

Shidduchim-on-the-Air Shidduchim-on-the-Air is a fabulous, innovative project almost ready to debut. Excellent opportunities are available for articulate and personable advertisement recruiters. Email egartenhaus@live.com.

Invei Hagefen Project Invei Hagefen is happy to announce a new project, offering trained mentors to help you with all dating-related issues.

The telephone number of the Shidduch Helpline is 718.854.0681. Hours are Mondays and Wednesdays from 8 p.m. to 10 p.m. This service began in 2006.

MAZAL TOV!

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AS TOLD TO JUDY JACOBS

M

y mother-in-law, may she live and be well, is positively perfect in every way, except for one single solitary flaw: She has awful taste.

Okay, who am I kidding? My mother-in-law is not positively perfect. In the tradition of mothers-in-law worldwide, she gives advice when none was asked for and excels at badly veiled hints/criticism. But this article is not about those flaws. This article is about her awful, awful taste.

Is it horrible to say that even though I was so super-excited and over the moon at my engagement party, I was also a teeny-weeny

bit embarrassed by my future shvigger? There she was, parading about in an eggplant-colored woolen suit with fox-fur trim when all the other guests were wearing dainty party dresses. She left a trail of so-sweet-you-could-gag-smelling perfume, and her layers and layers of sparkly jewelry were so large and over-the-top it put the chandeliers to shame.

I held my breath when my chasan Mendy presented the engagement gift. Would the jewelry box hold a piece similar to the one on my future mother-in-law’s wrist, which resembled a twisted snake with an emerald eye? Thankfully, it contained a dozen bracelets for me to choose from, some of which, I later learned, the proprietor of the jewelry store, bless her soul, had coerced my MIL into taking. Choosing my favorite was easy: I plucked a dainty tennis bracelet out of the line-up and thanked Mendy profusely.

From the look on my MIL’s face, I could tell the piece I’d chosen was not one she approved of. She’d probably much have preferred the oversized rose-gold and diamond bangle with the yellow-gold butterfly in the center. Too bad. I was the one who was wearing it.

The most amazing thing about my mother-in-law’s lack of good taste is that she’s actually an interior designer by trade. I guess there’s a market out there for chintzy couches, showy sculptures and bustling drapes, because she does have a slow but steady trickle of clients. The first time I stepped into my in-laws’ home, I was blown away. And not in a good way. I had been invited for a meal and was proudly ushered into the dining/living room by my MIL, who was wearing a hostess robe so covered in sparkling sequins, I could hardly look at her without blinking. The room was painted avocado green and it had these huge flowered couches, each one with its own fur throws. The outrageously large brass chandelier had these weird little bells hanging from it. And the dining room table and all twelve chairs surrounding it had lion-like legs. Shudder.

“So what do you say to the decor?” Mendy asked me eagerly. He’d bragged about his mom’s profession on one of our dates and it seemed he was excited that I could finally see her work.

What I wanted to say was that the room looked like an ugly furniture convention. Instead, I smiled sweetly and said, “Wow, your mother has such great taste!”

“I know!” said a totally clueless Mendy. “Maybe she can help us decorate our apartment.”

“Maybe,” said I. Maybe yes, definitely no.

The living/dining room was just the start. My MIL insisted on giving me an in-depth tour of every room.

“I want you to feel comfortable here, Naomi! What do you say to this paint color? Gorgeous or what? And that chair was a flea market find! I love flea markets. I never come home empty-handed. And is that lamp beautiful or is it beautiful?” I nodded and smiled and repeated over and over again how absolutely amazing her taste was and how I was so totally impressed and humbled by her talent. By the time the tour was done, my eyes hurt.

I guess I should not have been surprised when, for the first Yom Tov of our engagement, a gold watch arrived that I absolutely abhorred. The chain was a chunky gold metal and the oversized face was surrounded by diamond encrusted flowers. Of course, the 2 4 S H VA T 5 7 7 6

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only proper response to a gift is thank you, so after thanking a beaming Mendy who had played zero hand in getting the gift, I dutifully called my MIL. I needn’t have worried how to mask my disappointment as my MIL quickly took over the conversation.

“Isn’t it gorgeous?!”

“Uh huh. Thanks so much!”

“It’s a stunner. What a piece! What a piece!”

“Thanks again.”

“Your welcome, darling. A beautiful watch for a beautiful girl.”

“Thank you!”

“So, what does everyone else say?”

“Everyone thinks it’s really pretty. (False. My sisters made vomit noises.)”

“Of course they did! It’s gorgeous. Isn’t it gorgeous?”

“Uh huh. Thanks so much!”

“It’s a stunner. What a piece! What a piece!”

“Thanks again.”

“Your welcome, darling. A beautiful watch for a beautiful girl.”

The conversation continued going in circles.

I must admit that even though I knew my future husband was the true gem and the jewelry was really not very important, the disappointment rankled. I didn’t wear the watch at all, unless it was to an affair hosted by one of my in-laws’ many relatives. Then I’d try not to look at my wrist so as not to inspire gagging.

And then, a week before my wedding, a pair of earrings arrived.

They were long. They were wide. They were the ugliest things I’d ever seen. It’s hard to describe the extreme grotesqueness of those earrings. Was it the honey-colored stones? Was it the fact that it was supposed to resemble a cluster of leaves? They looked like they should belong to a big-boned white-haired woman named Norma, not a petite and pony-tailed Naomi. But petite and pony-tailed Naomi was whom they were intended for. I put them on and could not decide if I should laugh or cry.

I’d been hoping that if I were gifted earrings, at the very least I’d be given a choice. Earrings is a personal thing, and I’d like to have had a hand in choosing the pieces swaying from my lobes.

The only proper response to a gift is thank you, right? So I picked up the phone, choked my way through a conversation in which my MIL ranted and raved about the earrings’ beauty, and then sat down

to think. There was no way I was wearing these earrings to my wedding. No way in the world. I’d wear them to a sheva brachos or two and then hide them somewhere until I broke it to Mendy that the earrings just weren’t for me. The question was how to not wear them and not have any hurt feelings in the process? That was going to be complicated. But first, I had to get earrings I could wear.

There’s a local gemach in town that lends (fake) diamond jewelry for simchos. I chose a simple diamond spray design, gave my fifty dollar deposit and took the pair home, feeling like a thief. Then I tried both pairs on with my gown for contrast and all guilt feelings dissipated. My MIL’s pair was atrocious. End of story. My family members all agreed—when they could catch their breaths laughing at me in the delicate white gown, the leaf-monstrosities hanging from my ears.

I came up with two plans. Plan A involved claiming the gemach pair was a family heirloom and all Friedman family brides wore it to their chuppah. It could work—but the potential for my secret being spilled was too great, there being a whole lot of first cousins at my wedding who could un-corroborate my story. Plan B involved claiming my grandmother had bought me this pair and was insisting I wear them on my wedding night. That one seemed to have less potential for disaster. Bubby was pleased to help and I sat and coached her through her side of the story until she had the details cold.

“Don’t vorry, mammele, I vont let you down,” Bubby promised.

On my wedding day, all thoughts of earrings went out of my mind as I davened and got my hair done and davened and got my face done and davened and got dressed and davened and took pictures and davened and took more pictures and davened even more and took even more pictures. When my mother-in-law arrived, dressed in a gown that somehow managed to incorporate lace, satin, sequins, tulle, and organza, I hugged her tightly in a rush of emotion.

“Sweetheart, we’re so excited!” she trilled. “You look gorgeous!

Totally gorgeous!” She eyed me critically. “Your earrings are nice too, but what’s with the earrings Mendy gave you? Did something happen to them?”

“I love them,” I said, stomach in knots. “Just my grandmother gave me these and she’s insisting I wear them tonight. I hope you don’t mind!”

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“Of course I don’t mind,” said my MIL, whose facial expression read of course I do mind.

I flushed guiltily. “I can’t wait to wear Mendy’s pair tomorrow,” I fibbed. “It’s just really important to my grandmother that I wear these tonight.”

My MIL didn’t say anything.

“I wish I could wear them,” I hastily added.

“They’re so meaningful, they being from Mendy and all, but I don’t want to ruin my grandmother’s simchah.”

“I understand,” she finally said.

We posed for pictures together and then my MIL went off to take pictures with her son.

Guests began to fill the hall and I was soon busy shaking hands, exchanging kisses, and accepting compliments. My MIL sat at my side, busy greeting guests too, and I kept finding myself distracted as I wondered if she was mad about the earring situation.

This is ridiculous, I thought. Focus on how happy you feel!

Shortly before the badeken, my MIL disappeared for a couple of moments before returning with a small box. She was smiling widely. “Open it.”

I did.

The atrocious long, wide leaf-shaped earrings stared back at me.

A feeling of dread overcame me.

“Surprise! I spoke to your grandmother and she agreed that if it means so much to you to wear Mendy’s earrings, you should wear these. A kallah’s feelings are the most important thing on her wedding day, not her grandmother’s! So I sent the babysitter to pick them up. Go ahead, put them on.”

Oh, Bubby! How easily she’d capitulated.

Oh my goodness, the earrings! The atrocious, atrocious earrings.

“Nu, put them on. Beautiful earrings for a beautiful girl.”

Fingers shaking, I slowly unclasped the diamond spray earrings from my ears.  Please submit your story for this column or to have your story featured here, please contact us at submissions@amimagazine.org.

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Parve

FEATURES With Dr. Moshe Schwartz

By Rechy Frankfurter

Positively Single

By Chanie Asher

Dreading Your Child’s Simchah?

By Ruchy Stern

Let the Pen Decide

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Dear Me

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Life The

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Dr. Moshe Schwartz brings brooklyn babies into the world By rechy frankfurter

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F

or thousands of women in Brooklyn, Dr. Moshe Schwartz is an iconic figure. Over the past 40 years he has delivered over 12,000 babies to three generations of women at Maimonides Medical Center. He has been there for them during the most pivotal moments of their lives—from their early days as shy kallos to their fearful moments as first-time mothers to the challenges they face as they approach old age. His medical advice is sought around the world, his opinions valued not only by medical colleagues but by Rebbes and rabbanim. Dr. Schwartz is also the first go-to person when there is a fertility issue. Many women believe that without his willingness to go the extra mile to help them, even if it means answering their calls to his home number in the middle of the night, they would not be parents today.

Yet Dr. Schwartz is a mystery figure. Few of his patients know much about him. Though he is passionate about the patients he cares for, it is expressed in his actions rather than in his demeanor. By nature reserved, he has mastered the art of his profession, treating women with the perfect balance of concern and respect. That is because in addition to being a dedicated OB/

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GYN, Dr. Schwartz is also a talmid chacham. According to his wife, Malka, he is a renaissance man. He paints, sculpts and collects art.

Dr. Schwartz graciously granted Ami his first-ever interview.

He invited me to his beautifully appointed home, where I also get to meet his lovely wife Malka. We sit in his library, which is lined from floor to ceiling with sefarim. Our conversation is peppered with Torah references.

Though neither he nor his wife was born in Israel, they were both raised there and consider themselves Israeli. Dr. Schwartz attended Hebrew University Medical School and graduated in 1971. He served in the Erez Division of the Israel Defense Forces during the Yom Kippur War, and later as a flight surgeon in the air force. The family moved to America a few years later when he received an attractive job offer, and they have been here ever since.

The first and obvious question, of course, is why he chose to become an OB/GYN. Dr. Schwartz states that when he began medical school, he did not set out to specialize in women’s health. But it always appealed to him. “I don’t know what makes one person become a brain surgeon and another person a gynecologist. I guess it has to do with psychological makeup. You go to medical school and try to see what will make you the happiest. All I know is that I’m comfortable with what I’m doing.”

Although he might not have known at first what he wanted to specialize in, becoming a doctor was never a question.

“Doctors were always my heroes. I would watch them treat my mother.” Dr. Schwartz’s mother died when she was only 46 years old of a brain aneurysm; his father died of stomach cancer shortly afterward. By then Dr. Schwartz was 22 and married, but he had to grow up quickly.

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Both of his parents were from the town of Sighet in Romania. His father had been married there and had four children; they were all killed in the Holocaust. The two families had actually lived across the street from each other. Dr. Schwartz’s father was the Beirach Moshe’s melamed. His grandfather, Reb Mordechai Schwartz, was a shochet for 18 years for the Atzei Chaim, the father of the Beirach Moshe. He also wrote a sefer on shechitah and received the Atzei Chaim’s approbation.

Dr. Schwartz’s only sibling, his brother Ari, is also familiar to many in the Brooklyn community as for many years the two practiced medicine together, although today Dr. Ari’s practice is located in Monroe. “We are very close,” Dr. Schwartz tells me.

Dr. Schwartz and his wife have children in both the United States and Eretz Yisrael—their sons live in New York, their daughters in Israel—and 24 grandchildren.

“We have very interesting children,” he says, pointing out their diplomas. “My son is the head brain surgeon in Maimonides. My other son is a professor at Penn, specializing in high-risk pregnancies. His wife is also a doctor. My daughter is a radiologist. She graduated from Columbia and analyzes radiology reports online, on American time. She has nine kids. Our other daughter went to Harvard Law School. So did her husband. She graduated with honors and is now involved in mergers and acquisitions for a large company. She flies all over the world. She has six children.”

His pride is evident. “They are very special kids. One of our grandchildren is a katzin (officer) in the Golani Brigade. One is training to be a fighter pilot.”

“Are you worried about them?” I ask.

“No,” he replies. “People live as long as they are meant to live.

You think you are safer here in America, but people in Israel

actually live longer. Israel ranks third in the world for longevity, and the people who live the longest are in Bnei Brak. That’s because they take care of their old people there. Most of the time what kills the elderly is loneliness.”

Dr. Schwartz’s practice, Boro Park Obstetrics and Gynecology, with offices in Boro Park, Flatbush, Williamsburg and the Catskills, delivers around 3,500 babies a year. Its 16 doctors, nurses and midwives typically form relationships with patients based on personality or community preference. Some patients, for example, prefer female doctors, while others request members of their own community, such as Italian or Hungarian. Dr. Schwartz sees mostly Orthodox or Hebrew-speaking women. Since the departure of his younger brother from the practice, he is the only religious doctor on the team.

“The nicest thing is to see the reaction of the women who give birth,” he says. “Some just want to get it over with, but others are beaming with happiness. Their joy is really contagious. Sometimes I’ve delivered both the husband and the wife, and now I’m deNature's YOU aCAN TOO! livering their kids. Twice I delivered motherDO and THIS a daughter on Dew the same day. The mothers were in their forties. One daughter Do you feel tired or irritable?

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wanted to be in the same room with her mother.”

Having been in practice for so long, Dr. Schwartz is in a unique position to compare young women of the past and present.

“Medically, I think they’re more educated today. They’re also more sophisticated, probably because they’re more exposed to outside information. It’s not as if all they know is what their mothers told them.”

Another significant change is that women have become heavier over the years, a global problem that often results in bigger babies with its resultant issues.

Men are more involved than they once were. Years ago it was rare for a husband to stay at his wife’s side for the delivery; now it happens more often. “Rav Moshe Feinstein did not allow it.

But somehow more and more are staying.”

It’s not only the patients who have evolved over the years; modern technology has changed the entire gynecological experience. Dr. Schwartz calls it a “revolution,” and when asked what isn’t being done anymore, he ticks off some examples—administering Pitocin without a pump, using forceps and vacuums, and using general anesthesia. “That’s the nature of medicine—it gets better. They used to incubate babies who should not be incubated or give too much oxygen. Babies are healthier all over the world. Did we solve all the problems? No, but I think we are much better off now.”

Though some of the credit for that goes to advancements in neonatology, gynecology has also played a role. “We’re using different medications. We give steroids. We do more Caesareans.

We’re much less likely to take risks. Years ago, we used to lose almost all babies born at 28 weeks; they didn’t survive. Now they very rarely don’t—and they’re healthy. We have survivors at 23 weeks, some doing very well.”

Another change is that today’s women are more receptive to a Caesarean. “Today when I say, ‘I’m not happy with the baby’s heartbeat; we need to do a Caesarean,’ very rarely am I given an argument, not by the woman and not by the rabbi. There used to

be much more opposition.

“It was always bizarre to me to be in the delivery room and say that I think the woman needed an operation for the baby’s sake, and the husband, who was sometimes all of 18½ years old, would call his rabbi and try to explain to him why I wanted to do a Caesarean. I was right there—why didn’t he ask me to explain it to the rabbi? The husband would try to explain it to the rabbi in Yiddish, he didn’t know anything, and from this conversation he wanted the rabbi to take responsibility for saying yes or no?” It’s obvious that Dr. Schwartz felt frustrated on these occasions.

“I never lie to a patient,” he says. “It would show on my face.

I’m not an alarmist, but I’m honest.”

When it comes to the ratio of Caesarian sections to natural births, the World Health Organization aims for a ratio of 19 percent. Dr. Schwartz estimates Maimonides’ rate at 23 percent, Mount Sinai’s at 43 percent, and Columbia’s at 45 percent. (His personal rate is around 12 percent.) Elective Caesarean sections are extremely rare, so why are the rates so high? “It’s the way medicine is practiced nowadays,” he says. “First, the physicians aren’t necessarily there all the time. And second, they want to take zero risks. Just deliver the baby.”

When it comes to finding out the baby’s gender in advance, most frum people still don’t want to know. Dr. Schwartz receives more requests for this information than in the past, but fewer than from his non-Jewish patients. “It’s almost universal that parents want to know, because why not? I don’t know why in this community it’s left as a surprise.”

Despite advancements in technology, however, some birth defects and disabilities cannot be eliminated, only detected and treated.

“Do we have fewer children with cerebral palsy now? No. The numbers are the same. It’s caused by mishaps that occur in pregnancies, strokes, problems with the cord. But you can’t compare, because many of the children who are alive today would have been dead years ago. We have more children living, but the number

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hasn’t changed.”

Dr. Schwartz himself is no stranger to tragedy. He and his wife are the parents of a severely disabled 43-year-old daughter who is now institutionalized. “Of course, this has affected everything about me,” he shares. “But then again, everything in life affects you—who you marry, what you do for a living.”

As for whether his own experience helps him deal with parents trying to cope after the birth of a disabled child, he cannot say.

“Every parent must make those heartbreaking decisions for himself,” he says. For many years, he and his wife kept their daughter at home. They now visit her often at the upstate facility where she lives.

He also lost a 12-year-old granddaughter to brain cancer; this happened at the same time her father, the brain surgeon, went into remission after his own bout with cancer. His son had the horrific experience of diagnosing his own child. During the ordeal, Dr. Schwartz was so distraught that he begged Hashem to trade

places with his son. But even during this dark period, his dedication to his patients did not falter. His office manager, Raizy Rosenberg, told me that no one knew what he was going through; he was there for his patients, regardless of his own pain.

“I had a long conversation with Rav Aharon Soloveitchik about what Judaism considers an acceptable risk. How many preemptive Caesareans should you do to avoid one sick child? A hundred? A thousand? It’s the whole issue of safek in halachah. Then there’s the issue of pikuach nefesh on Shabbos. When do we say it’s not a big-enough risk to be mechallel Shabbos? For basar b’chalav, it’s one in 60!

“He explained to me that the numbers change with the generation. That which was acceptable years ago wouldn’t be acceptable today. Two hundred years ago in Europe, two percent of all women died in childbirth and five percent of all infants. Today, if that happened in Maimonides, they wouldn’t just close the hospital, they’d put the whole administration in jail. It wouldn’t be acceptable.

“Then I asked him if a woman is sick with a heart condition and might die if she becomes pregnant, how much risk should I estimate exists before I advise her of the danger she may face if she has a child? He told me one in 100. However, if a woman would rather risk her life to have a child than not risk it, that’s her personal choice. It was a very long conversation.”

Dr. Schwartz has semichah from Beis Horaah and is friendly with a number of prominent rabbanim. “I have my own Rebbes. I like their tischen and divrei Torah, the communal thing. I deliver a lot of their children and grandchildren. They usually don’t argue with me on halachah in my field. I’ve read everything pertaining

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“Two hundred years ago, two percent of all women died in childbirth. If that happened today, they wouldn’t just close the hospital, they’d put the whole administration in jail.”

to halachah and medicine. But the hashkafah—what to do, how much risk to take, what to do if the child isn’t okay—is an issue.

Dr. Schwartz sees women and families at their most vulnerable moments, and sometimes it is very difficult for him.

“Some women are depressed.

Some have issues with their marriage. Sometimes I even prescribe antidepressant medication. But many women who are expecting just need emotional support. You try to be encouraging; tell them to count the days and soon it will be over.”

On the question of whether young American women living in Israel should return home to give birth, he doesn’t recommend it if the only criterion is emotional comfort. Aside from the language barrier and the loneliness of being a new mother without family nearby, Israel’s medical system is generally quite good. “The health care is socialized, the insurance is much cheaper, and the Israeli medical schools are as good as the American ones. There are lots of good doctors. It’s a different system, but people receive good care.”

In fact, America does not compare well to countries like Sweden and Germany, largely due to the diversity of its population. “The numbers in America include a lot of babies that are lost during pregnancy. Sure, if people take drugs or don’t care for themselves, that’s what happens. The infant mortality rate in America is 10 per 1,000 babies; in Israel it’s five or six, although among frum people it’s lower because they care about everything going well. If you say check your sugar, people listen.”

At the same time, it’s becoming more difficult in some ways to be a mother—and that has consequences “Women have to bring in parnasah. They’re having children and holding down a job. It’s very hard for women today.”

He sees too much emphasis on certain status symbols. “Everybody should live in his own house and concentrate on his own happiness.

Stop looking at other people. There’s a lot of communal pressure, and that makes people unhappy.”

I ask him about the rumor circulating that his practice plans to build its own birthing center. Dr. Schwartz flatly denies it. “Every-

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one hears this rumor, but it’s not true. I think it’s a risky proposition not to deliver in a hospital.

There are all kinds of studies, but the results are often skewed because the women who have problems in birthing centers are shipped off to hospitals. So now you have a cheshbon that hospitals are more risky, but that includes these women and their babies.”

Dr. Schwartz maintains that the most neglected aspect of health in the frum community is diet, with religious and social activity revolving so closely around food that it causes other crises. Of course, it goes without saying that people should follow all the recommended guidelines for mammograms and Pap smears. He also believes in testing for the BRCA gene mutations, although what to do with that information is still controversial. Still, he insists that knowledge is power and that it’s wise to be vigilant. For example, with a BRCA-positive diagnosis, many insurance companies will cover added testing, including MRIs, which are more accurate in detecting breast cancer.

Dr. Schwartz spends 24 consecutive hours in the hospital once a week, and I ask him how it’s possible to be alert for such a long stretch. “You just are,” he tells me. “The adrenaline kicks in. If there’s a crisis, you’re just totally present.”

In light of his demanding schedule, should his three generations of patients worry about burnout or about his possible retirement?

“I’m not making any cheshbonos,” he replies. “I turned 69 last week.

I’m in shape, you know. It’s fine. But it’s not like I’m 40.

“It’s not that I never plan on retiring. I want to live in Israel, but every morning I wake up and I’m waiting to hear G-d say, ‘Lech lecha.’ I haven’t heard it yet, so I just continue. And what would I do anyway, stay home and read a book? I’m very grateful to be doing something important. And my patients are all so nice!

“Sometimes,” he admits, “after a particularly long night involving tough decisions, I’m tired and aching. But then I think of how I was able to help someone. It’s the happiness of my patients that makes it all worthwhile. That’s very meaningful to me.”  To submit your story for this column or to have your story featured here, please contact us at submissions@amiMagazine.org.

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RUCHELA: BIGGEST CHALLENGES The worst thing was being around negative people. They would say things like, “You don’t know what you’re looking for.

You’re going to have to settle—you’re not exactly a youngster anymore.” That pulled me down. I knew I wasn’t being overly picky and that when the right one came along, I’d know. Some people weren’t very tactful.

On the other hand, it meant a lot to me when my friends told me they were working on an idea, that they were thinking of me.

A lot of the difficulty of being single is the feeling of exclusion. It’s very easy to become alienated. If you have that sheitel on your head you’re a part of things, and if you don’t you simply aren’t, at least in some circles. I found it very hurtful when friends wouldn’t tell me they were expecting until they were in their eighth month, when they probably would have told me if I were married.

I didn’t move out of my house until the day I got married, which was challenging at times. It’s not natural for someone over 30 to still be living at home. Both my parents were extremely supportive throughout. When yet another shidduch fell through, my father would encourage me and give me chizzuk that I would find someone better. My mother never questioned or doubted my choices when I felt a boy was not for me.

I tried to get together with friends whenever I could, and went on a lot of vacations.

HOW IT HAPPENED I was initially reluctant to date my

I got married at the age of 31, after dating my husband for seven weeks. I started dating when I was 18, never imagining it would take this long for me to find my bashert.

I had a teaching career and volunteered for several organizations. I tried to stay busy. I knew that boredom would lead to depression. I stayed close to my married friends from high school and went to them for Shabbos whenever they invited me. At the same time, as all my friends got married one after the other, I made new friends and surrounded myself with positive people. I didn’t put my life on hold; why waste my time? I didn’t want to become a bitter older single. I won’t say it was always easy. I had my ups and downs, but keeping busy was paramount.

husband. I had preconceived notions about exactly whom I should date. It had to be someone who was still in yeshivah, or at least had been until recently. But then a close friend called me one day that she had met Chaim S., whom I would reject because he had been working part-time in his father’s firm since he was 21. She and her husband were so impressed with him that I just had to give him a chance.

The following week the shadchan called out of the blue with a yes from him. I decided to give him a chance. I resolved that this time I would see it through, that I would continue to say yes until he said no.

With the help of an extremely dedicated mentor, I focused on my husband’s many qualities and tried not to get sidetracked by obstacles that were a normal part of the dating process but would have no lasting impact on marriage. Due to my husband’s more reserved nature, it took time to get to a certain comfort level. With patience and focus, we were able to get to a point of openness and depth that ultimately led to our engagement. I concentrated on his unbelievable middos and qualities and realized that my fears that someone who was working already would not be frum enough for me were unfounded.

The whole thing came about because Hashem orchestrated that I meet a woman at a dinner. She wasn’t supposed to be seated at my table, but we spent a lot of time talking duriong the evening. I almost didn’t go to that dinner. I wasn’t in the mood to 2 4 S H VA T 5 7 7 6

get dressed up that night, but at the last minute I figured I might as well. About a week later, this same woman was sitting in the doctor’s office when my husband’s grandmother happened to be there as well and mentioned her wonderful grandson who needed a shidduch. The woman told her she’d just met someone nice at a dinner, and the rest is history.

Fortunately for both of us, she was a dream shadchan. She encouraged us both without pressuring, and she didn’t use scare tactics or bullying like some of the other shadchanim did. A lot of singles, feeling vulnerable, think they have to take that kind of abuse, but they really don’t. Hashem has a lot of messengers. There’s no reason for singles to deal with someone who puts them down and makes them feel bad.

Dating my husband was a little different from my other dating experiences; it was more casual and a lot less pressured. Everyone, no matter when he or she gets married, compromises. You’re never going to marry the exact person you envisioned or get everything on your wish list. The good news, though, is that the person you do marry may end up being a better fit than what you had in mind. That’s what happened to me.

RUCHELA’S TIPS My advice to older singles? Don’t let negativity get you down. Keep yourself busy and optimistic. Then you’ll be a positive spouse and a better person for having gone through what you did. |

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BARUCH:

I never imagined that I would have to wait until the age of 34 to get married. When I started dating, at 23, I was in yeshivah full time. Although some of my younger siblings got married before me, I wasn’t upset. I was happy for all of them and helped out in their simchos with a full heart.

I lived with my parents until I was married, even during my local yeshivah days. After yeshivah, I couldn’t imagine living on my own. Baruch Hashem, living at home with my parents was really good, and I was happy that I got to spend more quality time with them. It gave me a lot of satisfaction to help them out in our very busy, open home, and it was a real learning experience to get to know all the different types of people we hosted for meals each Shabbos.

BIGGEST CHALLENGES There were two kinds of hardships during my dating years: logistical and emotional.

It’s a shame I couldn’t earn miles driving to distant cities in the rain, sleet and snow, and it was hard to navigate my way around unfamiliar locations. On top of that, the tension and suspense were not easy.

One of the nicest experiences that came about through my dating years was the help I received from relatives and friends who took the time to hear me out and helped me “process” and make decisions along the way. It was also nice of people to host me, whether it was family, distant relatives, friends, or friends of friends. Everyone was so welcoming. I don’t think they know how much easier it made these difficult trips for me. It bothered me when well-meaning total strangers would ask me overly personal questions. I would have appreciated it more if they prefaced their words with something like, “I might have a shidduch idea, but I want to know more about you.

Would you mind if I asked you some questions?”

Fortunately, the optimism of my family members was contagious, and it contributed to my own positive mindset. They were very encouraging, and that reinforced my confidence in finding the right one. I remember once asking my grandmother, “Do you think it’s really going to happen one day?” and she answered, “What’s the question?” It also probably helped that I work in a very gratifying, helping profession that kept me busy.

I was also fortunate to have understanding people I could talk to. These are not the

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kinds of things you’d share with just anyone.

I think it’s impossible to go through the dating process without being able to talk and make sense of your feelings.

about another person and to be a good husband. My dating mentors also helped me make sense out of my feelings throughout the dating process.

HOW IT HAPPENED Ironically, I ended up marrying a local girl from a family my parents didn’t know, despite all their connections in town. A mutual friend made the suggestion, so it was a plus that I felt close to my shadchan and was comfortable discussing things.

In retrospect, I think I was simply more ready to get married at 34 than I was at 23.

I grew a lot over the course of those years.

When it finally happened I was in a good place; I was really, really ready. I didn’t compromise on anything at all in terms of what I was looking for. Baruch Hashem, I​ could not have found a more perfect match.

When the time came I was more mature and comfortable with myself, ready to think

BARUCH’S TIPS From the perspective of someone who was single for so many years, here’s my two cents: The older you are, the harder it is to accept a suggestion unless you think it’s going to work out. Who wouldn’t want to avoid an emotionally draining experience that isn’t going to lead anywhere? That being said, I also learned that meeting someone in person can be a lot different from the impression you get from reading a résumé.

I can understand why someone wouldn’t want to go out with every suggestion that comes up, but sometimes, maybe even before going through the whole screening process, it pays to meet the person. Don’t give up. Just keep thinking positively!

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MOSHE:

I was 35 and had a fulfilling career when I got married. I’m the youngest in my family, and both of my older siblings were married by then. I’m an unconventional and somewhat complicated person, so it didn’t surprise me that I had trouble getting married. I was hoping that things would go more smoothly than expected but they didn’t. Some dates didn’t go so well, but there were always more possibilities on the horizon. There’s no question that it’s easier for men to get married than it is for women. I always tried to keep in mind the words “B’itah achishenah—in its time, I will hasten it.”

Difficult life situations are sometimes resolved amazingly quickly.

BIGGEST CHALLENGES The biggest challenge, for me, was all that rejection. It was hard to get rejected, and I hated turning down other people, too.

One of the most hurtful things was how judgmental some people were. One time, I didn’t want to go on a second date. The girl wanted to go out again, but I was sure we weren’t a match. Someone in my community heard about the situation, I don’t know how, and completely stopped speaking to me. It wasn’t until the girl eventually got married that he started talking to me again. This dumbfounded me.

Another time, someone came up with an idea that was unsuitable. I had a good reason for declining the suggestion, but I didn’t feel it was appropriate to divulge.

The girl was a bit older than me, so I used that as an excuse. The would-be shadchan was incensed that I would turn down a girl just because of that and never spoke to me again.

Then there was the shadchan who diagnosed my “problem” before she even met me. I’m not sure why, but she decided that I needed coaching on how to carry on a

conversation. As soon as I walked in she launched into a monologue on the proper way to interact on a date without boring them to tears. At one point she even gave me a list of possible topics for discussion.

I nodded politely and thought, I have plenty of faults, but being a boring conversationalist isn’t one of them.

I had wonderful experiences as well. A lot of people work very hard to make shidduchim out of an honest desire to help. I wasn’t raised in a frum home, with the expectation that the community would help pair people up. Some of the girls I dated were raised with this expectation, and they were very disappointed that the Jewish community hadn’t delivered a husband for them. It’s not that I didn’t understand their perspective and sympathize with their pain, but I personally felt grateful whenever anyone suggested a date at all. Still, I’m not naïve. I know that sometimes dates were suggested because someone cared about a girl and wasn’t particularly worried whether it made sense for me to schlep many hours to meet someone who was totally inappropriate.

But even then, finding the girl a husband

was a noble goal.

My family was certainly a source of support throughout my single years. My relationship with my parents was great. I cannot imagine how much harder it would have been if my parents had pressured me to get married.

HOW IT HAPPENED There were many contributing factors leading up to my engagement. Shifts in attitude were certainly important. I needed to come to terms with the fact that I wasn’t going to find perfection chemistry. It also took me a while to learn how to assess suggestions so I could focus on those most likely to work. It took a long time, but I eventually got pretty good at avoiding unproductive dating—and that led to the most productive dating of all.

MOSHE’S TIPS I feel bad saying something hackneyed, but don’t think that you will start living after you get married. Pack your life full right now!

POSITIVELY

ELKY: BIGGEST CHALLENGES In my community, it’s in a way harder being in your early 20s than your late 20s or even 30s, because by then you’ve probably settled into another life and made new friends. When you’re 21 years old and watching the last girl in your class get married you don’t have any other friends, so it’s pretty lonely for a while. Of course, being in your 30s has its own concerns, because you want to start a family.

My biggest challenge was going to simchos. My social life narrowed down to people who were more accepting. I opened my own business and became quite successful.

I was determined that being single wouldn’t get me down. I had bitachon that I was going to meet the right one, and passed my worry on to the Ribbono Shel Olam. His shoulders are a lot broader than mine, and I knew He would take care of me. So I just kept davening and staying busy with work and going out with friends—diversion was the name of the game. Once you’re in a positive mode, good things happen.

In the beginning my parents were calm, they wanted the best for me and were selective. Later they were became more concerned. Like every parent, they

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SINGLE

I was in my late 30s when I got married. I’m the middle child of a large family, and most of my siblings got married at a more conventional age. I was 20 when I entered the market, so to speak. Girls in my community typically get engaged by 18 or 19—21 at the latest. If you don’t get engaged by then you’ve sort of missed the boat and your chances of getting married are pretty slim.

wanted to see me married. My father encouraged me to give every shidduch a chance. My mother’s way of dealing with this was resorting to her Tehillim.

HOW IT HAPPENED I’ve often tried to figure out why I didn’t

get married sooner. I really don’t have any explanation. I really do believe that these things are bashert. What I did do though is decide at one point that I will meet whoever had any possibilities. I tell my single friends to do the same. Don’t limit yourself to meeting only to someone who

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makes sense on paper. Had I done that I never would have met my husband.

For many years before I met my husband—who was introduced to me by someone who knew both of us—the dates were few and far between. But I learned that when the right one comes along, it doesn’t have to take long. The yeshuah really can happen in the blink of an eye. Baruch Hashem, our shidduch was fast and easy. I wish it on everyone. It was also a blessing that I started having children right after I got married and baruch Hashem have a nice-sized family.

When I was single, I went on vacations and had a lot of fun. I sat in the sun in Florida and visited Eretz Yisrael several times. Once I got married, I didn’t want to travel anymore. I just want to stay home and be a wife and mother.

ELKY’S TIPS Don’t deliberately expose yourself to people who have a tendency to make negative comments. Make friends with other singles, or people who are sympathetic to your situation. Keep yourself spiritually strong. Someone once told me about a certain segulah from Rabbi Nachman of Breslov to say Karbanos from Parshas Naso, from where the Karbanos start until the end of that sedrah, to get help with whatever is missing in life. I decided to do that everyday and after seven months I got engaged.

I would also advise married people to not bombard singles with intrusive questions such as how old they are. If you come up with a good idea, just say, “I know so-and-so—would that be of interest to you?” If you have a suggestion, just make it, but don’t put people on the spot.

People should be ultra-sensitive to singles. What they truly need is a listening ear and knowing that somebody is thinking about them and cares. It can be very discouraging to date for years and years and not meet the right person, but the truth is that you need only one to click. There is a light at the end of the tunnel!  All names have been changed for privacy.

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BY RUCHY STERN

Dreading Your Child’s Simchah?

You’re not alone

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Dreading Your Child’s Simchah?

C

hani* keeps a secret stash of assorted tranquilizers in her drawer, safe from the prying eyes of her eight sons, who would never invade her private space to begin with, even if they were frantically hunting for an errant set of missing keys. Consequently, Chani feels secure that her stash is safe, and will provide a mighty arsenal for those challenging times that are cropping up ever more frequently as her children get older.

No one who knows Chani would ever peg her as a “pill-popper” and indeed she turns to the meds only for “special occasions.”

Envious acquaintances, the kind who only see the glitter of Chani’s life but never its true substance, would be surprised to learn just what those “special occasions” are.

Ruth,* a former hippie of the ’60s who became a baalas teshuvah when she was 20, still retains much of the sensibilities from that earlier phase. Meaning she would never resort to any kind of pharmacopeia to eradicate her uneasy spirit…but she would definitely make two back-to back appointments with her acupuncturist to keep her “grounded and centered.” She might also prepare for the event-at-hand by meditating, and repeating aloud the affirmations designed to keep her calm. This regimen works for her as well as Chani’s does for her, although Chani may be feeling somewhat numb and glazed when the evening arrives, whereas Ruth remains clear-eyed and present at all times.

Leah,* normally a teetotaler in all the other parts of her life, drinks excessively when the “big night” arrives. She graciously tours the tables to greet her guests, perennially raising her wine cup in a cheerful toast, and constantly refilling at the bar—a ubiquitous presence. Then she staggers to the bathroom, where she reels in nausea, and has to splash cold water on her face to regain her equilibrium, careful not to drench her elaborate gown.

The bathroom attendant nods to herself in a knowing fashion, having been witness to these kind of scenarios before. Just the previous night, she thrust a wad of tissues into the palm of an

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equally distraught machatenesta, who neither drank nor drugged her grief away; she simply wept. The attendant—an invisible presence in the ladies’ room—is probably privy to more of the secret sorrows of these women than all the wedding guests combined.

What do all of these women have in common? They’re the baalei simchah at their own children’s chasunos, precisely the one time in their lives people would imagine that they would be brimming over with joy, elation, bliss, excitement, and gratitude. But for individual and respective reasons of their own, they’re not, and it’s a “dirty little secret” they rarely share with anyone—even their closest intimates.

“After all,” says Leah, normally a level-headed woman in every context but this one, “I know about the horrific shidduch crisis, and how tremendously grateful I should be at this time. I’m ashamed to tell anyone how I really feel inside; they would think I’m crazy, or, at the very least, an ingrate. They assume that my child’s wedding ranks among the most beautiful nights of my life, but to me the wedding is full of shadows. I’m scared to tell anyone the truth about how I feel, and so the chasunah turns out to be a very lonely experience—full of pretense and charade.”

This is a Simchah Issue, and the articles in it, by definition, should be “simchadik.” Why spoil the anticipatory pleasure of readers by throwing in a wrench, demolishing a sacred cow, being a wet blanket by saying that not all simchos are quite as simchadik as we assume, and may contain dimensions with a dark edge? Becasue a few years ago, I wrote a piece in which I suggested that not all frum Yidden enjoyed Purim; that there was a segment of the community (especially in the single populace) that awaited its advent with dread. And dozens of letters poured into the Ami office thanking us for the reality check we offered in an often-illusory time, repeating lines like these: Thank you for helping me feel less alone…I thought I was the only one…I thought I was weird, and now I have the comfort of company, the knowledge that my pain is not unique…Your article made me feel more normal…It doesn’t solve the problem of Purim, but at least I know other people feel the same way, and that’s a help… Like “the Purim blues,” “wedding angst” is probably the exception in

our society, rather than the rule. Most people are deliriously happy during their children’s weddings, and we are talking about a minority group. But even if their experience isn’t typical, it’s legitimate, and deserves our validation and understanding, too.

In the same spirit in which I wrote the Purim article, I also want to candidly address the trauma that some baalei simchah—primarily women— undergo during this volatile period, so that those who tremble at the approach of their children’s weddings or cry copiously in its aftermath receive comparable reassurance that they also are not alone, and what they are feeling is perfectly normal. In a world where “positivity” is the prevailing word of the hour, and there is almost a linguistic tyranny attached to that phrase that keeps our doubts under the radar, dictating how we should and must feel, it can be a relief to know that what you are undergoing is not a solo act.

The reasons that some women dread their children’s weddings can be as diverse as the women themselves.

Explains Chani, the pill-popper: “All my sons actually in fact made excellent shidduchim. People were in awe, jealous even, of the ‘bomba shidduchim’ they made. But each time they got engaged —no matter how terrific the girl truly turned out to be—I totally lost it; I freaked out. I was filled with grave misgivings about all eight sons’ choices, second-guessing every single one of them, tormented by day, unable to sleep at night. I feared for their futures — their entire lives could be changed by marrying the wrong person. And I honestly felt that not one of the girls measured up to my sons. Well, of course that’s practically a cliché: Every Jewish mother is firm in her conviction that no one will ever be good enough for her prince! My husband and close friends

Dreading Your Child’s Simchah? alternately laughed at me, scoffed, told me I was crazy, said I was melodramatic and hysterical but I just couldn’t help myself. And it didn’t get any better over time. Each succeeding scenario was a repeat of the previous one. I was always filled with tremendous anxiety that only dissipated a few weeks after each wedding, when I saw how happy my boys were. But on the night of each of their chasunos, I was a basket case. I was sure they were making a terrible mistake— every single one of them—and there was nothing I could do but numb myself from the pain. Hence the tranquilizers.”

Generally speaking, mothers of boys seem to have a harder time accepting the new reality that the chasunah augurs for their sons.

Not surprisingly, most of the women I spoke to who dreaded their upcoming simchos were mothers of chasanim, as opposed to kallos.

Leah, the one who drinks at her sons’ weddings, offers an insight as to why: “It’s an old adage, but it’s true: Daughters stay with their mothers, boys end up getting attached to their wives’ side of the family. Daughters remain attached to their mothers even after the wedding; boys disappear. I was so close to my sons before they got married, but as soon as they did, they started to distance themselves. The pain I experienced was excruciating. They did not call as often; even Erev Shabbos calls were erratic.

They visited very seldom—even though some of them lived nearby—and they got totally absorbed in their new lives.

I felt so abandoned, so superfluous. I had given up my life for my children— a promising career, friendships, volunteer work, hobbies—to focus solely on them. Now they were gone from my life, and an empty hole yawned in it.

“So after my first two boys got married and I saw what was in store for me, it became harder and harder to be joyous at my other sons’ chasunos. During each wedding, I had a huge pit of dread in my stomach. In fact each chasunah felt like a nightmare. Here’s a shocking melodramatic statement that will make your readers wince, but it epitomizes exactly how I felt: At my youngest son’s wedding, I almost felt as if I were mourning. And in a sense I was.

I was going to the levayah of my relationship with my son. My smile was pasted on during the entire event, but deep inside I was suffering. How could I be genuinely happy when the life as I once knew it was irrevocably over? I knew I should be happy, but what could I do if I wasn’t?”

Should seems to be the operative word in many of the women’s statements, as they continue to berate themselves– weeks, months, even years after the event, for failing to live up to society’s expectations; for failing to be grateful for their good fortune in marrying off their children; for failing to feel true “simchah” when instead what they feel is jarring loss.

“I have three friends with single daughters over 30,” Ruth shakes her head ruefully. “My heart goes out to them. I know they are filled with paralyzing fear and pain, that they are suffering horribly. If they knew how I felt during my son’s chasunah, they would probably have itched to slap my face…hard. I was too ashamed of my feelings to tell anyone, and there wasn’t a single person who had a clue as to how I truly felt. I was already experiencing the deep vacuum of empty nest syndrome during the chasunah, as opposed to those people who feel its pangs after it.”

Although the women who agreed to speak to me were overwhelmingly mothers of sons, not all mothers of kallos experience adrenaline highs, either. They wait to be infused with the euphoria other seasoned mothers describe with such nostalgia. But for some, bliss is elusive. “I was so angry at myself for not fully engaging in my daughter’s chasunah,” says Shaindy,* who recently married off her youngest daughter. “But honestly speaking, during the chasunah all I could feel was the sickening sense that I had shortchanged her. All her friends had gotten married before her, some were even expecting their second or third child, and she was still single at 26. Over the years she had lost a lot of weight and was rail-thin, and there were rumors circulating that she was anorexic, which was patently untrue. But you know how rumors take on a life of their own and become facts . I just couldn’t do anything to tamp these rumors down and convince people that she was fine. So it was very hard finding shidduchim for her; they weren’t even being redt, even though by all accounts she was a ‘top girl.’ There was such a dearth of dates for her that I began to panic.

So when one decent young man came along who liked her, and she was hesitant, I pushed the shidduch. On the night of her chasunah, I was besieged by remorse. Maybe I had pushed her too hard? Maybe it was too much of a compromise, even a mismatch?

Maybe he wasn’t for her in any way, shape or form whatsoever, and I had subliminally transmitted my rising hysteria to her and she acted on both of our behalf? What if I had made a terrible

Generally speaking, mothers of boys seem to have a harder time accepting the new reality that the chasunah augurs for their sons.

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mistake? Should I have clung more tenaciously to both emunah and hope and waited longer? Now baruch Hashem she seems very happy, and these questions are moot, but at the chasunah itself, I was in misery, and found myself playacting happy all night long. It was a big strain on my nerves.”

Rivka* says that the full impact of “empty nest syndrome” hit her full force the moment she stepped into the chasunah hall. “This was my last child getting married,” she said. “It felt like the end of the line, the end of my life. You should know I felt very guilty having these feelings and everyone who feels this way probably does, too, although I have no idea who they are since we all keep it such a deep, dark secret. But I am sure that everyone who feels guilty like me does so because they know how many other women would just chalish to be in their place. During the chasunah, I was constantly engaged in self-talk. I keep on telling myself: Baruch Hashem your daughter is not a statistic… be grateful, be grateful, be grateful. I tried so hard to drum the ‘correct’ feelings into my head, but what could I do when my heart wasn’t in alignment with my head? Who among the wedding guests would have believed how sad I felt the entire night? No one.”

The trauma that a wedding may represent often centers around the sense of loss incurred by the baalei simchah, but not necessarily always. Sometimes the pain may be both derived and colored by family dynamics (read: internecine warfare) utterly invisible to the innocent wedding guests but keenly felt by the baalei simchah themselves.

“What a gorgeous wedding!” I recently complimented a friend. “There was so much joy in the room for you and your daughter. You are so beloved!”

“Really?” she laughed. “Shall I tell you what was really going on? My husband’s brother and family live in Chicago and for some reason that we have been unable to discern, have been very distant towards us over the past few years. I’ve tried to talk to my sister-in-law several times to ask what the problem is, if I unwittingly did something to hurt her, and if I did, to apologize. But she has refused to engage in any meaningful conversation with me, and keeps on insisting that nothing is wrong. So several weeks before the chasunah, I called both her and my brother-in-law, and told them how much it would mean to us if they came. My daughter was 35, so it was a big simchah. I offered to pay for all their plane tickets and hotel expenses, too, even though they’re wealthy. But they simply refused to come, no explanation proffered, no apologies either.

“My father—who had divorced my mother 20 years before—also didn’t show up, nor did my half-siblings from his second marriage. I could go on and on about all the close relatives who didn’t put in an appearance and let me down. The chasunah may have looked very crowded to you, but throughout it all, I could only obsess about who was not there and why. There was so much drama and heartbreak going on behind the scenes…but of course, how could anyone know?”

Finally, in addition to the myriad emotional factors that contribute to the unexpected heartache parents may incongruously experience at their children’s chasunos, let’s not forget the financial aspects of making a wedding that can also weigh heavily upon their hearts. (This is where more men than women are affected.) Although several rebbeim have issued kol koreis for various takanos to be implemented at chasunos, many of these go unheeded. Myriad weddings remain lavish extravaganzas, and while the wealthy among us can easily make the requisite expenditures, there are those who can’t, but feel peer pressure to keep up with the Cohens. After the discarded tinsel lies scattered on the floor and the young couple has been swept away in a stretch

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Dreading Your Child’s Simchah? limousine to a $300 hotel, the anxiety of how to pay for the profligacy of a six-hour gala comes to the fore, an anxiety that may have been bubbling all along in the baal simchah’s heart throughout the proceedings , eclipsing the joy he or she should have felt. When the music has died down, the crowds vanished, the band is packing up their instruments and the waiters have changed from their uniforms to their street clothes ready to depart, the baal simchah is left to face his creditor—the owner or manager of the hall who patiently awaits payment. For some, baruch Hashem, the process is uncomplicated and trouble-free, but for others it may be the specter that made their hearts go thud throughout the entire night.

The morning after may be a joyous experience for some, but certainly not all, baalei simchah.

There are those who are still flying high in the wake of beautiful simchah they made, and the giddy relief and tremendous gratitude that their child is happily married floods their bodies with mood-elevating serotonin. Congratulatory calls from friends and relatives that pour in all day long extend the sense of euphoria, as do the sheva brachos.

But others crash. They undergo something akin to postpartum depression , a sudden free fall into a deep void from which it is hard to extricate oneself. The house feels so empty; the child is gone and he or she will never be back in quite the same way as before. The family’s shape has been reconfigured and in its wake is a hollow form which will need to be refilled with new and different things. And for those upon whom the chasunah has taken a mighty financial toll, postmortem discussions may be tinged with self-recrimination and regret as well: Did we really need such a fancy hall? Would a cheaper band have been such a bad idea? Did the expensive fresh flowers on each table really enhance the quality of the wedding itself, and more importantly the quality of the marriage that will follow? Wouldn’t it have been smarter to just give them the money for a down payment on a house instead of seeing it go up in smoke in 360 minutes?

In short, when you marry off your child—one of life’s preeminent milestones, a blessing that is surely viewed as the apex of joy—complex, unexpected and disturbing feelings may run

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on parallel tracks, depending upon your particular circumstances, family background, relationship with the chasan/kallah, your own personal emotional temperament, and myriad other factors that bear upon your experience. Although the period of time preceding a wedding may be idealized by some, the truth is it can be punctuated by stress, anxiety, and a touch of melancholy. Prewedding jitters are real, and they certainly can radiate into the night of the event itself. The child’s departure from the family fold does indeed represent a major upheaval. Even if feelings of mourning or depression are valiantly suppressed and emphatically denied by the baalei simchah during the engagement, they may suddenly emerge on the wedding night itself and linger way beyond what one assumes is their normal expiration date. To facilitate healing, it is crucial to confront these uncomfortable emotions head-on, acknowledge them for what they are, and share your turbulence with those who can genuinely empathize, offering full-hearted support, not platitudes.

Some people will truly be horrified if you blurt out to them: “I’m marrying off my child and I feel devastated.”

“Devastated?” they will survey you with contempt, anger, or accusation. “Do you know how many people would love to be in your situation? You should be ashamed of yourself!”

It’s essential for your mental health that you articulate your uneasiness and unburden your heart to someone. But you must be discriminating about whom you choose as your confidante. If your friends are not the introspective type, lack candor, are afraid of vulnerability, and rarely plumb the depths of their own feelings, perhaps they might not make the best candidates, in which case you should find a therapist or a rav with whom you feel safe and to whom you can entrust your feelings.

But the likelihood probably does exist, that if you find a psychologically astute and open friend who has recently married off one of her children and she is the type of person with whom you feel comfortable divulging the ambivalent feelings that beset you, she will neither be shocked nor repulsed, but will instead take your hand in a compassionate gesture and say warmly: “I know exactly how you feel.”  * Names have been changed.

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Let the Pen Decide ...Is It a Shidduch?

By Shiffy Friedman

Y

ou’ve received sterling information from the rosh yeshivah. His friends raved about his stellar middos.

Even the neighbors down the block spoke with awe and admiration about the young man in question.

For some, the next stop is a graphologist.

“When it comes to gathering information about a potential marriage candidate,” says Dr. Bernie Kastner, a Jerusalem-based psychotherapist and graphologist for more than two decades, “it’s great to hear from multiple sources in addition to the shadchanim.

A recommendation from a rav and information from friends provide much-needed insight into whether the match is a good idea. Nevertheless, all these sources are subjective. They’re based on personal opinion, someone’s view of the party in question. That’s why graphology is an excellent means of gathering objective information prior to making a shidduch.”

In the course of his career as a graphologist, Dr. Kastner has analyzed the handwriting of hundreds of potential couples in order to offer insight into their dynamics. “My job isn’t to tell people

whether or not they should get married,” he clarifies. “I’m here to give both parties an opportunity to see things that might otherwise not reveal themselves in the dating process.”

Dr. Kastner, a born-and-bred Brooklynite, currently sees clients in the suburban Jerusalem neighborhood of Ramot. After attending Yeshivah of Flatbush and Yeshiva University, he pursued a master’s degree in public health at Columbia University. It was during his stint at an administrative job at the Mount Sinai Medical Center that his lifelong interest in graphology spurred him to pursue training in the field.

“I was always fascinated by handwriting analysis,” he recalls, “even when I was a kid. Graphology is based on the assumption that handwriting is a spontaneous expression of a person’s feelings, thoughts, mental and emotional attitudes. So when the opportunity arose to study it professionally, I jumped at it.”

Kastner attended an intensive four-year evening program directed by two of the top disciples of the “father of graphology” in the United States, Dan Anthony. “Graphology has been very popular in Europe since the 1500s,” he tells me. “From Italy it ‫בס״ד‬

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“My job isn’t to tell people whether or not they should get married. I’m here to give both parties an opportunity to see things that might otherwise not reveal themselves in the dating process.” spread to France, Switzerland, England, Germany and elsewhere, and many people took it up as a discipline. A lot of European universities grant a formal degree in it. In America it was looked down upon until the 1960s, when Dan Anthony came along. I learned the dos and don’ts of the profession, as well as its uses and limitations, from one of his students, Pat Siegel, who is currently the president of the American Society of Professional Graphologists.”

After starting out as a certified graphologist in New York, Kastner moved to Eretz Yisrael with his family 21 years ago and continued his work in Israel. Following the tragic death of his young son, he returned to school yet again to pursue a PhD in counseling psychology. The shelves of his cozy home-based office are graced by the numerous books he’s authored, mainly on the topic of the afterlife, a fusion of his passion for psychology and for Kabbalah.

Today, graphology is used in a variety of venues, primarily for personnel selection in the workforce and in the court system, and to determine marriage compatibility. Having acquired an excellent reputation, Kastner is often called upon to give expert testimony in court cases involving forgery and other handwriting-related crimes. (Interestingly, many businesses on the verge of finalizing major deals recruit graphologists to analyze the other party’s handwriting for advice on how to negotiate to their best advantage.)

Still, he cautions, “In the same way that a graphological report is used in conjunction with psychological testing when it comes to selecting a potential employee from the résumé pile, a prospective chasan or kallah should not rely solely on a graphological analysis. It should be used as an additional tool to gather information.”

Kastner is quick to issue a warning about the so-called handwriting experts who set up shop in malls or hotel lobbies and charge a fee. “It demeans the value of graphology,” he laments, “by turning it into commercial entertainment.” He admits that almost all the Shabbos guests who learn of his profession want to hear what he has to say about their writing, which is understandable, but he takes

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How Does a Premarital Graphological Analysis Work? his work very seriously.

I ask him how graphology is used to determine marriage compatibility.

“I believe that it’s important to learn as much as possible about an individual prior to making a shidduch decision,” he replies.

“Couples routinely check their genetic compatibility with Dor Yeshorim to confirm that everything is okay in that regard; graphology too can find its place in the frum world.

“It often happens that when a couple divorces and one party was abusive, the family wonders, ‘How could we have detected this ahead of time?’ When dating, both parties are on their best behavior, and especially when the process is relatively short, it’s impossible for a boy or girl to get a full picture of his or her prospective spouse. The situation is compounded by the fact that many situations don’t come up on dates but are important to know for marriage.”

To Kastner, the beauty of graphology is that it gives prospective couples an opportunity to gain insight into each other in a nonsubjective manner. “I don’t tell people whether or not they’re meant to marry,” he clarifies. “As a graphologist, I see their strengths and weaknesses and can then determine potential points of unity and points of contention. Sometimes just knowing what to anticipate is crucial.”

So what does a shidduch graphology report look like?

First, Kastner describes each party’s personality in depth. To illustrate, he tells me about a prospective couple who brought their handwriting to him for analysis.

The kallah, he found, was very astute, detail-oriented and wellorganized—the type who never missed an appointment. The chasan, by contrast, was more of an ideas person, big on spirituality and philosophy. Because he was focused on these things, the details of his day-to-day life might go unnoticed. For a couple like this, if the husband were in charge of the bills, disconnection notices might start to arrive in the mailbox. But if a girl received a handwriting analysis before making her decision, she would be able to say, for example, “Okay, I’m good at math. I don’t have a problem taking care of the bills. I like the other aspects of his personality, so I’ll go for it.”

People sometimes turn to a graphologist to corroborate or re-

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Dr. Kastner explains: “I ask both parties to send me at least one full page of writing, written with a ballpoint pen and containing a signature, so I can compare them.”

But what happens if only one party brings in the handwriting of the other?

Is he allowed to analyze it without the other person’s permission?

“It’s legal in the United States, but here in Israel the laws are different. The individual whose handwriting is being analyzed is supposed to be told. It’s always ideal if they’re both into it.

“I also request that they bring me originals rather than copies or scans because the pressure of the writing reveals a lot about

the personality. They are also asked to indicate their gender, age, mother tongue, handedness and level of education.”

Kastner prefers not to see clients prior to the analysis so their appearance doesn’t influence the report in any way.

Using as an initial guide Dan Anthony’s psychogram scale of 40 elements—the collapsed version of the over 300 discernible elements in a person’s handwriting—he scores the individual’s personality traits. Some of the details he looks for are the organization of the paper, zone emphasis, pressure applied, space between the lines, space between the words, and the formation and size of the letters.

pudiate their suspicions. When the parents of a kallah brought their future son-in-law’s handwriting to Kastner many years ago, his analysis confirmed their fear that the chasan had abusive tendencies. “This took place only a week before the wedding. The parents had detected warning signs in the young man’s mannerisms and speech, but their daughter wouldn’t hear of breaking off the shidduch. After I confirmed their suspicions, they showed my report to their daughter but she refused to accept my analysis. They even

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brought her in to my office so I could explain my findings personally.”

“What did you tell her?” I wonder, curious to hear how a graphologist would intervene in such a case.

“When she came to me, she said, ‘I don’t see anything in your report that resembles the guy I know.’ Ethically, I couldn’t tell her, ‘Don’t marry this person.’ But I did point out certain details that would make his personality questionable. Unfortunately, she chose to proceed with the marriage.

“Several weeks later, when she was already expecting, the abuse had become so unbearable that she was forced to return to her parents’ home. When the young man realized he was in trouble, he fled the country, rendering his poor wife an agunah, until he was located and brought to beis din several years later. All that time she was raising their son on her own.”

Of course, every client is free to decide whether or not to heed Kastner’s advice.

“The final decision is obviously theirs. I’ve had people who made mistakes the first time around and their marriage crumbled.

They’ll bring me their own handwriting so I can tell them what kind of person really does go well with their personality. Because they have a fear that the same thing might happen again, they want to know what to look for. Several years ago, a divorced woman in her forties came to me and I detailed the kind of guy she should look for. She was lucky to find that type of person and she’s very happy.”

He explains that he tries to be as direct as possible without issuing commands. If he sees serious conflicts, he sheds light on them and emphasizes the challenges that lie ahead, regardless of the stage the shidduch is up to.

“Opposites attract, so my definition of compatibility is not similarity. But there’s a

difference between two people having different personalities and having areas of potentially serious conflict.” Once a couple is married, however, Kastner believes that meeting with them and counseling them together is the way to go.

Handwriting analysis can also discern an underlying neurological problem, lack of energy or state of depression, although Kastner cautions that “a person shouldn’t make any kind of definitive medical diagnosis” based on an analysis.

In order to make sure that an individual isn’t deliberately altering his handwriting, a competent graphologist will ideally ask for a sample that was produced in the recent past. Also, when a person produces an entire page of writing, his natural script usually comes through. Accordingly, several handwriting samples are used in the analysis process to rule out altered samples, especially in court cases involving forgery.

“Because graphology isn’t a hard science,” Kastner concedes, “it’s not always 100 percent accurate. Still, there have been many research studies over the years that associate certain handwriting characteristics with personality traits, which has been verified by my own experience. In addition to technical ability and training, a graphologist should also ideally have keen intuitive abilities and a good grounding in psychology in order for the analysis to be as accurate as possible.”

As far as determining whether a graphologist is competent, Kastner recommends finding out if he or she is a member of the professional graphological society in that particular country.

Kastner concludes, “To me, graphology is just another way to enhance understanding and appreciation in a marriage, helping a couple embark on their life together with clarity and commitment.” 

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A hush falls over the hall. There she is: the glowing kallah. A vision in white, she smiles as her guests come over to greet her and are blessed in return. Today, her life is poised on the brink of the unknown, and she looks towards the future with hope in her eyes and a prayer on her lips.

Fast-forward any number of years. The mysterious, amorphous future that once stretched before you has evolved into the reality in which you now live.

If you could, what would you say to that fresh-faced bride in your own wedding photos?

With the acute 20/20 vision that comes from hindsight, what message would you compose for that wide-eyed girl you once were?

I posed this question to married women of all ages and stages, knowing that there is wisdom to be found and learned from everyone.

Here are some of their replies.

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Dear Wedding Day Me,

Please try to enjoy your davening today. You won’t ever daven that much again, not even on Yom Kippur. By the time it’s Yom Kippur next year, you might be feeling too nauseated to daven.

And you are totally unprepared to have a baby.

And totally unprepared for marriage.

Get over the leaving-dirty-clothes-on-the-floor thing now. It won’t change. But he will learn to take out the garbage—so will you. There’s more to shalom bayis than garbage disposal.

When he gives you the pearls in the yichud room, remember to put them on. It doesn’t matter if they don’t match the beading on the dress.

Arrange a taxi to take you back to the hotel now. No one else will think of it, and you don’t want to get stuck without transportation.

Know that you are not the only person who hates sheva brachos.

It’s hard to pretend to be ecstatically happy when you’re suddenly spending all your time with a stranger. Know also that this stranger will become your best friend.

He votes Democrat. He didn’t tell you this while you were dating.

You should be warned.

Be kind to him. It’s his sheva brachos too. Go easy on him with the discussions about furnishing your new apartment. He doesn’t know you well enough to trust your taste but he also doesn’t need to hear every detail. The apartment will be stunning. No one will care which handle you pick for the kitchen cabinets. Not even you.

Don’t believe anyone who says this is the happiest day of your life. It’s strange, stressful and almost unbearably long. The reason people say it’s the happiest day of their lives is that one day, when you will look back on it, you’ll see it as the beginning of something beautiful. The more happiness you accumulate, the fonder your memories of your wedding day will be. Ten years from now this will be the happiest day of your life; right now, it’s fairly overwhelming.

Good luck, wedding day me. May the rest of your life be like your wedding day: full of minor mishaps and an underlying sense of joy.

Love, You + nine years

To Myself on My Wedding Day, from 11 Years in the Future,

RELAX. Have more faith in yourself, in your husband and in Hashem. Everything is going to be fine. There’s a huge plan you’re a part of and everything happens for a reason. Take a deep breath.

COMMUNICATE. If you’re unhappy with how something is going, talk it out and make your husband talk it out. The silent treatment is not a good tool for relationship-building. It causes distance, not closeness.

Very important: It’s okay to be wrong, and it’s okay to apologize even if you still think you’re right. Be the bigger person; it’s more about the relationship as a whole than this one argument. When everything blows over, you can bring it up again, calmly, and communicate your side and opinion. But remember, if you’re in the wrong (I know, it’s highly unlikely) make sure to apologize.

LAUGH. Everything is better when the mood is lighter. Your goofy side is endearing. Make jokes, smile, do silly things. Be spontaneous!

ASK. Ask a question instead of assuming. Say “Do you have a preference?” when trying to make a decision and “How important is this to you?” if there’s a difference of opinion. Never assume.

DON’T BE AFRAID TO GET HELP. It’s not your fault, but you are still young and naïve. Reach out to mentors and teachers for advice. Ask your husband to speak to his rebbe. Get professional help if it’s needed.

All of these people are older and wiser than you and will make a big difference in your life. Don’t stay stuck; find ways to grow together.

ENJOY. These are amazing years of your life. Invest time in each other, whenever you can. Go out on dates, enjoy each other’s company, and make it a priority to create the best marriage possible.

Love, You + 11 years

Dear Younger Self,

You don’t know it yet, but life can be grand—if you choose to make it that way.

The guy you are about to marry is one of the greatest human beings alive. I know he doesn’t meet any of your current criteria for a husband, and he isn’t that tall, dark handsome person you thought you’d marry, the one with the same minhagim as your family’s. But go to your chuppah with a smile. Don’t lose yourself in any what-ifs.

His family is different from yours, but if you respect those differences, your love for them will follow.

Enjoy life as it comes. Thank the One Above for challenges, because you’ll see that they are gifts. When you learn to view life this way, you will never be lacking.

Your children are like flowers, but instead of needing water and sunlight they need lots of love and attention to grow tall. Still, there is nothing more important in this world than the unit of you and your husband. Putting your husband first is the best gift you can give your children, but it’s sometimes hard to watch those helpless little people come second. It will be an inner fight, but the lessons they will learn from it will produce generations of greatness.

To you, my dear, on this wedding day, I bless you with joy and clarity your whole life long!

Love, Your older self + 12 years, who has learned from her mistakes

Dear Kallah,

You think you know him, but you don’t. You think he’s amazing, but he isn’t.

You think you’re the luckiest girl in the world, but...oh, boy! Enjoy the bliss while it lasts, because it will help you get through the difficult days that are soon to follow. It will make you hopeful that you can get those feelings back and keep you fighting to save this marriage, even though you’ll feel at times like giving up.

But it’s not all doom and gloom, because you’ll finally begin to develop some self-esteem. At long last you will realize that he wasn’t way out of your league; you were way out of his. You were a serious catch on the dating scene, even if you had one superficial flaw that made you less sought-after.

You have all of the fine qualities it takes to be a good spouse, and you deserve to be cherished. One day soon, I hope, life will be good again.

Dear Kallah,

I know you love everyone dearly, and are so excited to be getting married that you want all your friends to get married too. But when you’re under the chuppah, the people you should be davening for are yourself and your husband, nobody else. You will barely have time to daven—and those tefillos will certainly come in handy, let me tell you.

Remember, too, that it’s not about the wedding; it’s about that man standing next to you putting that ring on your finger. So don’t stress about the duck versus veal or the color scheme or that sister-in-law who doesn’t want to wear lilac. You’ll barely remember the wedding anyway, and honestly, no one, but no one, looks good in lilac. What were you thinking?

Oh, and break in your shoes before the wedding or it will take a month for the blisters to heal.

Sincerely, You + five years P.S.—Wear waterproof mascara.

Trust me.

Hugs—so many hugs, You + six years

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Dear Blushing Bride,

The wedding is only a few hours long. Was it really worth all of that fighting?

Honestly, the wedding is for the guests; for you it will fly by so quickly you’ll barely remember it until you watch the video.

It’s not about impressing people. Why can’t you see that, me from the past?

Who cares what they think? Your wedding is the foundation for your future together. Don’t you want to start off the first day of the rest of your life peacefully?

Instead of obsessing and stressing, stop and take stock. Along with all the things you’re davening for, remember to thank Hashem for what you already have. You have much to be grateful for.

Love, You + another 15 years (and another 15 pounds, but who’s counting?)

Dear Me,

You know what? Just choose a date. Yes, I know, you want everyone to come and you don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. But if you try to work around everyone else’s schedule you’ll only drive yourself crazy, and your wedding will end up being at a time that is wonderful for everyone else but super-stressful for you.

Also, remember that men are much more sensitive on the inside. Just because you have never seen him cry doesn’t mean that a harsh word wouldn’t hurt him as much as it would hurt you.

Don’t let things fester. You aren’t being noble by swallowing everything; you’re being immature. It’s a wasted sacrifice to pretend you’re okay about moving out of town when you really want to live near your family. You can save yourself five years of misery if you just open your mouth.

The best advice you will ever receive is don’t go to bed angry.

Love and kisses, You + ten years

Dear Kallah,

The worst advice you will ever receive is never to go to bed angry. Seriously, you will have your first fight and it will go on for months because of that rule.

Go to bed angry. Just close your mouth, bite your tongue and go to sleep. You’re overtired anyway. Things will look a lot better in the morning.

You know how one of the things you love about your chasan is how funloving and spontaneous he is? Well, there’s a flip side to that, as there is with everything. You can work it out, if you’re patient and loving. Please be patient and loving.

Remember, too, that there really is no right or wrong way to wipe down the counters, put on duvet covers or make toast. Because guess what? You and your husband grew up in different households, in different parts of the world, so there will be a thousand little details about the way the two of you view life that are very different. And in the beginning it will all seem important, but it’s really, really not. Don’t let these silly little things pour negative energy into your marriage.

Oh, and that dream investment property in Trenton? Not a dream—a nightmare. Don’t do it.

XOXO, You, three years hence

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Dear Me,

Hey, guess what? The silent treatment doesn’t work for two reasons: First of all, if you just told him what you wanted him to do, he would gladly do it, but he cannot read your mind. The second reason it won’t work is that he actually loves the quiet. So save yourself some silent, inner rage, okay?

Like years and years’ worth.

Also, don’t freak out about the weight gain. You’ll lose it. Relax.

Sincerely, You + 20 years

Dear Me,

Dear Darling Kallah,

Listen to your heart. If it whispers, “This is not okay” or “I don’t feel safe,” give it the attention it deserves and make things right.

Don’t let anyone make you believe things about you that aren’t true. Or crush your G-dly spirit.

The strengths that you have always possessed, unbeknownst to you, can be used to counteract and soften whatever weaknesses you think you have. You are not fatally flawed, and nothing in any relationship is ever fully one person’s fault.

You are Hashem’s child, and you have a special tafkid in life. Reach out before you’re drowning and tackle problems before they become overwhelming. Turn to the right professionals. It might be a chasan teacher, a rav, an askan—or a doctor.

If you’re not good enough for him, he doesn’t deserve you.

Many hugs, younger me. You will need it for the dark and twisted road ahead.

I promise, though, that you will make it through, and we will be so proud of what we’ve become.

First of all, you look beautiful. You do.

Seriously, stop obsessing over a pound gained or a pound lost; after your first baby is born, you will never be able to get those extra pounds off your waist no matter how hard you try. Kind of puts that whole “Oh, no! I gained a pound!” into perspective, huh?

Sweet girl, listen to me: He doesn’t need a yes-man. You don’t have to make yourself into a feminine version of him. He married you, so stay you. Being you is a wonderful thing.

Remember to respect yourself; he’ll respect you more if you do. You are not a shmatte, and you’re allowed to be exhausted sometimes. You’re even allowed to be in a bad mood from time to time, cook a mediocre dinner or leave the socks unmatched. You are a person, not a machine. Your kids need you to be happy, and you need to teach them that being a mother and wife still leaves you time to do things that are just for you.

Love, You + 18 years

Mazal tov, You + 12 years

Signed, You + 17 years, but smarter

Dear Kallah,

By all means, come into your marriage with dreams, goals and aspirations, but be prepared to have them changed by the circumstances Hashem will bring into your life. Submit to them, grow from them and embrace them.

They are intended for your fullest development.

Problems will inevitably arise. They are not punishments; they are challenges that will make you stronger. They are not intended to demoralize or break you. Accept them gracefully. And don’t forget that poor choices have consequences.

Communication is the key. No matter how much your husband wants to make you happy, he is not a mind reader. But more important than communicating what you don’t like about your husband or his family is communicating what you do like. Good communication is also knowing what to say, how to say it and when. Also, if something will only bring negativity into your marriage or diminish your respect for each other, it doesn’t have to be said.

You cannot change anyone else, least of all your husband. You can only change yourself and your attitudes and responses. Sometimes that’s all it takes to diffuse a potentially toxic situation and generate some very positive changes.

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THE NEWLY RENOVATED

BY RACHEL BERGER

RECAP: Nachi is gone, and Yaffa makes a decision.

W

hen I reach a gap between the buildings at the intersection at the bottom of the street, I skid to a stop. The view takes my breath away, as it always does, both the suddenness of it—how the somewhat dingy buildings suddenly give way to sky and hills and, on a clear day, even a glimpse of Yam Hamelach—and the awe that it inspires in my heart.

A moment later I turn away and continue to the end of the street. I pass the gas station in a hurry, away from the grease-stained Arab men who look at me and whisper to each other about the strangeness of someone like me being here, about how I do not belong. I do not want to think right now about belonging.

I do not want my own mind to talk me out of what I must do.

You should have asked someone about this.

A whisper of thought, like a puff of breeze on a hot summer day, flits through my mind, but then it is gone. Because no one—not Rebbetzin Samet, not Mrs. Levy, not Emunah—would understand.

How can someone understand when a common thread of reference does not run through us?

They would tell me that there must be some other way. They would never understand that I need to do this. Only one person in my life would understand, but thoughts of Nachi turn my mind back into a fire of single-minded purposefulness, and I am no longer thinking. I am

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walking, I am going—I am doing this.

There is no turning back now.

The road in front of me twists, and then I find myself standing in front of several cement blocks covered liberally in graffiti. They are big and solid and come up to my waist. Behind the blocks is a makeshift fence on wheels, sectioning off the street beyond. In front of the fence are several soldiers.

And beyond that fence is a place that is calling to me as though from beyond the grave.

Beyond that fence is Isawiya.

A soldier is already walking toward me, shaking his head. His green beret is perched over a young, boyish face sprinkled with freckles, and his eyes are wide with concern.

“G’veret,” he says, one hand pressing lightly on the gun slung at his side, “you cannot be here.”

“Why is Isawiya blocked off?” I ask.

“The three terrorists from last week were all from Isawiya,” the soldier explains. “The government decided to block it off for a while.”

“What does it accomplish?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I am a soldier,” he says simply. “I follow orders.”

“Well,” I continue in what I hope is a casual tone, “I won’t get in your way, then.”

I turn to walk around the cement block in front of me, and find myself face to face with him once again.

“G’veret,” he repeats, “you cannot be here.”

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“It’s a free country, isn’t it?” I ask lightly.

“No.”The boy shakes his head. “It is not.

From these blockades until that fence it is my country, g’veret, and it is not free at all.”

I laugh, but he does not.

“Surely if I try to get past you, you will not stop me?” I keep my face friendly. I smile.

He does not match my expression.

“G’veret, you cannot cross. For your own safety, you cannot cross.”

“What are you going to do, shoot me?”

His jaw hardens. Maybe he thinks I am making fun of him. “Are you new here, yaldah?” I have been downgraded from g’veret. “Do you have a death wish? Israel is not a free country for Jews. Free for everyone else, maybe. The residents of Isawiya are free to spit, to throw stones at me and my brothers while we stand here, unable to fight back. We are like bubot, dressed-up toy soldiers. So for Arabs it is free. But for Jews, it is not free. For Jews it will never be free.”

His face is so childlike but his words are old and bitter, and for a moment my heart sinks at the knowledge of what this boy must have seen to make him so. But I harden. I need to cross the fence, and this boy, no matter the gun at his side, no matter the other soldiers who are now drawing near, curious about our conversation, will not stop me.

For Nachi I do this.

“Ana last Yahud qadhar,” I spit out, and watch as the boy’s face turns red.

“What did she say?” one of the soldiers asks, and I turn away slightly, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up as though in horror at my own words.

“She said, ‘I am not a filthy Jew,’” the first soldier explains to his fellow without taking his eyes off of me. “This girl would like us to know that we have mistaken her for a filthy Jew, and she is not.”

I can nearly see the jolt of anger that goes through the soldiers. They can detain me to vent that anger, but they will not.

CHAPTER 10 I NEED TO CROSS THE FENCE, AND THIS SOLDIER, WITH A GUN AT HIS SIDE, WILL NOT STOP ME.

Their orders are clear; even if they have stones thrown at them, even if they are spit at, hissed at, cursed, they are to stand there and take it. How do they do that day after day?

“I did not mean to say filthy,” I say, suddenly unable to add to their burden. “I am sorry for saying filthy.”

“A river swollen with filth does not suddenly complain when one more piece of trash is added to it,” says the soldier, and I am unfamiliar with the metaphor but understand it at once.

“Can I go through now?” I ask. “Can I go home?” I hold my breath. Will he ask to see my teudat zehut? It clearly shows my nationality.

He does not. He waves me on my way with a hand that is weary. His face has fallen; he can do nothing, and he feels it. My throat burns with anguish, but I keep my face haughty and proud. I am not a Jew, says the expression on my face. I am a Muslim from Isawiya. If this soldier gives me any trouble, I will spit at him.

I cross the fence and walk up the hilly street beyond.

There is a breeze in the air, and it makes me shudder. I walk a few feet more, and then I see it—the tall, looming, white stone buildings built any which way, seemingly without a plan, a faint furl of smoke from faraway burning garbage, the grassy hills that are, disturbingly, smaller than the hills that I recall. Just like that, from one second to the next, I am back in Isawiya.

A sudden memory: I am small, and I am lonely, and I see my brother sneaking out of the house. “Hamudi!” I call after him from the window. “Hamudi, wait for me!”

I know that he heard me; I see his ears twitch. But a moment later he is gone, and I am standing at the window, alone.

The land of my childhood is strangely quiet and still, with no sign of the usual rag-tag gangs of boys wandering in the streets. It is getting dark, and I think for 2 4 S H VA T 5 7 7 6

a moment that perhaps I have made a terrible mistake. At the very least I should have come during the day. I should have thought this through more, definitely.

Here I am, dressed like a Bais Yaakov graduate; at the very least, I should have obtained a hijab. And a male escort.

Do you have a death wish? the soldier had asked me, and I feel a shudder pass through me once more.

Before me is a low stone wall, and I sit on it to gather my thoughts. My plan had been to march straight to my father’s house. I had many questions to ask him, and as his blood, he would have had to grant me the answers. I had been so sure a moment ago, but now my legs feel weak.

Is it the juxtaposition of “now” with “then” that makes my body shake?

Forever and ever, I am back here, in Isawiya. Forever and ever, my past draws me back in.

“Are you lost?”

The voice from behind me asks the question in Arabic, and I leap off the wall and whirl around. My heart is like a mountain goat trying to spring from my chest when I see who I am facing.  To be continued... |

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SWEPT AWAY Chapter Nineteen: In the Conference Room LAST WEEK: ADJUSTING TO LIFE IN AMERICA IS MORE DIFFICULT THAN EXPECTED

W

ork was not getting better, but at least it wasn’t getting worse. Still, he complained about it to Gitty. But he didn’t mention to her the latest strange incident that had occurred.

The same secretary who had complained about him walked into his office and asked him if he had any dry cleaning for her to take care of. “Why would I give it to you?” he asked. When she stormed wordlessly out of the office, Nosson wondered what he had done now to offend her.

“DON’T SWEAT IT.” Berman’s bold capped letters appeared on his chat screen.

They both preferred texting to speaking.

“They ask everyone. It’s part of their master plan to enslave the employees. You should know. Like your Faro. ” “That’s Pharaoh, and he’s not ours.”

Nosson had one last question. “Why didn’t they ask you for yours?”

“See above.”

“Why do you even work here?”

“The money is great.”

Nosson lifted his eyebrow, thinking of his unimpressive starting salary, and when he saw Berman had typed in: Hey, I do payroll. I make way more than you, Nosson logged out, done with the conversation.

He was going to send his suits in to be dry-cleaned anyway, so why absorb the expense when the company was willing to

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pay for it? Berman was a nut, full of conspiracy theories and other nonsense, and Nosson was not about to let a moneysaving opportunity pass them by. He was sure Gitty would agree with him, and they would both laugh over the absurdity of Berman’s comment.

Later that same morning, something called an APB was sent out to all the staff.

Berman, his de facto translator, told him it meant All Points Bulletin, which is what they say when cops are looking for criminals. “See my point???” he’d typed in after the explanation. “They’re out to get us.”

They were being called into the conference room for a briefing on a new client, which they did every time an over-a-milliondollar account signed on to the agency.

“What do they need us there for?” asked Nosson.

“We’re the most important part. We’re in charge of accounts receivable.” Berman was, maybe, Nosson thought; he himself was a glorified administrative assistant who spent most of his day doing data entry. For the hundredth time, he wondered how they allowed Berman to have such an important position in the company.

He took his legal pad and tucked it under his arm, ready to go, but Berman told him to sit down.

“Why?” “Because nobody is there yet, and you

2 4 S H VA T 5 7 7 6

can’t sit around the table. That’s where all the execs sit.”

“Where am I supposed to sit?”

“You don’t. You stand.”

He clammed up after that, and Nosson had no choice but to sit and wait until Berman was good and ready to go. It was only 11 o’clock and he was already exhausted.  Only after Nosson stepped out the third time to see what was happening did Berman mosey into the conference room, Nosson trailing behind him like the fluttering end of a kite. Berman made a beeline for an empty seat towards the front of the long conference table after throwing Nosson a smirk. Nosson had assumed Berman would also be standing, and the sight of him sitting among the executives gave Nosson a strange jolt, throwing Berman into a completely different compartment in his mind.

It was one thing to mock the “establishment,” as Berman had quaintly put it, from the outside, but Berman had cozied right up inside. It was an interesting fact but not worth dwelling on, aside from the fact that Nosson felt like a lame duck standing there among the secretaries, the receptionists, and other plebeians like himself.

He had resolved to review Mishnayos b’al peh while the meeting was taking place,

the office and stepped out into the corridor outside the reception area. The receptionist had to buzz him out and then in again, raising her super-plucked eyebrows slightly in annoyance, but Nosson was on a mission.

“Hey, Gittel, how are you?” He liked using the softer version of her name from time to time—it helped soften his words.

After exchanging hellos, Nosson jumped into it. “Gitty, do you remember the name of that cream you used to use at home…”

“Home—you mean Eretz Yisrael or here?”

Nosson took a deep breath, wondering why he hadn’t just texted, which he could have done from his office. Actual con-

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but he had difficulty pulling his attention away from the presentation. It was a multi-media production, with lights and sounds and a fast-moving video flickering on the screen. The music was catchy and loud, and before Nosson knew it, he was thoroughly absorbed.

He was listening carefully, and before long he realized there was a flaw in the pitch. The client was a large drug company, and the first product they were going to be marketing was a medicated diaper cream that had just received FDA approval in the US. There was something familiar about the product, something niggling at his brain, but he couldn’t get his finger on it.

HE WAS LISTENING CAREFULLY, AND BEFORE LONG HE REALIZED THERE WAS A FLAW IN THE PITCH. After the presentation was over, Nosson awoke as though from a hypnotic trance. Sitting in front of a screen for such a long time had left him dizzy—and he was ashamed, once again, for having enjoyed himself.

He was surprised, at the close of the meeting, to see Bagley stand up and say, “As usual, we welcome all and any feedback.” Attempting benevolence, he tossed the comment towards the group standing at the back like it was a wilted bouquet.

The first thing he did when he returned to his desk was give Berman a dirty look, for which he received that same smirk in return. “It’s all a game, Kramer. A game to be played.”

The next thing he did was phone Gitty. He didn’t want Berman to overhear the conversation, which Nosson was sure was going to be absurd, so he left

versations these days were hit and miss— he never knew when he was going to step into a landmine such as this.

“Eretz Yisrael, I meant. Wasn’t there a diaper cream we used that made the kids’ skin turn yellow or something? Do you remember what I’m talking about?”

“Yes, I do,” said Gitty. “It worked really well but the color was weird so people were rushing to the doctor with their kids.”

“Right. That’s it. What was it called again?”

“Diaperclear, I think.”

“I knew it,” said Nosson.

“What is going on with you, Nosson?” said Gitty, her voice a squeak against the noise rushing through his head. “Why on earth do you need the name of some diaper cream we used five years ago?” 

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THE RHYTHM OF OUR LIVES

All in the Family AS TOLD TO NISSI UNGER

A Match Made in Heaven?

BY JULIE ACKERMAN

The Sukkos Bris That Wasn’t

BY SARAH SANDER

A Stitch in Time AS TOLD TO YITTY GOLDSTEIN

Mother of the Bride AS TOLD TO REA BOCHNER

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All in the Family

Yes, my brother really is my brother-in-law!

BRIDAL & EVENING WEAR

As told to Nissi Unger

S

everal years ago, my best friend Rivka refused to date her uncle when the idea was proposed to her, even though everyone thought it was a match made in heaven.

Rivka was very clear that she wanted a fresh start, as well as a mother-in-law who hadn’t watched her grow up and knew all her foibles. “Seriously,” she told me during a heart-to-heart talk late one night, “my uncle has seen me pulling my sister’s hair and being disrespectful to my parents. How could he marry me?”

I listened to her concerns and validated them. Then I said, “You might not get a fresh start but you’d sure have an easy one, with little adjustment and no anxiety. You’d already know what to expect from his family!” I thought she was crazy for dismissing it out of hand. Of course, when she called me up to invite me to her l’chaim a short time later (yes, to her uncle!), I ran all the way there.

Little did I know that the future held something even more unusual for me.

Pretty soon it was my turn for a shidduch, and with the first turn of the wheel, I naturally wanted to confide in my best friend.

“It looks like my twin brother and I might be sharing a mother-in-law!” I called her up to announce. Rivka thought I was pulling her leg. Then she burst out laughing and couldn’t stop.

I was not enthusiastic. What a weird idea!

My twin brother and I marrying siblings— who needed that? Echoes of Rivka’s desire for a “fresh start” reverberated in my ears.

I’d only heard of one similar case, a woman my mother’s age whose brother had married her husband’s sister. But I still thought that the suggestion was absurd.

This time it was Rivka’s turn to offer the sage advice. “Why not?” she countered.

“You’d have a partner in crime, someone to

help you adjust to your new family. You’d have half the anxiety and double the simchah!”

Those were certainly things to think about.

Honestly, even though we’re twins, my brother and I are very different. Our personalities and interests couldn’t be more dissimilar. That’s why I was never involved in his shidduchim, nor he in mine.

Accordingly, when a shadchan called my mother to suggest a “double shidduch” (by this I mean a shidduch that was conditional; we’d only get engaged if both of us agreed to marry a brother and a sister) her first reaction was an emphatic “NO! It could never work. They may be twins but they’re nothing like each other.”

“Double shidduchim,” as they are called, were not very common in my circles. So I just laughed at the whole thing.

Another factor was that my mother was extremely worried about what would happen if one of our marriages failed. Why put the other relationship in jeopardy?

Lastly, the other family was from out of town, with a lifestyle that was very unlike ours. Where they came from, double shidduchim were less rare and more socially acceptable.

Then the shadchan called back and said to my mother, “Why should you assume that only your children are dissimilar? Maybe the brother and sister I’m suggesting are also separate people!” She listened, and then started asking around. That was on a Monday.

By Tuesday afternoon she was saying, “Hmm… It sounds like a very nice family.”

The next thing I knew it was Thursday evening, and my brother, my prospective husband, my father and my prospective father-in-law were sitting in one room, while I, my mother, my prospective mother-in-law and sister-in-law sat in another. The shadchan had provided a place to meet, in the home of a family friend of my future in-laws.

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THE RHYTHM OF OUR LIVES

My “husband” was the oldest, at 21, and the rest of us—I, my brother and my future sister-in-law—were all 19.

Instead of the nerve-racking struggle to make conversation that many girls suffer, we had a sort of roundtable discussion. Since I had never experienced anything else, this was okay with me. I also had no time to wonder what other people would think about my brother and me marrying into the same family, because I never believed it would really happen. By the time I realized that my life would be altered in a way I’d never imagined, it was too late to think about what my friends would say.

At that point, the evening’s activities diverged. I had to race off to school to take a test, as I was enrolled in a program that would hopefully culminate in a master’s degree. Meanwhile, my brother and my sister-in-law had their first meeting (besho).

My brother was very pleased when the hour was over. By the time I got home from school, slogging through the pouring rain, I was exhausted. I would have loved to take

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a 12-hour nap but my parents were under tremendous pressure to go forward with the shidduch. The shadchan was relentless; suffice it to say that he called my parents over a dozen times while I was gone to make sure we weren’t going to chicken out.

And that is how I found myself at around midnight, my brain still full of the psychological theories I’d just learned about, freshening up and going back to the same house to meet my husband for the first time. My brother had his second meeting with his intended at the same time I had my first.

We both “just knew” it was going to happen, even though it still seemed rather unbelievable. When the meeting ended, the shadchan encouraged us to “brech teller” and finalize the engagements.

However, my mother would have none of it and put her foot down. She insisted that she needed to sleep on it, and her wish was granted.

The next morning dawned bright and early as my twin brother and I got dressed and prepared to get engaged together, mar-

2 4 S H VA T 5 7 7 6

rying into the same family and intertwining our destinies even further.

By 9 a.m. both sets of almost-chasanim and kallos were sitting in the same seats we’d occupied the previous evening. We each had one more meeting and then we drank l’chaim!

My friend Rivka, who had been married to her uncle for six months at that point, was my only friend who attended. The circumstances were so unusual that she was the only person I felt comfortable inviting! I was sure that no one else in the world could understand how I was feeling.

To say that it was shocking is far from hyperbole. While my twin and I had always been very different, my husband and his sister were extremely close, and had always wanted “the same kind” of spouse! So to them, it seemed perfectly normal that they were marrying twins!

Luckily for me and my brother, this turn of events did bring us closer.

Since the shidduch had happened so quickly, there was no time to get us diamond bracelets. Somebody had gone out and

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THE RHYTHM OF OUR LIVES

purchased two candy bracelets, and that’s what was presented to both of us! We wore them happily, and there are plenty of photos of us showing them off proudly.

Our engagement period was actually quite practical. Most in-laws need to keep a very accurate spending log, complete with receipts for every purchase. Then tallies have to be made and all expenses divided between the two parties. In our case, each side paid their own expenses for things like gowns, sheitels and shtreimels for both weddings, and the only thing that was split was the actual wedding reception. This ensured a lot less stress and an argument-free engagement.

Another advantage we had was that my future sister-in-law and I were the same size.

So if either of us saw something nice we bought two of them, including a pretty Shabbos sweater and the perfect black simchah dress.

My husband and brother ended up getting the exact same esrog box and megillah case, which we each chose independently, not knowing that the other side had chosen the exact same thing!

My sister-in-law and I were both frequently asked what it was like to have “competition.”These comments were totally off-base. We never felt as if we were competing with each other. My brother and I helped each other when it came to buying and presenting gifts, and there was plenty of joy to go around. It wasn’t divided; it was multiplied.

Of course, our home was abuzz with preparations for several months, considering that there were two simchos coming up. Our weddings took place ten weeks apart. My

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“IT LOOKS LIKE MY TWIN BROTHER AND I MIGHT BE SHARING A MOTHER-IN-LAW!” I CONFIDED IN MY FRIEND. brother got married right before the summer, and I got married in September. It was much easier to find a wedding hall in the city where my in-laws lived, so my brother and sister-in-law got married first. That was better for me anyway, as I would be off from school in September because of all the Yomim Tovim.

My future mother-in-law was very involved in my preparations for my brother’s wedding. What would I wear? Who would do my hair? After all, I wasn’t only the chasan’s sister but her son’s kallah! She would be showing me off to her guests and extended family. At the wedding, she handed me a beautiful ring as a gift.

Taking photos at that wedding seemed to drag on forever. When I finally finished taking pictures with my brother and family, I started the rounds again with my sisterin-law and her family, as I would soon be part of theirs too!

A funny incident happened at the wedding. At one point during the meal I went into the kitchen to get a portion of food and met my chasan, who had also apparently missed being served. In our circles, a chasan and kallah don’t see each other after their tenaim, so it was kind of awkward. We just smiled at each other, took our portions and left, aware that everybody in the hall was watching us. And of course, during the mitzvah tantz when he was called up to dance, all eyes were on me!

It is now several years later, and our families are growing, ka”h. I have a daughter, and my brother has two children. My daughter looks exactly like my husband’s family, and is often mistaken by other relatives to 2 4 S H VA T 5 7 7 6

be my brother’s child. If my sister-in-law is holding her at a simchah, people will come over and comment on how cute her “daughter” is and how much she resembles her mother and siblings.

Strangers who hear about my brother being my brother-in-law are very intrigued by our situation. I’m not sure why, but the most often-repeated question I got as a newlywed was if we always ate our meals together on Shabbos! The answer to that was, “No, of course not.” While I’m obviously much closer to my brother’s wife than any of our other siblings are, there’s no pattern to when we see each other. People also assume that we spend all day on the telephone talking to each other, but again, we both have lives and jobs and children.

We don’t even necessarily speak to each other every day.

My sister-in-law always jokes that she can’t get rid of me. We belong to the same kehillah, our husbands daven in the same shul, and we have the same two extended families so we’re always bumping into each other at simchos!

Here’s the thing I have to be the most careful about: You know how family gossip has a way of getting around and causing a lot of grief ? Aside from the fact that gossip should never be shared anyway, I have had to learn to be super-cautious when it comes to my parents, so that nothing with even the slightest potential to hurt my brother in any way goes around in circles. I look at it as an added safeguard to maintain our family’s privacy and the special relationship I share with my brother-turned-brotherin-law! 

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THE RHYTHM OF OUR LIVES

A Match Made in Heaven?

The year was 1959, and people had different criteria

By Julie Ackerman

H

e was a talmid chacham working a blue-collar job. She was a greeneh who didn’t speak a word of English—or Yiddish—and who had not had much schooling. Yet although they did not have a common language, some audacious shadchan had the chutzpah to pair them up.

“That’s ridiculous!” the shadchan of today would fume. “A travesty! A betrayal of basic shidduch etiquette!” No dowry, no support, and paying for their own wedding expenses? Who ever heard of such a thing?

The shadchanim of 1959, that’s who. For most Holocaust survivors, getting married was more about building than nurturing, and having children was more about rebuilding than compatibility. Mr. Right didn’t exist any more than Mr. Wrong did.

There was a mission to be fulfilled, and every Jewish boy and girl felt that responsibility.

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Moreover, a match between young European-born Jews was a unique phenomenon. Very few children survived the war, and a baby who had been born at the beginning of the war and survived was a living miracle. There weren’t many such young adults who were looking for a shidduch in 1959.

Yisrael Zev, a refugee from Romania, was one such survivor. At 15 he’d come to New York and learned under Rav Michael Ber Weissmandl of Nitra. He was one of the lucky ones who still had parents, although they were having a hard time financially. During bein hazmanim, instead of traveling home to Toronto, where his parents were living, Yisrael Zev worked at the Kedem winery, doing odds and ends to help pay for his stay in the yeshivah. He put away every extra dollar or two in a secret reserve that would help pay for his wedding.

2 4 S H VA T 5 7 7 6

With the Hungarian uprising of 1956, a new wave of immigrants crowded Brooklyn’s streets. Among the greenhorns was 17-year-old Leiku, a fine, frum young woman from an illustrious lineage of dayanim.

Although she didn’t know a word of Yiddish or English, a Jewish aid organization found her a job in a factory sewing on buttons. Whenever her machine broke down, there was another worker who always stopped what he was doing and came over to help. This made Leiku feel terribly guilty because the workers were paid by the piece, and each time he stopped working, it meant he was losing money.

Yet she was also eternally grateful to this stranger for looking out for her by giving the boys in the factory threatening looks whenever they started up with her, sending them scurrying back to their side of the table.

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THE RHYTHM OF OUR LIVES

Although Leiku handed her paycheck over to her parents each week, her mother always thrust $2 into her pocket. She would stash it under her mattress, dreaming of the day she would have enough money to get married and set up her own home.

One can only guess what the creative shadchan was thinking setting up those two. Outwardly, these two could not have been more different. Yisrael Zev had piercing blue eyes and a short red beard, and he was quick and impatient. Leiku, on the other hand, was dark, and she was deliberate, introspective, and calm. Even more astonishing was that he spoke only Yiddish, while she spoke only Hungarian. It seemed that the dearth of shidduchim was the only possible basis for this match.

When they had their first and only meeting, Yisrael Zev sat nonchalantly on a plastic-covered dining-room chair diagonally across from Leiku, one arm draped over the back of the next chair. Leiku, by contrast, was anxiously fingering the heavy lace tablecloth and trying not to move since her chair emitted a loud squeak each time she did. With what one can only assume to be a display of manly confidence, Yisrael

M

The Sukkos Bris That Wasn’t

y daughter was expecting her first child; I was going to become a bubby! Her due date was Erev Sukkos. Then she divulged another nugget of classified information—she was going to have a boy.

After processing the initial shock and joy, mental bedlam set in. I had never carried a baby to full term, so I kind of assumed that she wouldn’t either. Therefore, a Sukkos vach nacht and bris were most likely coming up. But where? In our tiny two-by-four sukkah? Then I had an epiph-

That was one problem I didn’t have to worry about anymore

By Sarah Sander

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Zev chose a zaftig orange from the fruit bowl between them. It might have yielded a gezunte shpritz or two as he peeled it, but Leiku was too classy to say anything.

Their wedding was a modest affair scheduled for July. Guests came in from Toronto and from all over New York State. There was one musician who also sang; the dancing was energetic and the joy was genuine, as at every Jewish simchah.

Soon the music died down and the guests came over to take their leave of the new couple. “What a beautiful wedding!” they said. Some slipped the chasan an envelope with wedding money. Yisrael Zev pocketed each envelope carefully; his dream was to buy a building one day.

The hall emptied out and the young couple got ready to go home. They gathered the last of their belongings, only to realize they were suddenly all alone. Maybe it was the language barrier, the fact that Yisrael Zev was a self-sufficient man, the fact that the mechutanim were out of town, or plain old miscommunication, but apparently no one had remembered to arrange a ride home for the new couple.

Yisrael Zev didn’t own a car. What to do? The wedding hall was in the middle of nowhere, cell phones didn’t exist and they didn’t have a pay phone. It was already way past midnight, much too late to knock on anyone’s door for help.

It was a good thing Yisrael Zev had a little bit of chutzpah. He didn’t do anything crazy, of course, just what any self-respecting newlywed would do. Squaring his shoulders, he turned to his wife and said,

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“Kim, mir geyen aheim volken!”

It was a sweltering night in July, and Leiku was wearing a heavy lace gown with a train that threatened to become undone with every step. Yisrael Zev was wearing a kittel, a shtreimel, a bekeshe and maybe a tallis too.

And they spoke different languages.

About 15 blocks later, the couple, hot and panting, flagged down a cab. It took another five minutes for Leiku to gather her voluminous gown into the cab. They alighted from the taxi just as day was about to break. And just like that, walking toward the sunrise, they entered their tiny apartment together—the couple whom no sane shadchan of today would ever have paired.

POSTSCRIPT: Feter Zev and Mima Leiku had ten children, ka”h, and my uncle did end up buying a building. Their relationship was never one of many words, although she did learn Yiddish after the kids began to arrive, embarrassing them with her pronounced Hungarian accent. Not to worry, though; she was never much of a talker.

Unfortunately, I do not remember Mima Leiku very well. She died of cancer at the age of 52, when I was only six. My mother, however, still recounts with admiration the obvious respect this couple had for each other.

“It was as if they had a silent language no one else could understand,” one of their daughters once commented to me.

How fortunate for them.  any; how about the sukkah next door, the one belonging to the rav of our community?

We live in a private development, with a total of 27 families in three-family homes, with a wide courtyard between the two rows of houses. Our neighbor, the rav, who has lots of sons and sons-in-law sleeping in the sukkah, had found that he could not make do with his undersized porch sukkah and had decided to construct a huge one in the center of the courtyard. Great—our salvation! We would ask the rav and rebbetzin once their sukkah was up if we might

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THE RHYTHM OF OUR LIVES

“borrow” it for a few hours. The butterflies in my stomach all but went to sleep.

Sukkos was fast approaching, and the sound of the banging of nails was incessant in our development.

But there was one sukkah that was conspicuously absent—the rav’s enormous “simchah” sukkah. I sent my little ones over to investigate and they returned, their cherubic faces flush with the news that the rav’s family was going away to the rebbetzin’s parents for Yom Tov. The butterflies began their frenzied dance all over again.

Erev Sukkos came and went. Still no news. One more day and we wouldn’t need a sukkah anymore; our family minhag is to eat indoors on Shemini Atzeres. The first day of Yom Tov passed and the couple was still showing up to all the meals.

When my daughter knocked on the door the following day, we greeted each other with huge smiles and burst out laughing. The sukkah crisis was over!

The little fellow arrived on the third day of Chol Hamoed. An adorable buster of a guy, he was welcomed warmly, especially by his three-year-old aunt and 21-monthold uncle. The simchah was gevaldig and we all relished our new titles—Zeidy, Bubby, uncles and aunts. And of course, the new parents glowed.

As the eighth day after the birth drew near, the baby developed a deep yellow hue.

The bris was not to be. Days passed and he still had a “suntan.” The mohel (may he rest in peace) became concerned and offered us an herb imported from Lebanon, with clear instructions for use; the young

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mother was to drink a cup of tea prepared from this mysterious substance 30 minutes before feeding the baby, and the jaundice would disappear.

Lebanese tea became the order of the day—and violent illness became the order of the night. My daughter was up for hours with terrible stomachaches and vomiting.

The baby, for his part, just screamed. Was there some sinister connection between the tea and these symptoms, or was it an unconnected stomach virus that the new mother had contracted and perhaps passed on to him? We decided to stop the tea just in case.

The baby remained yellow. A week later he came down with a low-grade fever that 2 4 S H VA T 5 7 7 6

sent us to the emergency room.

Spinal taps and other invasive tests had us sobbing outside those oversized glass doors that are supposed to muffle the baby’s screams but don’t.

All the results were negative, but any thoughts of an imminent bris were thrown out the window since the baby was now considered a choleh. The mohel mandated a full week of recovery. At the end of the week, he returned to evaluate the baby and was highly disturbed to find the little boy still jaundiced.

When he ordered the tea again, we told him what had happened the first time, but he dismissed our suspicions. It had to have been a virus, he said; the tea couldn’t have been responsible. Thus began the tea-and-illness cycle again, and we knew for sure now that the tea was the culprit.

The next day we visited the pediatrician and told him our tale of woe. He was livid. He asked for the tea, saying he wanted to pour it down the drain right in front of us. He also asked for the mohel’s telephone number as he wanted to have it out with him. The doctor bellowed, “A bris bizman means when the baby is ready—not when the mother, grandmother, mohel, party planner and caterer are ready! Leave the baby alone! His body will work through this on its own. He doesn’t have a dangerous level of jaundice. Just give him time.”

Baby Z. had his bris on Rosh Chodesh Kislev at the ripe old age of six weeks. By then my thoughts had turned to doughnuts rather than s’chach, and the festivities were held indoors. 

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THE RHYTHM OF OUR LIVES

A Stitch in Time

Just hours before my wedding, pandemonium broke out As told to Yitty Goldstein

I SPRING ARRIVING DAILY

got married in late September, during one of the worst rainstorms ever. The few people who dared to venture outside clung tightly to their inverted umbrellas, hoping in vain for some protection. My younger sister said teasingly that it was the direct result of my mother’s dire warnings throughout my childhood that if I didn’t stop eating so much candy, it would pour on the day of my wedding. I’d never given much credence to that superstition—and I still don’t. In fact, had I not been fasting, I would have popped a candy or two into my mouth to calm my nerves.

At around half past 12 that day, my father drove my mother and me to the wedding hall. Elanit, the hairdresser, and Dassi Levine, the makeup artist, would be meeting us upstairs in the bridal suite at 1 o’clock. We were a large group of sisters using the services of these women, so it was imperative that I arrive on time. The drive took a bit longer than planned; there was a lot of traffic because of the weather.

The rain was coming down so hard that I

wondered briefly if Bubby’s arthritis would hinder her participation in the simchah.

My own quick dash from the car left me dripping wet.

I was grateful we’d had the foresight to get ready at the hall; at least we wouldn’t have to go out in the rain after getting ready. I felt bad for my father, though, who had to make numerous trips from the car to the hall, carrying our gowns in one at a time. He reassured me that he was okay, remarking after his final delivery that he needed a shower and a nap, and he headed home to do just that.

By 1:45 my makeup was almost done and I was halfway through my Tehillim. I was hoping to finish the entire sefer before the chuppah. Everything was running according to schedule, baruch Hashem, despite the torrential rain. The bridal suite was very noisy with all my sisters and nieces yakking away. One girl was helping get the little ones dressed; another was helping my mother field tzedakah phone calls; yet another was on standby just in case anyone needed anything. The noise, however, didn’t

distract me, and I was able to daven right through the hullabaloo, oblivious to what was going on.

It was only when the room suddenly got quiet that I lifted my head. Some of my sisters were crowded around what looked like a garment bag, shushing frantically.

My two-year-old niece had a lipstick in her hand but nobody seemed to care. My mother, hovering near the door, had turned a sickly shade of green, as if unsure whether to gag or fall in a heap on the floor in a dead faint.

“What’s going on?” I asked the sister who was sitting next to me. Mutely, she pointed to the black garment bag that contained my wedding gown. Peeking out through the open zipper were some black spots on the off-white fabric. I walked over and removed the gown in its entirety from the soggy bag.

My exquisite, custom-made gown with the hand-sewn beading, worn exactly once by my cousin Rissi, an only daughter among eight boys, was covered with gigantic black blobs, great big spots like the ones on a cow. The dye from the fabric garment bag had obviously run all over the dress during my father’s frenzied threesecond sprint from car to hall. There was no way I could wear it unless I wanted to be referred to as the “cowlah” for all eternity. Ha! I know—I crack myself up sometimes.

In the utter chaos of the next five minutes, I felt nothing. Totally numb.

Everyone spoke over everyone else while I simply turned back to my Tehillim and continued davening as if nothing had happened. In retrospect, I assume my detachment was a coping mechanism. Everyone was rallying, pulling strings to solve the crisis, so there wasn’t anything for me to do anyway. With Hashem’s help, I’d have a gown of one sort or another when the time arrived.

The truth is that I didn’t want to waste my once-in-a-lifetime precious day of

tefillah worrying about something as superficial as a gown. True, it was a stunning gown, and I’d been dreaming of wearing it ever since Rissi had gotten married. It was also true that I’d gone through at least ten fittings to have it tailored to perfection since Rissi is a full head taller than I am.

Don’t ask me how we pulled it off. But it was also just a gown. I continued saying Tehillim.

To be completely honest, even I was impressed by my attitude. Maybe this is what people mean when they talk about a nisayon or crisis and say, “Hashem was holding my hand, leading the way.” I used to laugh this off as a cliché, but now I had a glimmer of understanding. I was in Hashem’s hands. My family took my cue and we all managed to stay calm, even though the situation was anything but.

Over the next three hours of gownhunting, the one recurring theme that kept us going was the absolute magnificence of Hashem’s children. My father, about to grab a quick bite at home, was quickly apprised of the situation. Abandoning his meal, he drove down to the hall to pick up the gown and ran with it to the local cleaners, hoping they could get the stains out in time. But the problem was out of the local cleaners’ league, so the proprietor recommended that my father try the famous cleaners of all couture gowns, Landau’s on Fort Hamilton Parkway in Boro Park, a half-hour’s drive away.

Thirty minutes later, Mr. Landau took a look at the gown and said, “Reb Yid, this gown is ruined. Kaput. Don’t worry; your daughter is going to be married in a gown.

But you? You look terrible! Sit down and let me give you something to eat!”

Mr. Landau refused to let my father go until he’d eaten a piece of cake and had some juice. He then insisted that my father stay seated until the color returned to his face. Meanwhile, without telling my father, he called his daughter to find out if he could get his granddaughter’s gown for us!

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THIS MIGHT HAVE BEEN THE ONLY TIME IN HISTORY THAT TWO FRUM MEN TRIED TO COME UP WITH A BRIDAL GOWN TOGETHER!

THE RHYTHM OF OUR LIVES

Unfortunately, we weren’t the same size, but I think this might have been the only time in history that two frum men tried to come up with a bridal gown together!

Despite the lack of success, Mr. Landau sent my father out with a smile and hearty brachos that still reverberate till today.

Once the gown was deemed irrevocably ruined, everyone sprang into action. Dassi called the kallah she’d worked on the night before, and Elanit called several of her own clients. My sister Sury called every bride she could think of who had gotten married in recent history, and these kallos called their friends, neighbors, cousins, coworkers and anyone else they could think of.

Before we knew it, we had a wave of total strangers walking in with gowns from size 0 to size 14. They just kept coming.

Amazingly, people were so eager to help that no one even bothered to ask what size I wore! And even though none of the gowns fit, I felt like each one was another hug from Hashem.

I was a little worried about how my cousin Rissi and my aunt would react when they found out. Ironically, my aunt had repeated several times that the garment

bag mustn’t be removed. It was a special, breathable wedding gown protector. Obviously, no one could have foreseen such a deluge, but I still felt pretty awful.

However, when my aunt heard what had happened, she brushed my apologies away, bent down to my ear and whispered, “Listen, Rissi is in labor and the matzav isn’t too good. Please try to forget about everything else and just daven for her.”

We were getting more and more desperate as the clock kept ticking. If I had any intention of taking pictures, we had only an hour to find a gown.

That’s when my yeshuah arrived in the form of a woman I didn’t know who strode in bearing three bridal gowns in my size, a seamstress right behind her. Goldie Schick, the owner of Boro Park’s Commitments Bridal, was an angel sent from heaven. I did not merely have a decent last-minute gown for my wedding, I had an absolutely gorgeous one that fit me to perfection.

As I found out later, Goldie had at first been reluctant to drop everything and come since her partner was not in the store that day. Nonetheless, she had decided that if something like this were to happen

to her own daughter on her wedding day, she would want someone to step up to the plate. And so she not only stepped up—she generously refused to accept any payment at all! And even the seamstress she brought along donated her time and efforts.

When I finished getting dressed, I went to the mirror and stared in wonder at my reflection. I looked and felt beautiful. Then I made my way downstairs to the hall, pausing to give tzedakah just like any other kallah. No one would ever have known that I hadn’t chosen this gown after extensive deliberation or that it hadn’t been custom-made for me.

We don’t have to understand why things happen in the world, but as I now know, if we embrace the challenge and let go of the illusion of control, we will feel Hashem holding our hand.

Of course, just in case you’re curious, Rissi never made it to the wedding; she was giving birth while we were under the chuppah. The enthusiastic mazal tovs that rang out even before my chasan broke the glass were a bit confusing to some of the guests, but everyone was soon clued in.

Naturally, I broke my fast on a piece of candy. Caramel toffee. Yum! 

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Mother of the Bride This wasn’t the wedding I’d had in mind As told to Rea Bochner

Photo: Mendel Meyers

W

hen I told my parents I was getting married, my mother looked at me like I’d told them I’d contracted a tropical disease.

“Not to that boy we met last week,” she said, gripping my arm.

“Yes, to Ari,” I said. “He asked me tonight.”

“You met him a month ago!” she cried.

“You don’t marry someone you’ve known for a month!”

“Some people do.”

“Yes, and they live in Williamsburg or some frozen shtetl in Russia. We did not spend hundreds of thousands of dollars on an Ivy League education for you to just throw it away on some...boy!” She practically spat the word.

I was expecting a reaction like this. It was right in line with the shock and mild anger I’d come up against every time I’d taken a step toward becoming Orthodox. First it was the Birthright Israel trip. (“Are you sure you don’t want to just go skiing on spring break?” she’d asked.) Then it was the year in seminary. (“Why can’t you just get a tattoo or become a yoga instructor like all our friends’ kids?”)

When I came home, I’d had to head off her weekly attempts to throw out my long

skirts and shells, and mealtimes were punctuated by her heavy sighs and barbs about my kosher food. Most of the time I managed to swallow it without responding, but once in a while I let a nasty retort slip, which inevitably resulted in a full-blown screaming match.

My father, on the other hand, was different. He didn’t approve exactly, but he never said a word in opposition. He just watched me with his signature composure and selfcontrol, keeping his worry hidden.

“Just tell me it makes you happy,” he would tell me.

“It does, Daddy.”’

He nodded, satisfied. “All right.”

My father met the announcement of my engagement, and my mother’s reaction, with calm silence—that is, until my mother turned to him in disgust. “Steven,” she said, tearing up, “handle this.”

“Handle what?” he replied. “She’s made her decision. She’s a smart girl, and I trust her.”

My mother’s mouth fell open.

“Stop acting like this is a tragedy,” he went on. “This is good news. Our daughter is getting married!” His voice broke on the word “married,” and I saw that his eyes were filled with emotion. He was bewildered,

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even a little afraid, but he was happy for me.

His response silenced my mother’s arguments. She wasn’t sold, not by a long shot, but she saw that I was getting married whether she liked it or not. And my father was on board.

My vort was a few nights later. Dozens of Ari’s aunts, uncles and cousins, our rebbeim and rebbetzins, and friends from our seminary and yeshivah turned out to celebrate with us. There were ecstatic hugs and kisses, exuberant l’chayims, extravagantly arrayed dessert tables, bursts of laughter and the excited greetings of friends reunited after time apart. I had long become integrated into this world; the sights and sounds of a frum occasion were almost second nature to me now.

My parents, on the other hand, looked like they’d been dropped into the middle of the Coliseum on lion-feeding day. They stood wide-eyed, taking in the festivities in a sort of daze. Ari’s parents, to their credit, did their best to introduce my parents to everyone, but those who knew better (i.e., I) could tell they were in way over their heads. It was strange for me to see them that way—especially my father, whom I’d seen at hundreds of university events, dominating the room with confidence and charisma. Now he looked like a frightened old man.

“That wasn’t terrible, was it?” I asked them on the way home.

“Not terrible,” my father replied pensively. “Just strange. I felt like a guest at my own child’s engagement party.”

We sank into a few moments of silence.

“Well,” my mother said finally, “it won’t be like that at the wedding.”

I wasn’t quite sure what she meant, so I said nothing.

After that, my mother took a new post as

captain of the wedding planning ship. Dad was involved, of course, and he was right at her side at every shop, tasting hors d’oeuvres, touring halls, and admiring flower arrangements in preparation for my big day. Always, she opted for the most expensive and most elaborate option.

The guest list grew by the hour. More and more courses were piled onto the menu.

Entertainment was hired for the cocktail hour. I, meanwhile, felt like a wagon driver trying to rein in runaway horses.

“Mom, seriously, we do not need Swarovski crystals in the centerpieces.”

“Why not? They’re a nice touch.”

“No one’s even going to see them!”

“It’s the overall effect, honey. It will be a nice contrast with the votive candles on the tables.”

I would call Ari, bemoaning the state of our affair-in-the-making. “I think she’s lost her mind.”

“She’s just excited,” Ari assured me. “Let her do her thing.”

“She’s turning our simple backyard wedding into a frou-frou Trump nightmare!”

“It’s not just our wedding, Julie. It’s hers, too. Remember she’s doing all this because she loves you.”

My chasan’s advice diffused my anger like a pin in a balloon. “Phooey,” I said in a mock pout.

Ari chuckled. “That’s the spirit.”

But the anger came back with full force the day we went to pick out a cake. I wanted something simple; I couldn’t stomach the idea of someone spending hours and hours on dessert. But my mother kept pushing for a fancier cake with all kinds of frills.

“Look at this one!” she exclaimed, pointing to a tall, cylindrical cake in the shape of a castle tower, complete with green moss, a wistful princess hanging out the window,

and a sugar prince at the bottom reaching upward.

I frowned at it. “This is absurd.”

“Beautiful, you mean! Look at the detail!

This is a work of art!”

“Mom, this cake is everything that’s wrong with the wedding industry. Can’t we just get that block of chocolate and buttercream and call it a day?”

“Nonsense, we want you to have the best.

We’ll take this one,” she said to the uppity, gray-bunned saleswoman at the head of the showroom.

That did it. “No, we won’t,” I said.

Mom leaned in, whispering conspiratorially, “Don’t worry, sweetie, I checked. It’s certified kosher.”

“That’s not it...”

“Price isn’t an object, really,” she insisted.

“I want to.”

“Well, I don’t!” I said, too loudly. The saleswoman quickly made herself scarce. “I hate this cake! I hate this whole wedding!”

All the anger I’d bottled up came spilling out in a torrent of words. “I don’t care about stupid fancy cakes or Japanese seaweed crumpets or Swarovski crystal centerpieces!

I wanted it simple! I’m happy with just hot dogs! This wedding is a circus! I don’t even want to come anymore! You hear me? I don’t even want to come to my own wedding!”

And with that, I stormed out.

It was tense in our house for the next few days. I busied myself with my dissertation, ducking out early and coming home late so I didn’t have to cross paths with my mother.

I was sorry for my outburst, but I was just as angry as I had been at the cake showroom.

My mother was oblivious to what anyone else—including the bride—said or thought.

The following week, I was digging through the shelves in my closet for a lost pair of earrings when I knocked a shoebox full of old cards and pictures to the floor. Grumbling, I was gathering them up when a photo caught my attention. My mother and I were standing together at her fiftieth birthday

party. Mom was smiling, her arm tight around my shoulders. Not long after this picture was taken, Daddy had given a witty speech to the hundred or so guests in our backyard. He was in his element, the image of confidence and class, surrounded by people who loved and respected him. It was a sharp contrast to the unsettled man who’d tucked himself into the corner at my engagement party.

That’s when it hit me. My parents was scared. Scared of losing me to this strange new world they knew nothing about, scared of losing the control they’d wielded so expertly over the rest of my life. My mother was making sure that her stamp would be on every single extravagant detail of my wedding to ensure that she and my father wouldn’t be relegated to the role of spectators again, and maybe to make sure they didn’t lose me completely.

Suddenly, it didn’t matter about the crystals or the flan. I saw right through every detail to my mother’s underlying intention: “I love you. I don’t want to lose you. Don’t forget about me.” I was overcome with a mixture of compassion, guilt for hurting her, and gratitude for what my parents had done. Maybe she hadn’t arranged the wedding I’d pictured, but at the end of the day, how important was it? If my mother wanted to celebrate with pyrotechnics, so be it.

When the day of the wedding arrived, no one was happier than my mother. Everything went off perfectly—the fireworks display, the chocolate fountain, and the chuppah, of course. As for me, I was happy to see my mother happy, brimming with pride alongside my father who was holding court as father of the bride—and happy to eat the hot dogs they’d ordered especially for me.  To submit your story for this column or to have your story featured here, please contact us at submissions@amimagazine.org.

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Kaddish CHRONICLES BY RABBI M O RD ECH AI KAMENETZKY

When a mourner attends a child’s wedding 176

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have tried to narrate these chronicles in sequence, but this week calls for a digression. This is the Simchah issue of the magazine, and though I am not quite sure why I wasn’t asked to postpone this week’s installment, I do believe my thoughts will be thematically appropriate.

In the sequential narrative, I did leave out a feeling that came at the onset of the aveilus, or maybe earlier, at the funeral or during the period of aninus before the burial of my mother, a”h. I might have been embarrassed that some of the pain I was experiencing might have felt a bit self-involved. But then, I am a father as well as a son, and our daughter was to be married within 30 days of her bubby’s passing. The loss weighed on me throughout that period.

Indeed, in addition to the myriad halachic concerns, there is the emotional toll on a child and grandchild who will be entering what should be one of the happiest days of their lives while still in the pall of grief.

If it was difficult enough for me to manage the juxtaposition of death and mourning rituals with the boundless joys of a wedding when they were separated by a few weeks, imagine what it must have been like for the family of a man whose funeral I attended a few months ago, a man whose grandson was getting married that very evening. The car that drove the family to the cemetery had to take the groom and his mourning father straight from the cemetery on Long Island to the hall in Boro Park, where they would have to transition instantly from mourning to celebrating.

May the mercy and redemption of the Almighty bloom as quickly.

So often have I heard the expression, “Oh! My mother (or my father) would have wanted us to enjoy the evening, to revel in the simchah and forget our sorrow for just this week.” But can the imagined will of the departed dictate our actions more strongly than the governing halachic guidelines?

The allowance for a mourner to attend a child’s wedding is accompanied by constant reminders of the contradictory nature of the occasion and its asymmetries. Walking into a wedding hall unshaven and ungroomed, in clothes that must not be new, wearing a hat you meant to replace months ago—these are clearly meant to disconcert and discomfit the mourner.

Weighing whether each step of a dance is allowed, whether each bite you eat is permissible at that table or setting—these too are just as clearly meant to keep alive the remembrance of, and mourning for, the missing loved one.

The conspicuous absence of your siblings in their dual roles as brothers and sisters and uncles and aunts also clouds the simchah. Yet the oft-quoted Zohar in Parshas Pinchas, that the dead actually attend the weddings of their descendants, offers solace. But even if she attends in spirit, memories of past weddings overlie the current one, and the absence of the loved one is felt by children, grandchildren, nieces, nephews and extended family alike. It leaves a void that no music, dancing or wedding cheer can fill.

Our daughter’s wedding was the week of Parshas Vayeitzei, which opens with Yaakov dreaming of angels going up and down a celestial ladder.

Shortly before the wedding one of my grandchildren asked her mother, “Is Bubby coming to the wedding?” Of course the answer included the standard “She is in shamayim” response, together with the aforementioned Zohar rendered in pre-school terminology.

Her innocent response was one for the ages: “I don’t understand. If Bubby is in shamayim, why doesn’t she just come down for the wedding on one of the ladders in Yaakov’s dream?”

Oh. If life were only that simple.  This column is dedicated l’iluy nishmas my mother, Rebbetzin Tzirel Kamenetzky, z”l. May my words lift and uplift.

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BY DINA NEUMAN

Ancient Future

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think, sometimes, that parts of ourselves are made from conversations that we’ve had. And sometimes I think that there are parts of who we are and what we believe that are made of conversations that never happened, and those are the dark parts and fearful parts, the parts that keep us from being whole.

So I am really, really, glad when my son asks me the following question: “Ima, how long after I become an abba will Abba die?”

I take a few moments to think of the proper reply before settling on: “Huh?” “Like, will he already be in Shamayim when I am a chasan?”

It hits me suddenly, like something that is likely to be sudden when it hits you, because sometimes metaphors don’t work at all when your jaw is hanging open because I know why he is asking that question. I am so glad that he is asking that question.

For my sons’ brissim, the manager of the hall asked us if we wanted a dais.

“Do we?” I asked my husband.

“Why—so I can sit up there alone and make all our guests sad?” my husband responded, which was a good point.

We live our references, and my son’s reference is one in which all the patriarchs of the family are no longer with us.

I can see a certain dark certainty in my son’s eyes flutter away when I explain that while Ima and Abba’s abbas are in Shamayim, most abbas stay right here until they are very, very old.

I am thinking about this conversation at my cousin’s bas mitzvah as my uncle gets up to speak. I am thinking: Most abbas are a link in the chain that keeps us firmly anchored to the past, as our children keep us anchored to the future.

Libby is nearly eleven, and I can see her own bas mitzvah celebration already a sparkle in her eye. Bas mitzvahs here in

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Eretz Yisrael are not the at-home affairs that I remember from my childhood, and every time we go to a cousin’s or neighbor’s bas mitzvah bash with an especially creative (read: expensive) twist, I contemplate investing in a blindfold.

I tease instead. “You like this hall, huh? And you looooove the color scheme?”

“Ima,” she groans, but her eyes are alight and I imagine that she is imagining herself in the starring role, smiling graciously down at her friends, relishing the spotlight. And even as I tease, my breath catches in my throat.

My first thought: She is getting so old.

My second thought: I am getting so old.

The last time I had a sudden, breathless thought like that was when Libby had gently touched the corners of my eyes.

“What are those lines, Ima?” she asked.

This is, of course, what we want—our children glowing as they hit their milestones, the same milestones that we hit, as did our parents and grandparents before us. Even if in the alte heim bas mitzvahs were celebrated by the lucky girl receiving an extra pickle—as my elementary-school principal insists— what is new is old and what is old is new when we are all linked together, the past to the future, the future to the past.

My children will never meet their grandfathers or their great-grandfathers. Some of our links seem lost in the murkiness of time, of those whom we love taken too soon, of stories never really told. Maybe through our simchos we get a chance to touch them again, to touch something eternal. We are, in a way, made up of the lives of our ancestors, even if we never knew them; in a way, we serve as a conversation between the past and the future.

So of course I am very happy that time is marching on.

Getting old is a good thing.

I’d better check on the status of the lines at the corners of my eyes as soon as we get home. 

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