In our city, the rebbetzin is the star. Every day, dozens of
women attend her workshops and many more seek her advice.
Though she has no official title, she's the master of her
field -- teaching mothers how to raise their children to
follow the spiritual path of Judaism. The daughter of one
sage and the wife of another, she's raised a large brood of
her own. When she speaks, she's listened to.
Despite her exalted status, the rebbetzin is humble, warm and
accessible.
Students come to her classes with their babies and toddlers
in tow. They, too, are welcome guests. The rebbetzin's mind
is like a high speed computer; she can jump from a Biblical
quotation to a Talmudic legend to an American poem she
learned by heart many decades ago. It isn't unusual for a
bemused toddler to walk right up to her in mid-sentence.
"Here, yingele," she'll say, her thin lips crinkling
into a smile. From deep inside her purse she'll pull out a
pretzel (not a sweet). Then she'll recover her train of
thought and go on speaking as if nothing had just
happened.
In all her teaching, the rebbetzin has one purpose -- to have
`her ladies' walk out better than they came in.
Week after week, the message is the same: show consideration
for others, express gratitude, give the benefit of the doubt,
have compassion for those who carry a heavy burden in
life.
The rebbetzin has been speaking weekly for over a decade. She
is now a great-grandmother. But somehow, it seemed that she'd
just go on giving the workship forever.
Then one week last autumn, the rebbetzin didn't come.
It was 9 o'clock but the door to the community center where
she usually speaks was locked. How strange. How unlike her to
be late. I waited around for a while. Several women joined us
and we speculated about her lateness.
Maybe she was stuck in traffic. Maybe her driver had
neglected to pick her up. But where were all the regulars?
Then one of them came bearing the bad news. The rebbetzin was
unwell. The doctor said she'd have to stay in bed for a least
a month.
How could it be? I thought. Our rebbetzin, so full of
stamina, so full of life, just holed up under the covers.
Resting, just resting?
As the weeks of her convalescence dragged on, a thought
gnawed at me. Should I go and visit her? No. She couldn't
possibly want another visitor. Certainly not someone she
hardly knows. Her home must be flooded with children,
grandchildren, great-grandchildren, neighbors and friends.
I'd probably be doing her a favor by staying away.
Then one day the phone rang with happy news. The rebbetzin
was better and would be teaching again. Once again, the
community center was filled and there she was, looking as
good as ever, spouting her very Jewish-domestic wisdom.
After the workshop, I sought her advice on a personal problem
that had been vexing me. She listened intently and offered
her analysis. Then, remembering my good manners, I asked,
"Rebbetzin, are you feeling better?"
"Yes, boruch Hashem."
"Should I have come to visit?" I didn't really want to know
that answer but rather hoped she'd say something to assuage
my guilt. I could almost imagine her reaction.
"No, maidele," she'd say, notwithstanding my 43 years.
To her, we're all maidelach. "You have too much on
your plate with your own family. It was alright that you
didn't come."
Her real words came as a shock. "It would have been nice if
you had come. I would have appreciated your visit," she said
softly.
I wanted to melt into the pavement. I, lowly me, how could
I come to visit you? But then, again, when it comes to
the mitzva of visiting the sick, we all become equals.
A small person can uplift a great one. A child can revive the
spirit of someone many years his senior. Every visit, say our
Sages, removes one sixtieth of the illness. Yes, I should
have gone.
Maybe I'll get it right another time, in another situation.
For the rebbetzin, I wish only continued good health.
As for myself, I had gained another lesson from the
rebbetzin. I hope I have learned it well.
