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1 Av 5759 - July 14, 1999 | Mordecai Plaut, director Published Weekly
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Home and Family
The Uninvited Shabbos Guests
by Tova Weinbrand

On this hot summer night, one by one they came, scraping sounds grating on the white walls. Silently, invisibly at first, then boldly and daringly stalking the dining room.

Chana's glowing smile dropped limp into a dead arch. She winced, bracing her fingernails into the soft brown upholstered chair. Her usual pale countenance made a lightning fast transformation into a shocking shade of red. Humiliation struck her whole being with sharp daggers. Her eyes lowered themselves to the ground as they searched for an appropriate escape, but there was none at hand. As she glanced upwards in prayer, her gaze fell upon the Shabbos candles.

After having expended much painstaking efforts for Shabbos, the fresh-smelling white tablecloth finally graced the old oak table, flowing in waves at its edges from the breeze of the overhead ceiling fan. The aroma of chicken soup ebbed and flowed in waves around the gleaming candlesticks, reflecting back a sense of beauty and serenity. Chana, albeit tired, was aglow, her back straight, her head held high - a queen at her Shabbos table. She peeked at her American guests with a timid smile. Their Shabbos table, she imagined, was undoubtedly still fully set with gold rimmed Quartz china and genuine, NOT plated silverware. Chana desperately hoped that these honored guests would gloss over the scratches in her smoked- glass, very standard Arcopal dishes. "This is Eretz Yisroel, after all," she rationalized confidently. "Dull looking glass and a scratch or two should hardly put a dent in a Shabbos full of kedusha."

Kiddush and the soup followed uneventfully. Then, then, then... Just the thought of it could turn any self-respecting baalebusta over in a freshly imagined grave. But Chana wasn't even of those types. She rarely found her keys, or children's socks. You could paint a white glove black by rubbing your finger along her windowsills. But Shabbos perparations were another story. What she lacked in cleaning talents, she more than compensated for in enthusiasm and culinary success. From challa to dessert, she labored lovingly to persent a delectable array of treats.

But THIS was beyond the typical embarrrassing moments encountered by uninvited guests dropping into her tornado-hit apartment on a usual weekday. No words could describe her humiliation now. As she was raising her fork, filled with piping hot sweet-and-sour chicken to her mouthwatered lips, one by one, the silent, brown-antennaed cockroaches stalked the dining room walls in football formations.

Chana's fork dropped onto the glass plate with a sharp clatter. The bold, giant jukim `encroached' upon her entire self esteem, seemingly mocking Chana's Shabbos- baalebusta-hood. The American guests' faces contorted in horror, their eyes widened with anxiety as they followed the scene with disgust. Perhaps the wife even shrieked quietly. As they bit their lips, Chana's neck bent forward and her arms hung at her side in helpless shame.

Chana's husband, Yaakov, unfazed, quickly explained in his matter-of-fact baritone that the Stein home had just been exterminated the previous Thursday and the exterminator had explained that as a last-ditch effort to gain oxygen, the roaches (did you really want to hear this?) would venture out to the middle of the rooms to make a few final circles and drop dead. This danse macabre, a last debut, was obviously what they were witnessing.

Chana didn't hear a word of her husband's explanation. Her thoughts pounded her brain furiously. Oh, why had they invited Shabbos guests this week? What must they be thinking about her and her family Her insecurity gauge started mounting. Hopefully, they're careful not to speak loshon horo. Actually most people are working on themselves in this area, these days, and I can hope that this will never get out. They seemed to have lost their appetities, she noted, as they wiped their mouths daintily on paper serviettes and laid down their forks.

Then Chana remembered the stories of tzaddikim who had even lost loved ones on Shabbos and had withheld their tears and not even presented a sad expression throughout the entire Holy day. What greatness! Perhaps this was HER test, albeit on a much smaller scale.

It is forbidden to suffer on Shabbos. So what if you've lost your pride? an inner voice interrupted.

But what will they think of me? Chana retorted inside her head.

It's a kaporo, the voice offered.

But why, today? You know our guest is a world famous lecturer, Chana countered.

It could be worse, the voice consoled.

Yeah? How? Chana inquired.

It could have been the Rosh Yeshiva or the Godol Hador, the voice suggested.

You're right, Chana conceded, but, still, this is probably the worst meal they've ever experienced.

It's Shabbos, the voice soothed.

"It's Shabbos," Chana heard herself murmuring, and she relaxed.

Chana lifted her eyes to Heaven, inadvertently glancing at the Shabbos lights to reveal that THEY showed no horror as they flickered proudly and gloriously. THEIR Shabbos was untainted. With some effort, a thoughtful Chana straightened herself in her chair and noticed her crimson yet smiling reflection in the recently polished candlesticks.

"Yom zeh mechubod," Yaakov began singing, and the world famous lecturer joined in heartily.

"Chocolate cake, anyone?" Chana graciously offered.

 

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