My husband and I have a `mixed' marriage. I come from an
F.F.B. (Frum from birth) family, whose head z'l
received smicha from R' Kahaneman at the esteemed
Ponevezher Yeshiva in Europe. My husband is a baal
tshuva from a very secular background.
How did this marriage happen? I suppose the simplest -- and
best -- answer is that we were bashert (destined) for
one another. Hashem, the greatest Matchmaker of all, had it
all arranged. We needed each other to become the people we
are now. Had I married one of the nice, complacent, young
F.F.B. men with whom I had gone out on shidduchim, I
might have remained on the same religious level all my life,
doing everything by rote, never changing or growing. [This
is, of course, by far, not to label F.F.B.'s as rote
people.]
As soon as I met the man who was to become my husband, I knew
he was different. At first, I was most impressed with his
obvious intelligence. One snowy winter afternoon, we went for
a long walk and he told me his story -- how after a totally
secular upbringing, he had decided to lead a Torah life. He
explained all the difficulties that decison had brought.
Twenty-five years ago, the baal tshuva movement was
just starting. My husband did not have an instant support
group, special programs, Shabbatonim or even the famous
ArtScroll siddur to help him. He was basically a
pioneer, struggling along on his own, trying to make sense of
the strange new world of Orthodoxy he had chosen, or felt
compelled to become part of.
Everything was new to him and achieved only with difficulty.
When a family invited him for Shabbos, he was handed a
bencher for zemiros, but he held it upside
down! He had to struggle to learn the alef-beis from a
child's primer. For someone who had always enjoyed academic
success in the secular world and was, in fact, attending a
prestigious law school at the time, it was definitely not an
easy transition.
Another obstacle he had to overcome was alienation from his
parents, as they felt he was rejecting them and their values.
Somehow, he had the strength and courage to maintain his
newfound beliefs and eventually succeeded in repairing the
rift between him and his family.
I was deeply moved by his story and intuitively felt that he
was the person I had been searching for so long and that our
futures were to be inevitably intertwined.
So we were married. My husband continued on his spiritual
journey and by doing so, took me along with him, away from my
F.F.B. complacency. I learned to see the world of Torah
through vivid eyes, which gave me a different perspective on
things I had always taken for granted. The experience was
like a fresh breeze blowing into a musty room which had been
sealed up for too long.
And my husand, who had no traditions of his own that he knew
of, gained by becoming part of an always observant family
with continuous roots.
Several months after our wedding, we went for a short visit
to his family in New Jersey. They were friendly and
welcoming, going out of their way to accommodate us with
specially bought kosher food and paper plates. Somehow, they
even found two candles for me to light on Friday evening. But
as I did so, I sadly reflected that it was probably the first
time that Shabbos candles had ever been lit in that house.
I began to wonder how my husband, having grown up in such a
secular environment, had ever managed to move so far away
from it. In shul on Shabbos morning, I watched from
the women's section as he prayed. He davened with such
kavona that I could only thank Hashem for this
miracle, the strength he had been given to leave his former
life and claim his Jewish heritage.
Then his mother told us a `quaint' family story of the
strange old lady -- her grandmother -- who was so old
fashioned that she never removed her headscarf. Even when she
wanted to wash her hair, she had her daughters hold a towel
over her so that the "beams of her house" should never see
her uncovered head.
"Just like Kimchis!" I exclaimed in wonder, recalling the
story of a woman so pious that she kept her covered at all
times. She was rewarded by having all of her sons become High
Priests in the Beis Hamikdosh.
So my husband did have yichus, after all. The chain
had nearly been severed but he had reconnected it now. It
must surely have been in the merit of his valorous great-
grandmother that the next generation of the family is now
observant again.
When our oldest son was three, we carefully explained to him
that Abba was a baal tshuva, and discussed what this
meant. We told him that when Abba was a little boy, he had
never known the beauty of Shabbos, the fun of Purim, the
excitement of stealing the afikomon on Pesach, the
challenge of building a succa or the pure spirituality
of lighting Chanuka candles. On Rosh Hashona and Yom Kippur,
he had not attended school, as in New York City even the
public schools were closed; but his family hadn't gone to
shul to pray, either. He had always felt he was
missing something. But now, through our children, he could
experience all the joys he had been denied in his own
childhood. We explained that a baal tshuva was someone
who had chosen to become Torah-observant and that was very
special. One son then insisted, "I want to be a baal
tshuva too!"
At first we tried to reason with him and explain things, but
he started to cry. Then we realized that all of us can -- and
should -- be, in a very real sense, baalei tshuva. We
must all continue to grow, spiritually, in mitzvos,
knowledge, awareness, and never become complacent and
satisfied, but should continue to strive for more, to try to
perfect ourselves into becoming the Jews we are potentially
capable of becoming.
Now my husband is teaching in a yeshiva here in Israel and
doing incredible outreach work with new baalei tshuva.
For who can emphathize better than one who has gone through
the experience personally? Last Shavuos, we had the privilege
of having a recent baal tshuva stay with us. Having
grown up in a secular, leftwing kibbutz, Smadar recently
discarded its emptiness and somewhat like Ruth, found inner
strength and a new meaningful life for herself as a religious
woman. She was thrilled with the whole concept of Shavuos as
the festival of mattan Torah, having experienced it
previously only as a secular harvest festival.
As we walked together to the midnight shiur for women,
I was wondering, "Should I have made just one more
cheesecake?" and hoping I wouldn't fall asleep in the middle
of the rebbetzin's talk. Our guest looked up at the
starry sky as if truly expecting it to open up any moment.
"Hashem is giving us the Torah tonight," she said with such
joy in her voice that it was contagious. I told her that her
spiritual enthusiasm was a real inspiration to me.
Then she thanked me for being a positive role model for her,
as the observant woman she was striving to become.
If one of our sons should one day want to marry such a
dedicated young woman, I would certainly give them my
blessing and be proud to have `her' as my daughter-in-law.
F.F.B. and B.T. It is time we stopped labelling each other
and felt compassion instead. Observant Jews are already a
minority within a minority. We need to share our most
positive qualities and attitudes: chaverim/areivim kol
Yisroel. That should include the idea of our children, if
they are otherwise suited, marrying each other. Having
experienced this myself, I know it is possible. May Hashem
continue to bless our journey together.
