I was chatting with a friend the other day. She had just made
a bar mitzva and we were discussing the affair, when
suddenly, she exclaimed, "Oh, Miriam, I have to tell you
about the hall! What happened there the night of the bar
mitzva -- you won't believe it. When I told it to another
friend, she said that if I said one more word, she'd fall off
her chair."
"Don't worry, no chance of that here," I quipped. "I'm
resting on the couch, so go right ahead."
*
It was the night of the seuda and for a change, we
were all ready half an hour early. The affair was called for
7:00 and at 6:30 we were by our front door with all the
paraphernalia needed for the evening piled up, threatening to
topple with one wrong touch. We were debating if it was too
early, since no one comes at the time printed on the
invitation, but some inner voice told me to go and check
things out at the hall.
My husband decided that I should go with some of the
children. The hall was within walking distance. As we drew
near, a strange premonition overcame me. I couldn't quite put
my finger on it until I realized that the hall was pitch
dark! But my watch read 6:45!
Oh, well, I thought, maybe the hall faces a
different direction. We entered the building and
tentatively made our way up the steps. "Why is it so dark
here?" one of my daughters whispered. It didn't seem right to
talk above a whisper in the stillness. Yes, that was the
second thing that struck me as strange. Shouldn't there be a
hustle-bustle? What was going on, or not going on, here?
We reached the top of the stairs. Only inky blackness face
us. My daughters clutched my dress tightly, lest they lose me
in the darkness. I felt around for a light switch, hoping not
to find a burglar or fire alarm. But then, again, I figured
it might be good to set off the alarm and see some action
around here. Some form of relief washed over us as light
flooded the room, but it was short lived. Where were the
tables? Why were the chairs stacked up against a wall?
Panic was rising. The guests were scheduled to begin arriving
in ten minutes, some of whom had come from abroad and from
out-of-town to attend our simcha. How could I face
them? Well, at least we were dressed for the occasion, I
thought, turning my mouth upwards to form a smile, just in
case someone did arrive now. I turned to my daughters and
asked, "Is today Tuesday?" They nodded.
I whipped out my cellphone and called home. "You don't know
what's going on here!" I yelled, my voice bouncing off the
walls, "or rather, what's NOT going on." My husband said he'd
try to verify with the caterer.
My mind was already flashing images of running to the bakery
and buying 100 small challos, someone else scrounging around
for salads at some take-out place. I only hoped we'd be able
to find some ready portions of shnitzel or chicken. Then I
envisioned myself shelpping out the tables and rushing home
for tablecloths and plasticware and putting up a huge pot of
rice (the pre-checked kind). What were we going to do?
My watch read five to seven and I sent up a very heartfelt
prayer that I not be put to shame.
Suddenly, a loud clang and rattle behind us jolted me out of
my musings. My children screamed and drew close to me. We
whirled around to see the double doors of the elevator slowly
opening. With much clanking and rattling, out came sailing
this huge metal thing which almost collided with the first
guest to arrive. The aroma that wafted to me from it aroused
my hopes. Next followed a trolley which squeaked its way out,
stacked high with dishware, cutlery and drinks.
Then appeared a strange apparition: shoes, an apron, and a
sky-high pile of tablecloths. A veritable walking mountain.
"Slicha," I called out to the walking mountain. It
gave a sudden shake and luckily, nothing fell down. A muffled
voice asked, "Mish'u po?"
"Yes, yes!" I called out. A nose suddenly appeared from
around the pile, followed by tufts of grey hair and a
startled face wearing a bemused expression. I began
explaining as calmly as I could -- it wouldn't do to get
hysterical, but I had suddenly lost command of my Hebrew --
that we'd ordered our bar mitzva for seven. "And that's the
time right now. And NOTHING is ready!"
The man set the tablecloths down on a table with a grunt and
scratched his chin. He attempted to answer me in a broken
English punctuated by occasional pops of a wad of chewing
gum. "Giveret, me not make ready tables before seven. People
no come to time you say. They later always." I stared at him
unbelieving.
"Now, not you worry, Giveret," he continued in his placid
tone, in Hebrew. "No pro-blem. Chat, shtayim, shalosh.
All be nice, and how you say? Posh."
He began lugging out tables and setting them with
unbelievable speed and expertise and I couldn't help
reflecting how it would have been done back in the `old
country', where things were done `propaw'ly. By four, the
latest, a crew of waiters would be marching leisurely back
and forth, holding a few things at a time. But here in Eretz
Yisroel, things were dramatic, thrilling and
unpredictable.
*
"So when did your guests arrive?" I asked.
"Oh, they arrived while he was still setting the tables," my
friend said, "but no one seemed to notice, we were all so
busy greeting each other and accepting mazel-tovs and oohing
and aahing. By the time we were all ready to eat, the tables
looked beautiful. Even my mother exclaimed over the
professional look. Looking back on that memorable evening, I
can't believe how calm I was. I guess, when we work on
ourselves, we can take things in stride."
*
As I was putting away the supper dishes later that night, I
thought; We really must learn to put our faith in Hashem. He
is running the world. He has everything all worked out to the
last detail, to the last moment, so why worry? Still, He
waits for us to ask Him for His help. If He wanted a
simcha to take place that evening in that hall, so it
would!
And so it did, boruch Hashem!
