I do not think it is in any way coincidental that my writing of this particular post, the part of my ba'al teshuva story that relates to Parshas Noach, is coinciding with the northeast coast being hit by Hurricane Sandy. In the story of Noach and the flood, G-d sees the violence and corruption in the world and decides to eliminate it altogether with a massive storm, sparing the righteous Noach, his family and a selection of animals in order to preserve and sustain life on earth. It is a story of destruction and also a story of survival. It portrays the magnitude of G-d to at once be so immensely powerful and at the same time, so loving and forgiving. For how comparatively powerless we as humans are, one would think that we could at least master the acts of love and forgiveness--particularly in dealing with ourselves.
That one way plane ticket took me to a location not known for its Jewish livelihood. There was, in fact, very little in the way of Jewish life and practice where I was living until a young family from Brooklyn moved in and established the area's first Chabad center. I've shared in the past how dear these people are to me. The first time I walked into their house, I felt at home. They epitomize the meaning of unconditional love. The work they do is tireless, often thankless and is truly invaluable.They embody the message and holy wisdom of their Rebbe, and even in moments of difficulty, exhaustion and struggle, continue to serve his legacy and serve G-d with an open heart and a warm smile.
Prior to their arrival, I continued to weave in and out of Jewish practice. It took over a year and a half to find any Jewish community at all, and even once I did, I still felt an immense disconnect. While I did have a small taste of Torah at my disposal, it was not the flavor of Judaism I was seeking. Walking into the Chabad almost 5 years ago, I entered the first Orthodox home I'd ever been in outside of my own grandparents' and relatives'. Perhaps that is what made them seem so familiar to me. That familiarity was warm and friendly. They emanated a G-dliness I yearned to feel within my own soul. Suddenly, there was a wealth of Torah, Talmud, Chassidus and Halacha at my fingertips. It was like being in a buffet line; I had no self-control. I loaded EVERYTHING onto my plate at once.
Surely if I traded in my pants and tank tops for a tasteful skirt and longer sleeves, I would feel that holiness. Surely if I gave up my Friday nights at the bar for lighting Shabbos candles and praying, I would feel that G-dliness. Surlely if I emptied my kitchen of all things unkosher, I would feel that connection day in and day out. It was easy to feel all that when it was Shabbos or a holiday. However, the rest of the time, I felt almost nothing at all. If anything, I felt like an impostor. It's not that I was doing the wrong things; I was doing the right things for the wrong reason. I felt the storm welling within me. There was a greater more palpable disconnect than ever before between the life I yearned to be living and the one I was actually leading. It was a dissonance I can only equate to hearing two songs playing at the same time. I kept trying to separate the two; the 'old' me and the 'new' me. I tried to categorize which parts fit in where, but rather than gaining meaning and comfort, I became self-critical and discouraged.
It took some tearful confessions to a friend who made a bold move to help me for things to finally surface. The storm was now in full effect. I'd been building this massive structure on a weak foundation and, as is prone to happening, it crumbled beneath me. I did then what most people do best: I left. If I couldn't glean meaning and connection to G-d from performing His mitzvos, then there was no reason to pursue that at all! I traded those skirts in for pants and tank tops, I went back to my 'previously scheduled programming,' and claimed once again to have no need at all for G-d in my life. I stopped going to synagogue and tried my hardest to ignore sincere requests from my rabbi, friends and community members to return. I pursued things that seemed far easier to attain: material wealth, education, a career and a vibrant social life. None of those things are inherently good or bad. They all neutrally have their place and purpose in this physical realm we live in. However, I adhered the same level of intensity and fervor to these pursuits as I had in pursuing Yiddishkeit. I had no balance in my life and it took a literal loss of balance--the emergence of severe neurological symptoms related to my yet-to-be-diagnosed sleep disorder, to whisk me off my feet and slow me down.
"A mentsh tracht und Gott lacht" is a Yiddish phrase meaning a person plans and G-d laughs. I had it all figured out. My career, my education, my relationships. Yet, through my own efforts to maintain and control every aspect of my environment, I was losing control altogether. When the going got tough, I got going. I believe G-d has a sensitivity along with His sense of humor. I believe G-d put struggles in my path because He believes I could handle them. I believe very much that there is no coincidence to the fact that the very final environment I lost control of was the only one I could not escape; my physical body. For all those years I had been sleeping--both literally and figuratively, G-d was compassionately and gently saying, "wake up, wake up!"
I do not see G-d as the raging of the storm. I see G-d as the compassionate Father leaving the door always open, no matter how far we stray. G-d is not always going to stop us from making the wrong choice. He is not even always going to cushion our fall if and when we do. He is, however, always going to be right there before us when we are ready, arms wide open, whispering gently, "Welcome Home."
* * *
To Be Continued and Concluded in Part 4
No comments:
Post a Comment