So my friend gave me the number for Sarah Nachshon. I didn’t really have any idea who she was. Just gave her a call and got an immediate ‘You and your brother can come if you don’t mind sleeping on mattresses on the floor’. And that was us set up for shabbos! Late Friday afternoon, my brother and I board the bulletproof bus to Chevron. During the 45 minute bus trip from Jerusalem with a large wall running along the left hand side, my brother and I sit and read a book together on Maharil Diskin, our great great great uncle. We arrive and find out where our host is staying.
We are greeted with typical Israeli hospitality, warm but more like family than guests. We walk into her living room. My eyes are immediately drawn up to the ceiling covered in hanging chimes and tallis strings. Then my eyes drift down to the walls, covered in the most amazing paintings I have ever seen in my life. They plaster the white walls with visions of the Beit Hamikdash, and scenes from Tanach, with each and every detail and color absolutely perfect. I see that all these paintings are signed Nachshon and am told that the husband is a famous artist. (All the houses we visited during the Shabbos, had many of his works in them) Then I look around at the furniture, a white long Shabbos table, a beautiful Ark, and a magical bookshelf stacked with books. Mrs. Nachshon shows us our room and we meet the two girls that are also spending this Shabbos with this, so far, intriguing family. Weirdly enough, my brother actually knows them!
We sit in her homey kitchen with the girls eating scrumptious cake and reading the story of how Sarah was the founding member of the Jewish community in Chevron. We read a story how she and over 40 women crept into the Haddassa abandoned hospital with their children and refused to move for numerous months. She was three months pregnant at the beginning of this demonstration. They survived on bare minimum and at one stage only saw their husbands on Friday night while through the bars of the window; they say Ashes Chayil (women of Valor) to their courageous wives. They stayed until the government gave in and gave Jews the right to start a community. We read many other storied how she risked her life to give her son a Bris at the gravesites of our forefathers, how she went up inform of numerous soldiers to bury her young son in the Chevron Jewish graveyard. And I couldn’t stop thinking how amazing she is and how I was sitting in her kitchen and sharing some cake with her.
We light candles and off for the fifteen minute walk to the Kever Machpelah (grave of our forefathers). As we walk through the Arab streets, we are constantly in the vision of at least three Israeli soldiers. They smile and greet us ‘Shabbat Shalom’, my heart flutters with warmth. The Shul at the Kever is out of this world, literally. Many sing and dance is circles through the whole Kabbalos Shabbos. Soldiers are dancing in the middle, one with a black hat of one of the men on his head. True Simcha. The begging of the silent prayer (Amidah), I say ‘father of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob’. My heart freezes and I am overwhelmed. I am standing with the Kevers within a few steps of me – Abraham to my right and Isaac to my left. These are my great great grandfathers. These are who we remember everyday and their souls are suspended around me. A few tears trickle out of my eyes and I capture the moment in the heart forever. I silently ask G-d to reopen my mouth so I can continue praying.
We then talk a brisk walk back to the Nachshons but we arrived half an hour after Kiddush. My brother then made Kiddush for us. I now see that this is my brother, Tzitzit, Kippah and Kiddush cup all in one. My heart was dancing circles of glee and fleeting happiness. A modest tasty meal then followed. It was filled with homemade challah, chicken, ice cream, lots of Hebrew and stories read from a book on how putting Tefillin changed countless lives. Then after the meal, I went back my room. Four girls crammed to fit with mattresses on the floor. I take a long time to fall asleep… my eyes cannot stop searching through each inch of the walls which are covered in incredible paintings…each one, ever so unique, overflowing with precision, love and insight.
I wake up. The air is filled with background sounds of agonizing cries that the Arabs call praying. But most distinctly, I hear a tune that I know…Adon Olam. A Yeshiva close by has just started the Morning Prayer. Bitter thought that filled my heart now are turned into delight. We have another unforgettable inspirational service at the Kever and walk back ‘home’ for Kiddush at 11.30am! I walk into a home filled with at least thirty men and boys praying and reading from the Torah. I find out that on Shabbos and Yom Tovs they use their beautiful living room as a Shul with the women’s section is in the kitchen!
At lunch the girls mentioned that there is an open tour to the public at 5pm which my brother and I deicide to join them on. The girls seem at haste so we agree to meet at the tour. We walked down and joined the tour in the neighborhood of Abraham Aveinu. (Later we found out that we actually missed the open tour and joined a random seminary –Machon Alte – from Tzvat). So there you have it, a dozen girls and my brother. It’s no wonder that the tour guide (Simcha Ochbaum) invited to his home for third meal! The tour was amazing, a 500 year old Shul and the history of the Kevers. A story that really stuck with me was. Simcha tells us a story of how his child was born and diagnosed with autism. For many months, the flew around the states looking at any possible solution to help his son develop but to no avail, he still did not speak. Once, when walking in the Machpela, his young son (around 6 at the time) crawled through the bars near Abraham’s kever and went through to the Arab side. He sat at the entrance to the part below where the actual kever’s are. As started to stutter with a typical autistic child noises. The Arabs were shouting in Arabic to get his crazy child out of there. Then, in fluent Hebrew, the boys started to shout his first words repeatedly ‘Abba, Abba, ze Or Gadol Po, Or Gadol. HaBait Shel Immah VeAbba Lamata, Or Gadol!!’ (Dad, there is a great light here, the house of dad and mom is below us, a big light).
So we prayed Mincha there and said our final words to our ancestors…great great grandparents as it would be the last time we would visit them for some time. We arrived at Simcha’s home and walked into at least dozen yeshiva boys with black hats and jackets. His wife was not yet home and I was laughing hysterically inside out of pure awkwardness and humour of the situation. I proceeded to help set up the tables before being joined (Thank G-d) by his wife. A Seudah (meal) filled with song, joy, smiles and great food. Simcha spoke about how once a person has walked, and loses this ability, it gives him a true desire to want it even more. He said that what Shabbos is to him, this connection that once we have had it, nobody could even take away that will.
And what would this incredible Shabbos be without a cherry to top it all off? Havdalah. His autistic son walks up and picks up the Kiddush cup. Putting all his effort and heart into every word, he says havdalah. Wherever he gets stuck, the yeshiva boys help him. The three girls who had come for Havdalah and I have tears rolling down our cheeks at the most beautiful scene that we had ever seen. To me, that was true darkness into light.
This Shabbos was simply the most inspirational Shabbos of my life. What do I take from it? It was a Shabbos where we finished the fourth book of the Torah, started the nine days of mourning and Rosh Chodesh. What a bucket full of emotions. We are like that autistic son. We never physically knew how it was to have a Beit Hamikdash; we never actually walked in our life time and hence can’t truly internally understand that need. But we can get to know others in books and in Jewish history of what it meant to them and what it can do. We can see how all mourning and suffering is really G-d showing how much he loves us and wants to once again dwell within us completely. We can feel through this learning know it was to walk in times of the Beit Hamikdash. And from strength to strength with renewed energy, we will build each and every brick up in the heavens above so that speedily in our days, our feet will merit to walk in the steps of our forefathers.
We are greeted with typical Israeli hospitality, warm but more like family than guests. We walk into her living room. My eyes are immediately drawn up to the ceiling covered in hanging chimes and tallis strings. Then my eyes drift down to the walls, covered in the most amazing paintings I have ever seen in my life. They plaster the white walls with visions of the Beit Hamikdash, and scenes from Tanach, with each and every detail and color absolutely perfect. I see that all these paintings are signed Nachshon and am told that the husband is a famous artist. (All the houses we visited during the Shabbos, had many of his works in them) Then I look around at the furniture, a white long Shabbos table, a beautiful Ark, and a magical bookshelf stacked with books. Mrs. Nachshon shows us our room and we meet the two girls that are also spending this Shabbos with this, so far, intriguing family. Weirdly enough, my brother actually knows them!
We sit in her homey kitchen with the girls eating scrumptious cake and reading the story of how Sarah was the founding member of the Jewish community in Chevron. We read a story how she and over 40 women crept into the Haddassa abandoned hospital with their children and refused to move for numerous months. She was three months pregnant at the beginning of this demonstration. They survived on bare minimum and at one stage only saw their husbands on Friday night while through the bars of the window; they say Ashes Chayil (women of Valor) to their courageous wives. They stayed until the government gave in and gave Jews the right to start a community. We read many other storied how she risked her life to give her son a Bris at the gravesites of our forefathers, how she went up inform of numerous soldiers to bury her young son in the Chevron Jewish graveyard. And I couldn’t stop thinking how amazing she is and how I was sitting in her kitchen and sharing some cake with her.
We light candles and off for the fifteen minute walk to the Kever Machpelah (grave of our forefathers). As we walk through the Arab streets, we are constantly in the vision of at least three Israeli soldiers. They smile and greet us ‘Shabbat Shalom’, my heart flutters with warmth. The Shul at the Kever is out of this world, literally. Many sing and dance is circles through the whole Kabbalos Shabbos. Soldiers are dancing in the middle, one with a black hat of one of the men on his head. True Simcha. The begging of the silent prayer (Amidah), I say ‘father of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob’. My heart freezes and I am overwhelmed. I am standing with the Kevers within a few steps of me – Abraham to my right and Isaac to my left. These are my great great grandfathers. These are who we remember everyday and their souls are suspended around me. A few tears trickle out of my eyes and I capture the moment in the heart forever. I silently ask G-d to reopen my mouth so I can continue praying.
We then talk a brisk walk back to the Nachshons but we arrived half an hour after Kiddush. My brother then made Kiddush for us. I now see that this is my brother, Tzitzit, Kippah and Kiddush cup all in one. My heart was dancing circles of glee and fleeting happiness. A modest tasty meal then followed. It was filled with homemade challah, chicken, ice cream, lots of Hebrew and stories read from a book on how putting Tefillin changed countless lives. Then after the meal, I went back my room. Four girls crammed to fit with mattresses on the floor. I take a long time to fall asleep… my eyes cannot stop searching through each inch of the walls which are covered in incredible paintings…each one, ever so unique, overflowing with precision, love and insight.
I wake up. The air is filled with background sounds of agonizing cries that the Arabs call praying. But most distinctly, I hear a tune that I know…Adon Olam. A Yeshiva close by has just started the Morning Prayer. Bitter thought that filled my heart now are turned into delight. We have another unforgettable inspirational service at the Kever and walk back ‘home’ for Kiddush at 11.30am! I walk into a home filled with at least thirty men and boys praying and reading from the Torah. I find out that on Shabbos and Yom Tovs they use their beautiful living room as a Shul with the women’s section is in the kitchen!
At lunch the girls mentioned that there is an open tour to the public at 5pm which my brother and I deicide to join them on. The girls seem at haste so we agree to meet at the tour. We walked down and joined the tour in the neighborhood of Abraham Aveinu. (Later we found out that we actually missed the open tour and joined a random seminary –Machon Alte – from Tzvat). So there you have it, a dozen girls and my brother. It’s no wonder that the tour guide (Simcha Ochbaum) invited to his home for third meal! The tour was amazing, a 500 year old Shul and the history of the Kevers. A story that really stuck with me was. Simcha tells us a story of how his child was born and diagnosed with autism. For many months, the flew around the states looking at any possible solution to help his son develop but to no avail, he still did not speak. Once, when walking in the Machpela, his young son (around 6 at the time) crawled through the bars near Abraham’s kever and went through to the Arab side. He sat at the entrance to the part below where the actual kever’s are. As started to stutter with a typical autistic child noises. The Arabs were shouting in Arabic to get his crazy child out of there. Then, in fluent Hebrew, the boys started to shout his first words repeatedly ‘Abba, Abba, ze Or Gadol Po, Or Gadol. HaBait Shel Immah VeAbba Lamata, Or Gadol!!’ (Dad, there is a great light here, the house of dad and mom is below us, a big light).
So we prayed Mincha there and said our final words to our ancestors…great great grandparents as it would be the last time we would visit them for some time. We arrived at Simcha’s home and walked into at least dozen yeshiva boys with black hats and jackets. His wife was not yet home and I was laughing hysterically inside out of pure awkwardness and humour of the situation. I proceeded to help set up the tables before being joined (Thank G-d) by his wife. A Seudah (meal) filled with song, joy, smiles and great food. Simcha spoke about how once a person has walked, and loses this ability, it gives him a true desire to want it even more. He said that what Shabbos is to him, this connection that once we have had it, nobody could even take away that will.
And what would this incredible Shabbos be without a cherry to top it all off? Havdalah. His autistic son walks up and picks up the Kiddush cup. Putting all his effort and heart into every word, he says havdalah. Wherever he gets stuck, the yeshiva boys help him. The three girls who had come for Havdalah and I have tears rolling down our cheeks at the most beautiful scene that we had ever seen. To me, that was true darkness into light.
This Shabbos was simply the most inspirational Shabbos of my life. What do I take from it? It was a Shabbos where we finished the fourth book of the Torah, started the nine days of mourning and Rosh Chodesh. What a bucket full of emotions. We are like that autistic son. We never physically knew how it was to have a Beit Hamikdash; we never actually walked in our life time and hence can’t truly internally understand that need. But we can get to know others in books and in Jewish history of what it meant to them and what it can do. We can see how all mourning and suffering is really G-d showing how much he loves us and wants to once again dwell within us completely. We can feel through this learning know it was to walk in times of the Beit Hamikdash. And from strength to strength with renewed energy, we will build each and every brick up in the heavens above so that speedily in our days, our feet will merit to walk in the steps of our forefathers.
No comments:
Post a Comment