As long as it’s not too hot, too cold, or rain is not falling, I prefer to daven outside on our balcony to davening inside our apartment.
There, I find I’m distracted by too many undone housekeeping chores. I see the dust on top of the bookcase, the sefarim I’m not using at present but have still not returned to their shelves, the drooping flowers and shriveled leaves which should have been thrown away days ago.
Whereas outside, withered flowers and fallen leaves crunched underfoot are part of nature; that’s to say, Hashem’s direction of the seasons. They die, barren winter will follow; we will pray for rain, and the spring sun will bring a fresh crop of bright green grass and secretive buds on trees which will open and shade us in the heat of summer.
Early each morning, I seat myself at the table on the balcony under the pergola, shielded from the eyes of those walking to the first minyan in the half-built shul across from my building. It’s going to be an imposing structure of white stone, with long windows topped by a pointed arch against the background of the park. The morning sun accentuates the blue sky against the white stone, the colors of the Israeli flag.
Behind the shul, fenced off in a corner, is one of the remaining signs of First Temple habitation. The whole area was lived in at that time, thousands of years ago, when the Prophet Jeremiah, who lived in Anatot (now our modern neighborhood of Pisgat Zev) decried the population, which had fallen into bad ways.
I look up from time to time, my eyes focused in the same direction. Six kilometers distant is the Kotel, where people are praying, putting a note between the stones.
In ordinary times, I have this reassuring, familiar, picture in my head. But last year, I needed anything which could strengthen my own prayers. Especially since just before Pesach last year, when my life – and prayers – were jolted out of their measured rhythm to that of the rat-a-tat of staccato, shock after shock. Nurit, a beloved family member, had suddenly, through no fault of her own, been hurled into a state of affairs where her health and her future were at stake.
What we were told had frightening implications. Her parents were dealing with the many complicated aspects of the emergency with the necessary professional help. We were not able to see her. The emphasis changed, from week to week, sometimes from day to day. All the usual preparations before Pesach – the scrubbing and scraping, the cleaning and shining, the endless lists – helped take my mind off Nurit’s condition.
She went into hospital. She came home. She was admitted to another hospital. She was there for a few weeks. She came home again. It was now possible to speak to her on the phone. But I didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how she would react. My wise husband said, “Don’t bombard her with questions. Just tell her we are here for her, she can ask us for anything she might need.”
It was hard to get to grips with what was going on, with what lay ahead for her.
I didn’t eat much during that time, was not interested in food, and lost five kilo in a short time. I didn’t sleep much, either. I would wake up, my pillow damp with tears even though I was not even aware of having had any conscious thoughts. I showered and dressed early, sat on the balcony, saw the sun come up over the buildings, and listened to fractious ravens squabbling among themselves. I said Tehillim, davened, asked Hashem for help to return Nurit to a regular life. Weeks passed in the heat of the summer.
Nurit sometimes came to see us. She very rarely spoke about what had happened over the past few months. The crisis seemed to be over. But there would be a long period of adjustment for her until she would be able to accept that the past would never return, the clock could not be turned back.
I kept returning to Psalm 30, which was always a part of my morning davening. Until last summer, I had probably never understood on a personal level the words, “You have revived me from my descent into the Pit.” But there was now the new, chronic reality to deal with and this, as my husband discussed with me, might take its toll no less than the acute distress had done.
I found strength and hope in other verses from Psalm 30, which I still say several times a day. “To You, O Lord, I would call, and to the Lord I would supplicate” and “Hear, O Lord, and be gracious to me; O Lord, be my helper.”
The leaves on the trees began to change color, autumn was approaching. The wind blew them off. We trampled through them as they lined the streets. We prayed for rain. Colorless winter came, followed by vibrant spring, and Hashem’s yearly promise of the new life waiting to burst forth.
I pray each day to Hashem that he will help Nurit with her new life.
