LITMIR.BIZ

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instead of being angry, she felt guilty that she had made Rabbi Schulman apologize. Weak and sick, pain encircling her like a tight girdle, she wanted to sleep for a hundred years.

      Schulman said, “I would like to wish you a refuah shelenah, Rina Miriam—a very speedy recovery. I am sorry for your pain. It is confusing when unfortunate things happen to nice people. It puts us at odds with our sense of justice.”

      Rina turned to the rosh yeshiva. The man was in his late seventies, and his age was finally beginning to show. His skin was wrinkled and mottled, but his dark eyes were as clear as ever. He sat stoop-shouldered, legs crossed, his liver-spotted hands clasped and resting on his knee, fingers holding the rim of his homburg. He wore his usual black suit and tie and a starched white shirt. His beard was white, as was his hair. Atop his head was a black silk skullcap.

      Rav Schulman was a calm man, a calming man—his voice, his presence. No matter what life demanded of him, he always had enough time for those who needed him. Rina said, “I suppose this is a minor setback in the scheme of things.” She sighed, then grimaced as her wound throbbed. Her voice had come back, but her throat still felt raw. “It isn’t the Holocaust.”

      “No, it is not the Shoah. But that doesn’t mean you aren’t entitled to your grief, Rina Miriam. I lived through the Shoah; I lost my only son. Yet I still become frustrated when I misplace my wallet. So what does that say about human nature?”

      Rina sank into her pillow and stared at the ceiling. “I feel petty for feeling so … bitter.”

      “Your operation was far from petty. Your bitterness is very understandable.” Schulman licked his lips. “Are you in pain? Do you need anything?”

      Rina looked at the I.V. in her arm. “Nothing, thank you. My doctor told me I can eat solid food for lunch. Not exactly heart-stopping news. But it is the only news I have.”

      “I’m glad you are recovering nicely.”

      “Thank you for coming down, Rav Schulman. You have always been a rock of support for me and my family.”

      “You’re welcome, Rina Miriam. Have you seen your baby?”

      “They won’t … I’m still running a fever, and they don’t want the baby to contract anything.”

      “It will help when you can hold your baby.”

      Rina continued to stare at the acoustical ceiling tiles, wet streaks down her cheek. “I have three healthy children, baruch Hashem. I should be doing better than this.”

      “You needn’t reproach yourself for showing human emotion. Nowhere in the Torah does it say we cannot feel sadness or happiness or anger or even doubt. Sarah laughed when Hashem told her she would conceive at the tender age of ninety. Some say it was the laughter of joy. After nine decades of being barren, she was elated at the prospect of having a child. But others say it was laughter of disbelief.” Schulman paused. “Not so hard to imagine her disbelief, nu?”

      Rina nodded.

      “Hakodesh Baruch Hu Himself tells Sarah of such a miraculous, wonderful event,” the rav continued. “The same Kodesh Baruch Hu who created the world. Is nothing beyond Him? Is there anything that He cannot do? Yet Sarah—a prophetess—still could not think beyond her earthly limitations, and laughed at Hashem’s prophecy. So if she could be human, so can you.”

      “I’m angry at God,” Rina whispered.

      “I, too, have been angry at God. He is strong. He can take your anger without feeling personally affronted.”

      Rina surprised herself by smiling.

      Schulman said, “You are not without insight, Rina Miriam. You should be grateful for your three healthy children. And you are grateful. But while I don’t want to put words in your mouth, I would imagine you are saddened by the fact that your family size was determined by a surgeon rather than you. In reality, how much control do we actually have over our lives? Life is a loan from Hashem. We are put here by His design; so shall we leave by His design. So if death, like life, is part of the Eternal’s plan, why do we say tehilim for the sick? Do we really think that our prayers will alter Hashem’s design?”

      The rabbi held his finger up in the air.

      “The answer for me is yes, they can. We believe in a personal God—a God who at least listens to our prayers. We don’t understand Hashem’s ultimate design. But that doesn’t mean we can’t ask. King David knew his first off-spring with Batsheva was a child born from sin. He knew from prophecy that the child wouldn’t live. The words came directly from the prophet Natan’s lips. Yet David, Hashem’s own anointed, fasted and prayed to Hashem to spare the child.”

      “It didn’t work,” Rina said.

      “No, it didn’t. But David gave it a try. There are times when Hashem is willing to deviate from His original plans, times when He has forgiven the most grievous of sins. Our prayers are not empty words, Rina Miriam. Though the world may seem very dark now, Hashem has an open ear for you. You may ask. You may not get, but you may ask.”

      Rina’s hand fell upon the clamp that closed her surgical incision. To spare her own life, they had taken away her ability to create life. “I don’t want … well, I want but I don’t expect miracles. I know …” Her eyes moistened. “I know I can’t have a magical transplant. I can’t have any more children. I … will learn to accept that. But right now, I want the rage to go away. It hurts to be so angry.”

      “You will not be bitter the rest of your life. You are a strong woman. You will go on with your life. You will laugh again. You will enjoy your beautiful family. Just give yourself time for reflection and thought …”

      Rina held back tears. “I’ll try.”

      Schulman patted her hand. “You are very tired. Rest while you can. It hasn’t been so long that you can’t remember how much energy it takes to care for an infant.”

      “Rav Schulman?”

      “Yes?”

      “That pasuk about King David? It has always bothered me.”

      “How so?”

      “David wept and fasted and prayed and wailed before the baby died. As if he were anticipating his mourning.”

      “This is very true.”

      “But then afterward, he got up and washed and dressed and anointed himself. Wouldn’t you have expected some kind of ritual mourning after the baby died as well?”

      “Yes, you would. And David’s behavior puzzled his servant as it puzzles you. There have been several commentaries on the issue. The first: A child isn’t considered a full life until after thirty days, so it would have been improper for David to sit shivah for him. Second: King David actually did sit shivah for his son. The passage ‘and he arose from the earth’ meant he came up after the traditional seven days of mourning.”

      The rabbi took a breath and twirled the tip of his beard around his forefinger.

      “The third interpretation was made by the radak—Rav David Kimchi—and it is what we just talked about: that David’s fasting before the child died was a prayer to Hashem to spare the child. Once the baby died, David saw that this was the will of God, and his rising from his mourning—the anointing, dressing, and washing—was to show his kingdom that he accepted the will of Hashem, no matter how painful.”

      “So I should get up and wash and go buy myself a new dress, huh?”

      “Not a bad idea, even if you mean it allegorically. Rina Miriam, you should do whatever you need to do to get you over this difficult time. If you need to grieve, grieve. If you need to be angry, be angry. If you want to put it behind you, you can do that, too. Judaism has a lot of rituals, a lot of nonnegotiable behaviors. But we also allow for a great deal of personal freedom. Personal freedom and its sister trait, personal responsibility, are what make the religion so hard. But they are also what make the religion

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