It was the end of December, AKA “the holiday season,” and Chanukah to boot. Speaking of which, boots were definitely what she needed at her winter white destination. Not to mention coat, hat, scarf and thermals.
Sara would have liked to spend this wonderful chag in Eretz Yisrael, together with her loving family and the significantly more moderate temperatures, far from the ubiquitous lights and carols she had known growing up. But her dear elderly mother was lonely and ailing and over 6,000 miles away. So she bid farewell to her husband and children, hopped on a plane and travelled to the frigid weather and snow-covered landscape that her Mom called home.
Her sister joined her, but the Filipino caretaker was off for her holiday, and the two women had their hands full taking care of their beloved mother in her frail state. Suddenly, it was erev Shabbos already, and neither sister had the time or inclination to do an extensive shopping and then rustle up the requisite Shabbos fare. Instead they decided to purchase everything ready-made from a local glatt kosher take-out market.
My Yerushalayimi friend was elected the designated shlepper, whose assignment was to walk to the store and buy their Shabbos requirements. Needless to say, she bundled up from head to toe and tread slowly and carefully through the world of white that surrounded her. When she arrived within sight of the shop, however, she suddenly lost her footing, flew into the air and fell to the sidewalk, landing on her left hand. Hard. She heard a sickening “crack!” and within moments saw her hand begin to swell to a few times its normal size and turn a frightening shade of purple. Fearing that she would slip again and cause further damage, she opted to remain on the ground and hail a passing car.
B’chasdei Hashem, the first driver to come along, a non-observant Jewish man with an adorable young son in tow, gladly stopped for her and drove her back to her mother’s apartment. She then urgently summoned her sister, who was shocked to find her back so soon.
“How did you manage to buy all the Shabbos food and return home so fast?” she shouted into the building’s intercom.
“I didn’t do the shopping…” the younger sister explained, “I slipped and broke my arm!”
The older sibling pooh-poohed that dire diagnosis, as only sisters, regardless of whether they are teenagers or middle-aged can do. “I’m sure it’s nothing!”
But, after seeing it for herself, she eventually prevailed upon a neighbor to stay with their mother, called a cab, and accompanied Sara to a nearby medical clinic.
Upon arrival, the sight that greeted the two sisters’ eyes was most unwelcome, to say the least: The entire waiting room was filled wall-to-wall with people nursing sprained or broken extremities! Shabbos was fast approaching, they had no food or Shabbos provisions to speak of, and the wait appeared interminable.
The older sister was torn, but logic won out over emotion, and she decided to “abandon” Sara and return to deal with the Shabbos purchases and her mother’s care. In her haste to receive medical assistance, Sara had not even given a second’s thought to grabbing some form of ID and her travel insurance documents. Now she was alone in an unfamiliar facility, in a foreign city, with nothing but her abundant G-d given chen and her strong faith in Hakadosh Baruch Hu to advocate for her.
Her first tactic was tefillah; she immediately began to recite one perek after another of Tehillim. Then she approached a heavy-set, kind-looking African American receptionist to plead her case.
“I live in Israel,” she explained, “And I’m Sabbath observant. I just broke my arm and I really need to have it set and be able to return to my elderly mother before the Sabbath starts…”
When the secretary inquired regarding her ID and insurance, she assured her that she had both, and would happily come back after Shabbos was over to present the necessary documents. Incredibly, they agreed to treat her regardless.
Within moments the door to the doctor’s office opened, the crowd was carefully scrutinized, and the next patient was chosen. “You!” the woman’s voice rang out, as she pointed to my friend. Remarkably, not one of the other long-suffering people whispered even a syllable of protest.
Sara was ushered into the doctor’s office, an X-ray was taken and her diagnosis was quickly confirmed.
“Your wrist is broken in three places,” she was told. “But thankfully all the breaks are clean.”
She was then informed that she would have to be “put under” before they could set it.
“Do what you have to do,” she instructed, repeating her shomer Shabbos status and her need to return to her sick mother before Shabbos began. “Just please do it fast!”
As per her request, they worked quickly and efficiently to set her wrist. When she came out from under the anesthesia, she was still woozy but ever so grateful. Especially when she saw that her brother had come in the interim and was waiting to escort her back to her mother’s house.
She and her sister had tried repeatedly, albeit unsuccessfully to reach him earlier. But while she was under the haze of the anesthesia she had somehow remembered her brother’s cell phone number and asked that he be contacted! Now he was standing before her, like a truly miraculous mirage, an oasis in the desert.
Her brother laid out the money for her treatment, and she thanked the staff profusely and hurried off, promising to return after Shabbos to straighten out her account.
In all the tumult and rush, her brother had not managed to buy challah and some other necessities for his own family, but he received an unexpected surprise when they reached their mother’s building: The older sister came down to greet them carrying a bulging bag of challah, sandwiches and Chanukah donuts.
She explained that she had dashed to the take-out store as soon as she returned, but had been dismayed to discover that it had closed early because of the holiday. Before she and the other disappointed shoppers could even react, however, a frum man entered the picture and began distributing care packages of challah and other items left over from his chesed organization. Then he drove the incredulous sister to another store where she was able to purchase packaged deli, gefilte fish and other Shabbos fare. Her savior was appropriately named Ben Ezra.
Although far from gourmet, they baruch Hashem returned with ample provisions to celebrate Shabbos adequately. And she very fortunately even had surplus challah for her brother and his family. Although the younger siblings had arrived a mere twenty minutes before licht bentching, all three had just enough time to bentch Chanukah licht and then welcome the Shabbos Queen.
Sara was scheduled to return to the Holy Land on Sunday, but because her wrist had been set less than 48 hours before her flight, she was told that she required medical permission to board, due to concerns about potential blood clots. When she went to the clinic after Shabbos to present her ID and insurance documents, the doctor who had taken care of her on erev Shabbos was not on call. However, another Heaven-sent shaliach, this one in the form of a Jewish female physician, happily provided her with the official permission that the airline required. She was also given a disk of the before and after X-rays and painkillers for her journey.
Sara was able to sleep virtually the entire flight, and was soon warmly welcomed home and doted over by her family. She later went for a follow-up visit to a doctor in Israel, and was thrilled to hear that her wrist had been “set beautifully.”
It did not take long for Sara to appreciate that what had started out as a frightening and ill-timed calamity, ended up being the catalyst for a fabulous chain of undeniable hashgacha pratis.
Baruch Hashem, Sara’s wrist was soon as good as new, and she had a remarkable tale to tell besides. As a manifestation of her boundless hakaras hatov, she eagerly recounted it to me, and specifically requested that I share it with you as well.
