“Can we invite Tzvi for Shabbat?” my husband asked, expecting my usual answer, “Yes, of course.”
But this time, I pursed my lips and said, merely, “I suppose so.”
He of course noticed my lack of enthusiasm, and asked, “Is there a problem?”
“No,” I said shortly. ”It’ll be fine.”
There was a problem. There was always a problem when Tzvi* came to us for Shabbat. It was always the same problem.
I heard my husband call Tzvi to invite him. His closing words were how much we were looking forward to seeing him. “Bryna* is making that dish you liked last time.”
It’s not that I disliked Tzvi; on the contrary, he always had an interesting slant on the parsha to share with us, sang zemirot with enthusiasm, and was appreciative of the food, and our company. Divorced, he lived on his own, his remaining single children with their mother. He was a distant cousin of my husband.
He came to us every three or four weeks for Shabbat, alternating his visits to us with spending Shabbat with his married children. I felt sorry for him, being in this situation, so much alone, especially during this Covid period.
Just before Tzvi was due to arrive for the first time, my kind-hearted husband had pinpointed a very sensitive issue for his cousin. After decades of being the ba’al ha-bayit at his own Shabbat table with his family and guests, singing Eshet Chayil, making kiddush and hamotzi for everyone, and leading the singing of zemirot, all that had ended. Now he was always the guest.
I had already set the table for Shabbat, everything was in its usual place. My husband asked me to put the wine and challot at Tzvi’s place. He would ask Tzvi to make kiddush and hamotzi.
I raised no objection; I liked that he was sensitive to Tzvi’s feelings of diminished status and was trying to build up his self-esteem.
After they came home from shul, we sang Shalom Aleichem, and sat down. I was looking forward to my husband’s singing Eshet Chayil to me, the highlight, which I awaited eagerly each week – his speaking the words in a loud voice, “ve-AT aleet al koolana” (You are the most excellent of all the excellent women). I always inwardly glowed at that stage.
That Friday night was different. Tzvi launched into Eshet Chayil, but my husband didn’t get a chance to claim it as his own entitlement, and could scarcely keep up with his cousin’s whistle-stop rendering. At one point, he glanced at me and half-shrugged his shoulders powerlessly, as if to say, “What can I do?” I sat back, bewildered by this unexpected, and unwanted, turn of events. I waited for it to be over, so that we could make kiddush, wash and make hamotzi, and proceed with the seudah.
Everything else that Shabbat was fine, Tzvi told us how much he was enjoying being with us, and we parted from him with plans for him to come to us again whenever he was free.
Before each Shabbat visit, I tried my best to prepare to welcome Tzvi whole-heartedly, but I felt resentful, and even tense, thinking that once again I would be deprived of my usual nachat of having Eshet Chayil sung to me by my husband. I seemed to be unable to shrug it off and berated myself for being so small-minded. I lectured myself time and again, giving myself mussar, of comparing my own good fortune with Tzvi’s reduced circumstances. It didn’t work.
I appealed to my husband. “Could you please try to start to sing as soon as we sit down?” My husband tried. It didn’t work, Tzvi seemed to anticipate it, and began to sing even before we sat down, and at speed. It sounded as if the two of them were taking part in a race to see who could be first to finish. My husband gave up the race, gave up on singing Eshet Chayil when Tzvi was with us.
I sat blank-faced, ignoring the fine qualities ascribed to me but sung at my table by a man who was not my husband.
The Wednesday before Tzvi’s last visit, I considered the three options I had. I could ask my husband to ask Tzvi, tactfully, to let him sing Eshet Chayil by himself to his wife. I could ask Tzvi tactfully myself. Or I could do nothing, and just accept it. After all, it was really a minute problem. I knew I was getting things out of all proportion, and felt quite ashamed of myself.
There were more options, but I had been concentrating so much of my energy on myself and my resentment that I hadn’t recognized them. I made myself analyze the problem, and place it in the correct context. This was, of course, that of hachnasat orchim – showing hospitality – one of the most important Jewish values.
Avraham Avinu himself welcomed the three visitors to his tent, and prepared food and water for them. The sage, Shammai, taught (Pirkei Avot 1:15) that one should “receive each person with a pleasant countenance.”
I read quite a bit about hachnasat orchim that day, and thought about it more intently, I discarded each one of the three original options. I realized I needed to ask Hashem for help to see things in perspective. I would manage without Eshet Chayil directed at me several times a year. The only thing that was important was that our guest, Tzvi, should feel relaxed, and welcome in our house. I was sure that confiding in Hashem would result in a solution.
Friday came, and Tzvi arrived. My husband and Tzvi went off to shul. When they came home, we sang Shalom Aleichem, and sat down. I was relaxed, and waited for Eshet Chayil with an unforced smile on my face. To my surprise, my husband joined in this time and sang together with Tzvi, so I heard the two of them sing in harmony.
My internal harmony was restored, with Hashem’s help, and I was now more able to “receive every person with a pleasant countenance.”
