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her new home. And suddenly, I couldn’t take it anymore. Tatte. Tatte. What did You do to me, to us? How did You cast me from the sky to the earth in one shattering fall? How did You forsake me? And how do I know, when I see my daughter leaving the nest where she was born, that You will be there to hold her when she falls? I knew now what I was praying for. “Tatte. Tatte.” It tore so, so deep. I shuddered. The mesader kiddushin was here. He paused meaningfully. I pulled my shuddering limbs into myself. I willed myself to still my cries. The tears did not abate, falling stream-like, into my beard. They say that under the chuppah, ten generations of ancestors join in the building of a new family. I imagined my father, and my zeide. I felt them supporting me at the shoulders, looking on with dispassionate, if compassionate eyes. I felt them with me, or I would have fallen apart. My daughter was building a new family, while mine was falling apart, the debris all around
simchah of continuing to live, to build, to wait? “Mazel tov, mazel tov!” And the song “Od yishama,” erupted through the crowd, and swept from left to right until all the menfolk were singing. I turned to Chaya. Our eyes met. “Mazel tov,” I said. “May they have brachah.” “May we see nachas.” I turned to the kallah, Malka’la. She was looking at her new chassan with such fresh, beautiful eyes, that for a moment, all I could do was step back, step out of the ring of holiness that seemed to envelop them, and simply observe. She saw me and flung herself at me. We embraced. “Thank you, Tatte,” she said. “I hope I can build a home like yours.” And again, the tears. I hoped she could do more, better. “You can. The Bashefer should be
But how could my heart forget? I, we ourselves, were the ruins of Yerushalayim.
cause if yes, then, maybe I didn’t need to direct his search with my pain. Maybe I could ease up on the fears that gathered, like marbles in a tin, inside of me, and direct them to Hashem. Because if he knew, how would he come to look this way? “Bashefer, please watch my children, because they are Yours. I can’t do the job of raising them, but You can. They are not your grandchildren; they are your children. Please let Avrumy find his way back. Please don’t let him stray, but gather him in like a sheep wobbling afield. Please hold them all in your loving embrace. I can’t do it…” To be continued…
our feet. How could I not cry, for everyone, most of all my dear, lost children? Wine was drunk. Glass was stepped on and shattered. If my heart forgot the ruins of Yerushalayim at the height of my simchah…. But how could my heart forget? I, we ourselves, were the ruins of Yerushalayim. Or was this why we broke glass? Because the Bashefer remembered our broken hearts, our nation broken with every conceivable pain, even as we gave ourselves wholly to the
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with you always.” And now, I had to go find Avrumy. But not before I cried the anger, the shock and helplessness out. Because I needed to talk to him with kindness. I couldn’t approach him with the still lava of pain that tore into me every time I pinched myself and knew that yes, this was real. He had really left our insular community and gone to join the army. Did he know, while he tried to figure himself out, about this partnership he had, with the greatest Source of all? Be-
Chany Rosengarten’s work has appeared in Mishpacha, Ami, Jewish Press, Chabad. org, Lakewood Shopper and of course, The Monsey View. She writes for businesses and entertainment venues, gives workshops on writing and success, and her book Jerusalem Stone will soon be released. To have your blurb selected to be featured on the back cover, write us what you liked best about this serial.