Written By C. Sapir,
Ben and I hosted numerous Shabbos guests, many of whom were just discovering Yiddishkeit, and we helped shepherd these not-yet-religious people toward greater observance, even as Ben himself flagged religiously. When guests had questions at our Shabbos table, he would say, â€œAsk my wife!â€
Much as I tried to get the kids interested in learning and Yiddishkeit, they sensed Benâ€™s ambivalence. The girls were less affected by that ambivalence, and grew into frum Bais Yaakov girls, but the boys showed more interest in sports and science than in Gemara.
As the children grew older, I worried about the ever-increasing materialistic standards of our in-town community, and I wished that Ben could be a more involved father and husband. Thinking that we might do better in a different environment, I consulted daas Torah for guidance.
The rav I spoke to advised that we move away from New York and the East Coast. I discussed the possibility with Ben, who agreed that it was a good idea to move, even though he had just made partner in his law firm. Although moving would mean giving up the prestige and income he had worked so hard to attain, he realized that the work schedule he was keeping was burning him out and stealing his childrenâ€™s childhood from him. Later he told me that I was his â€œSarah,â€ and just as Hashem had told Avraham â€œShma bekolah â€“ listen to her voice,â€ he had chosen to listen to the wisdom of why I felt we should move.
We looked at the map and considered communities that were big enough to boast Jewish infrastructure and small enough that our presence would make a difference.
The community we ended up choosing had several Orthodox shuls, but only one was in walking distance of our house. It was more yeshivish than Ben would have preferred, but he did feel welcome in the shul.
Sometime after we moved, we went on a family trip to a place in the mountains that had alpine slides. We took a ski lift to the top of the mountain, but as everyone else was getting onto the slides, I realized that the hat I was wearing would be blown off if I went down the slide. I would have to ride the ski lift down the mountain while everyone else had fun sliding.
Standing there on top of the mountain, it occurred to me that I was doing this purely for Hashemâ€™s sake. My husband had told me many times that he thought it was ridiculous
for me to cover my hair.
I thought of the rebbetzin I was so envious of, surrounded as she was by talmidei chachamim. â€œPlease, Hashem,â€ I begged, â€œall I want is to have a husband who learns and sons who learn. Why canâ€™t I have that?â€
Right then and there, Hashem gave me the answer. Itâ€™s because someone has to set an example of a woman whose connection to Yiddishkeit and Torah is not through a man. I donâ€™t have a father, or a husband, or a son, or a brother who learns Torah. My connection to Hashem is about me.
Looking out at the mountains, I thought of all the Jewish women who have no man in their lives: widows, divorcees, older singles, women in lonely marriages. Someone has to stand up for these women and show them that they can have a rich spiritual life even without a man in their life to act as their spiritual conduit.
That idea became my lifeline. Holding onto it helped me to stop wishing so much for what couldnâ€™t be, and instead embrace what was and explore who I could become with, and not despite, my husband.
Twelve years after we moved, our family suffered three losses in a span of one year. First, our married daughter had a stillbirth. Less than six months later, our teenage daughter was tragically taken from us. Then, just four months later, Benâ€™s mother passed away suddenly.
Ben and I were both grief-stricken by the losses, but his faith was shaken, while mine remained intact. Having bolstered my emunah by davening and learning Torah all the years, I knew that whatever Hashem does is best for me, no matter how unpleasant and painful it may feel. I also knew that the body is only a temporary garment for the neshamah, and that death is merely a separation, not an end. We all come into this world to die and go to Olam Haba, except that some peopleâ€™s journeys through this world are longer and some peoples are shorter. So while the death of a loved one hurts dreadfully, I didnâ€™t see any of our losses as reason to doubt Hashemâ€™s existence, His goodness, or His love for me.
Ben did. At first, he was angry at Hashem. Then he started to question whether Hashem even existed.
I felt sorry for Ben that he couldnâ€™t feel Hashemâ€™s love and access the consolation that comes with knowing that everything Hashem does is for the good. We were both suffering tremendous grief, but my grief was so much less painful than his, because my emunah gave me a context for the pain.
For decades, I davened fervently that Ben should return to full Torah observance. My real hope was that that after his parents reached 120 and he would have to say Kaddish for them, he would get back into the habit of davening. I knew that despite his theological issues, he would say Kaddish faithfully.
And indeed, when his mother died, Ben was scrupulous about saying Kaddish. For years, he hadnâ€™t been much of a shul-goer, and he had long since ceased davening three times a day, but during the year of aveilus, he made a point of davening every single tefillah with a minyan.
Ben wasnâ€™t the only one in his family who was scrupulous about saying Kaddish. His sister Candice, who lived in Manhattan, said Kaddish every day, too. In her Open Orthodox congregation, that was just dandy. But when she came to visit us, things got sticky.
Ben tried explaining to Candice that this wasnâ€™t how things were done in our community, but she would not hear of missing Kaddish. Out of respect for our shul, she dressed for Shabbos in her most modest outfit, and then went with my husband to Minchah and Maariv Friday night. She was alone in the womenâ€™s section.
The rav and congregation did not take kindly to Candiceâ€™s recitation of Kaddish, even from behind the mechitzah. The rav tried to stop her from saying it, and when she refused, he asked her to at least say it quietly.
â€œIf you were mourning your mother, would you want to do it quietly?â€ she asked pointedly. And the next time the congregation got up to Kaddish, she said it aloud again.
To the astonishment of both Ben and Candice, the rav stopped the Kaddish in middle and skipped to the next part of davening.
Ben was horrified. â€œIâ€™m done with shul,â€ he told me. â€œAnd Iâ€™m done with the frum community as well.â€ That was the last time he said Kaddish.
With that, my hopes for Ben to develop a deeper, richer connection to Hashem through davening regularly and saying Kaddish were dashed. But I wasnâ€™t the only one who was saddened by Benâ€™s closing the door on shul and the community. He was, too.
â€œDo you think itâ€™s easy to lose your emunah?â€ he asked me. â€œDo you think it doesnâ€™t hurt to lose faith in everything youâ€™ve believed in and wanted to believe in?â€
There was nothing I could do or say that would repair the damage. From then on, I went to shul alone on Shabbos morning.
to be continue
Orginally published in Mishpacha Magazine August 25, 2017
The narrator of this story has formed a support group for observant women (BT or FFB) married to men who are no longer observant.
You can contact her at firstname.lastname@example.org