Each year as Nissan rolls around, my heart, rather than
filling with the joy of the upcoming festival, begins to
contract with fear and dread. How on earth will I manage
this year? becomes my consuming thought.
With the exception of my first year of marriage, when I more-
or-less managed, each year has brought its own trials.
Pesach Number Two I was contending with an unwieldy and
unpredictable first pregnancy, and Pesach Number Three found
us finishing off the shloshim of the fallen fruit of
the previous year's struggles, and well along into the next
"olive shoot."
Pesach Number Four the olive shoot was green with a bad case
of hepatitis and another, spotted with chicken pox. Pesach
Number Five and Six were incredibly stressful, nothing
unusual, except for working around a few blessed
kinder. For that, I can't complain! Still, I remember
waking myself up at one a.m. to frantically clean between
feedings and diaperings, with no strength in me
whatsoever.
Pesach Number Seven I remember so well. We had moved into my
dream apartment, only to discover that it was cold, damp and
infested with mice. I recall sitting bleakly and drearily at
our dining room table, impossibly weak from a recent birth,
totally filled with despair. A big miracle occurred that
year -- a crowd of seminary girls, led by a young lady I had
last seen as a small child, took over my home and blew
through it like a hurricane. As much as I appreciated the
help, and needed it, I got a big potsch in the end. I
hadn't been thorough enough and a month after Pesach, I
found a full, unopened package of bread crumbs in one of the
closets. We had sold all our chometz, of course, but
I didn't get the zchus of a really chometz-
free house because I was not yet chometz-free.
It saddened me.
It's almost impossible to describe how nebach, silly,
inexperienced and inadequate I felt over these years. There
was a never-ending stream of paid and volunteer cleaners,
sorters, organizers, and babysitters, along with and
including my patient and ever-forebearing husband. I felt
lost in the crowd and superfluous, a stranger in my own
home, even as I directed the entire cast of characters. To
prepare a 50 page report on intercultural communications I
could do singlehandedly, but brushing away a few crumbs
totally felled me.
And so, time in its inevitable journey has brought me to my
kitchen table, standing at the threshold of another Pesach.
It was a good year, quieter than most. No babies this year,
a source of combination of wistful relief. After Purim
rolled around and over and the yawning jaw of Nissan began
to swallow me, I was forced to extricate myself. No excuses
this year! Except for a sort of general fatigue, I was fit
for service. I couldn't believe it, in a way, and half-
heartedly collected phone numbers of cleaning services, but
I knew in my heart that I wouldn't be needing them this
year, boruch Hashem.
Believe me, when I tell you that I would not win the
"Zriza of the Year" Pesach cleaning award. I worked
as slow as a turtle, and with a similar lugubrious
expression on my face. I only worked a few hours in my now
quiet mornings. The rest of the day was reserved for the
kids and regular house things. I was slightly messier than
usual, but still alright. The children went to day camps or
hung around, in various combinations, and this year I had
the special pleasure of a six-and-a-half-year-old who could
and would go to the grocery alone, and a husband who was
able to keep his entire seder of learning
undisturbed.
But the real gift, the true matnas Hashem, was the
privilege we all pray for: the strength and stamina to do my
own work. Had help come along, I'd have gladly accepted it.
Had there been extra money, I might have hired some. But as
it stood, I got a full portion this year of whatever was
needed to bring in the chag with peace in my
heart.
When the Jews were in the desert, the mon fell
according to respective merit. Some had to walk far to get
it while others collected it right by their door. In past
years, I've felt I have had to walk miles to reach Pesach
and this year, I felt Pesach move a little closer to me.
And for this, among so many other things, I am truly
grateful.
