The first time I met Shifra, I was looking at a woman with
pinched, tight shoulders. She was nicely dressed though, 'put
together', smiling.
She was pushing her eight-year-old, Shmueli, on the swing.
We began talking — what we were making for dinner that
night, the sale in the next building, etc. I don't know why I
began. She seemed so kind. So understanding.
"It's so hard!" I said, "All the kids home."
Shifra nodded, looking meaningfully at her-eight-year-old. I
knew she was trying to tell me not to complain in front of
him but I continued anyway. I didn't always have an audience
and now I did. A captured one, too, since she was obviously
much too polite to cut me off.
"The boys are driving me nuts," I continued. "They eat
everything, absolutely everything and don't clean up a thing!
Then they talk half the night and I can't get a good
sleep."
As she pushed the swing for her son, her smile was plastered
on, but her eyes were half-pleading for me to stop already,
yet half-empathizing with every word I was saying. Shmueli
climbed off of the swing and ran to watch some boys playing
marbles.
Shifra and I turned and walked towards the half wall
surrounding the park overlooking the tree laden mountainside.
She started telling me about the new cheder that had
opened, where she had just enrolled one of her older sons.
All of a sudden, she began to cry. I was taken aback. It
turned out she had been having problems with this particular
son for quite a while but she held the pain and worry deep
within herself.
After the tears quieted down, she thanked me and smiled. I
could see a slight flicker behind her smile.
"A plastered-on smile — it's not real," I thought to
myself sadly. "Like wearing an ornament, a necklace, or
earrings."
Not long after that, I saw her. I had put my little one on
her schoolbus and was walking home. There was Shifra with her
always-smile nodding to the other mothers who were waiting
for the school bus to take their precious boys off to study
Torah. She chatted with them, waved goodbye to her two little
ones, and began walking home.
I walked quickly and caught up with her. "It's beautiful to
see how you smile to your children as they wave to you from
the bus. You're a great mother, Shifra. You need to know that
about yourself."
The smile that is usually plastered onto her face softened,
became a true smile.
Time after time, I praised her — but only honest
admiration. She has a large family with little, if any,
encouragement. When we happen to meet each other, we have a
short conversation where we talk openly, from our hearts.
She recently confided in me how difficult it is for her that
her husband is away so often. How he comes home with
suitcases of dirty clothes, usually right before Shabbos or
Yom Tov when all the kids are home, and then he leaves
shortly after with the clean well packed suitcases that
Shifra stayed up late packing for him. They virtually have no
time to talk.
Her inner strength really impressed me. I could never manage
the way she does, but Hashem has given her these
abilities.
Last week, I went to her house to give her some shirts my son
had outgrown. She was dressed simply but with good taste,
everything matching. But I saw a slight trembling in her
hands, the barest twitch behind her smile.
We spoke for a few minutes and then, looking at me evenly,
she said, "I admire you so much."
Admire me? She has more children than I have, a cleaner house
than I have, and a lot more stress than I have.
The phone rang. "Yes, Mama," Shifra answered. "How are you
feeling? You want me to come help you with your cooking?
Maybe I can cook for you here and send the food with one of
the kids later. The auruf is this Shabbos and it'll be
hard for me to take the hour bus ride to get to you. Mama,
Mama! Don't cry! I'll come. I'll come right now." Her
trembling increased.
By the time the schoolbuses were returning, Shifra was back.
She helped her mother but hadn't done a thing for herself or
her own home. Each child came off the bus among giggles and
shouts.
"You're such a hard worker, Shifra, you amaze me!"
The other women were laughing, hugging their sons, and
heading home. Shifra stood smiling. I stood together with
her. Our boys bounced off to watch ants gathering small
leaves.
As we stood, I told her about a class I went to that morning
that was very inspirational.
"I wish I could have gone," Shifra said quietly.
"You?" I said, "You are an inspiration!"
Tears formed in her eyes and her always-smile evaporated.
"You don't know," she said to me in a whisper. "You just
can't imagine the stress I'm under." I didn't press her for
any details but she did go on to say that she still had to
run to the store to buy more food as they were having a lot
of guests. I remembered her being on the list of those who
receive food for Shabbos, plus her husband hadn't been paid
in months, and with all nine of her children . . . no, I
didn't know what kind of stress she was under, I couldn't
know. I could only hold her hand and tell her what a special
person she is. Her always-smile reappeared and helped lessen
the tears in her eyes.
"How much can one person take?" I thought, indignation mixed
with my love for her.
A couple of months later, we met, me coming from the Tipat
Chalav with my newborn, she going there with her year-old
baby.
"I wanted so much to get you a gift for your new baby," she
said.
"Why in the world...?" I knew that her family had no extra
money.
"You always say something that uplifts me."
"Just because of a few words of support here and there you
wanted to buy me a gift?"
"You have no idea what those words mean to me. You have no
idea." The smile was gone. In its place was a serious,
vulnerable face.
I hugged her, right there on the side of the street. I felt
that she had given me a gift. And I smiled.
