Sitting at the Shabbos table on Shabbos Shuva, I was glancing
at the first page of a Hebrew leaflet that my youngest had
brought home from yeshiva. Achdus, it was called, put
out by bochurim, themselves, apparently.
Sima, I told myself, this is for young boys -- to
encourage them in learning. It probably isn't going to speak
to you that much. But it did.
The article told the tragic story of a Rav of Vilna whose
daughter was deathly ill. He sent a messenger with a plea to
the Chofetz Chaim and the reply came back: "It's because of a
shidduch." Since the daughter was too young for
shidduchim, the rav was mystified by this cryptic
answer. But, wracking his brain to fathom the Chofetz Chaim's
meaning, he at last recalled that before his marriage, there
had been some talk of a match for him with a different girl.
In the end, each had married someone else.
He tracked down the woman's whereabouts and found that she
was married to an ordinary Jew and lived in a village a long
distance away. Nevertheless, he traveled there himself to beg
her forgiveness personally. Neither the villagers, nor the
husband could imagine to what they owed the honor of the
visit from the Rav of Vilna.
When he asked the woman for forgiveness, she answered at
once, "There is nothing to forgive," adding, "anyway, I ended
up with a much better shidduch."
What chutzpa! To tell the Rav of Vilna that she was better
off not having married him! He understood from her words that
she hadn't really forgiven him. He begged repeatedly for
forgiveness but she repeated that there was nothing to
forgive -- and that she had ended up with a better match.
The Rav remained in the village for several days and sent
others to plea with the woman, but her answer was the same.
Finally, heartbroken, he returned home and soon after, his
daughter passed away.
The article continued with a discussion about Yosef
Hatzaddik. After the passing of Yaakov Ovinu, the brothers
feared he would take revenge on them but when they asked his
forgiveness, he told them that if ten stars couldn't
extinguish one star, how could one star destroy ten? And
clearly, it had all been Providentially decreed to save the
family from famine, among other things. In other words: There
was nothing to forgive.
What he didn't say was: "I forgive you." And it is said that
our suffering in Egypt was partly a punishment for their
mistreatment of Yosef.
I thought about that article a lot. I asked myself when I'd
ever said, "I forgive you" to anyone. When I'd even thought,
"I forgive him/her."
I could only remember one time in my life when I'd done this.
I was nine and had had a fight with a classmate the day
before. In the morning, her mean and angry face confronted
me. The mouth, twisted into an ugly sneer, opened to make who-
knows-what insulting remark. But before the words could be
spoken, I blurted, "I forgive you!" Then I saw a remarkable
thing. That thundercloud of a face melted instantaneously. In
its stead, a sunny smile appeared, and relieved, happy
laughter, in which I soon joined. From that moment on, we two
became fast, inseparable friends.
Beautiful. But that was the only incident when I could recall
saying those words. When people asked me for forgiveness, for
instance, before Yom Kippur, I usually asked back,
"Forgiveness for what? You didn't do anything!" Whenever I
thought about people whom I felt had wronged me, perhaps
decades earlier, I would try to give them the benefit of the
doubt. She didn't realize. He didn't understand. They did
the best they could. In other words: There's really
nothing to forgive.
I'd thought the essence of forgiveness was to go to the
heart, the root of the matter, so that one discovered there
was nothing to forgive. Then, automatically, the whole
question of forgiveness would no longer arise; the entire
problem would be transformed into ex-problem, would dissolve
into nothingness, and any bad feelings I might have been
experiencing, connected with it, would evaporate into thin
air.
But after reading that article, I began to wonder if my
thinking was correct. Maybe, like that woman, the real reason
that I never said, "I forgive you" was simply that I hadn't
really forgiven anyone! Or, not completely. I had
reason to suspect that this was the case because whenever
something reminded me of some ancient grievance which I had
relegated to "nothing to forgive," I was again filled with
fresh anger and would again need to rapidly review all the
reasons. `She didn't realize. He didn't understand. They
did the best they could' why there was nothing to
forgive. If all had been forgiven, what was this reappearing
rancor? Apparently, it was not forgiven.
If so, was I unwittingly guilty, every minute, of
transgressing the Torah prohibition of not bearing a grudge?
Oh, no! Was I missing out on the opportunity of truly
forgiving others, which means being forgiven by Hashem? Were
those who asked me for forgiveness remaining unforgiven, as
if they had never asked?
I continued thinking about this over the next few days. Am I
the only one? With all our wonderful community's emphasis on
judging favorably, might we still be missing out on
forgiveness? We try to justify bad behavior: Maybe it was
her identical twin? Maybe her glasses were broken... Maybe he
has a slight hearing problem? And if we can't come up
with something plausible, we still shrug and imagine there is
a valid explanation.
Why not just say, "Maybe she got it wrong this time. After
all, I've been known to get things wrong. So it happened and
I forgive him/her."
A few days later, a lady I know, let's call her `Brochy,' was
supposed to phone me at 11 a.m. with some information about
the new schedule for a class we both attend. Brochy is
extremely dependable and indeed phoned right on time with the
information, but she sounded very agitated.
"Is something the matter?"
"Oh, Sima, I'm just so angry at Aharon." (Her husband.) "I
phoned him just now and told him that I don't feel well
enough to go pick up something that's needed for our little
daughter. So I asked if he could go for me -- and do you know
what he said? He said, `No! I don't feel like it.' `But it's
for Malkale!' I told him. Then he said, `So you'll get it
tomorrow." Ooof! I'm just so angry, I could scream. Is that a
way to talk to a wife, especially when she's expecting a
baby? He knows how weak and nauseous I've been feeling
lately. I was about to tell him just what I thought of his
behavior and of him, but I saw it was eleven o'clock and had
to call you then. But I'm going to get back to him right
now..."
Please, Hashem, I whispered quickly. Give me the
words. Brochy was clearly very upset and that could be
dangerous in her condition. I only hoped and prayed that I
could calm her down a bit, and maybe also bring some peace
back into her home.
"What do you hope to accomplish by that?" I asked.
"Accomplish? I don't know about that, but he's certainly not
going to be in any doubt about what I think!"
"Is that what you usually do?"
"Well, yes. I'm not one for keeping things bottled up
inside..."
"And what's the usual reaction?"
"Well, he usually answers that I'm hypersensitive and spoiled
and always nagging him and asking for things that I don't
really need and my mother didn't raise me right. So then I
lose my temper and start telling him how his mother..."
"I get the picture. Everything escalates. Let's talk about
this anger of yours. People say that if a wife forgets to
mail her husband's letter, he thinks it means there's a
letter that still needs mailing, but if a husband forgets to
mail his wife's letter, she thinks it means he doesn't care
about her; he never cared about her and never will
care..."
Brochy laughed.
"So what I'm saying is -- I think your anger is really
`hurt.' You think he doesn't care."
She sighed, sounding deflated, like a balloon with its air
let out. "Yes. I guess so. And I guess it can wait till
tomorrow, but still..."
"Brochy, you know that all of us have strong points and weak
points. Maybe even you..."
She laughed again, ruefully, probably remembering how often
she'd lamented to me about her tendency to be too harsh with
herself and about the quick temper that plagued her life.
"We pray to see the strong points in others. That doesn't
mean they don't have any weak points. Everybody does. But we
try to keep their good qualities in mind, even when the weak
points seem to be coming to the fore. For example, you are
extremely conscientious, meticulous, consistently hardworking
and very wrapped up in your children."
"Yes. I think all those things are true."
"Those are your strong points, and they're pretty natural to
you, though you've also worked to develop them."
"Yes."
"But they're not natural to all of us. Many of us have to
work very hard to acquire even a small measure of those good
traits, maybe as hard as you have to work on acquiring some
of the good traits that don't come so naturally to you. Or
curbing bad ones, like anger..."
"Hmmmm."
"And sometimes we just get tired of working so hard."
"But Sima, people have to live up to their responsibilities.
They can't just say, `I'm not in the mood today.' "
"Well, you try to do things to perfection because you have a
strong sense of duty. But,you weren't going yourself, didn't
you say that things could wait? Why must Aharon go today?"
"That's completely different. I don't feel well. I'm weak and
overwhelmed."
"You're feeling physically weak. So maybe he is, too?
Spiritually or emotionally weak? Overwhelmed, himself.
Listen, it happens."
"I don't know. I think I always try to do the best I can as
soon as I can."
"So does he, Brochy. It's just that your best in this area is
better than most people's. But in other areas where you're
not so strong, he might do better. Besides, would reacting
angrily improve the situation? Maybe he is already doing the
best he can?"
"But this isn't the first time!"
"Listen, Brochy, you must do whatever you can to improve all
situations, which does not include yelling. Do you improve
when you're yelled at? Maybe when you're both calmer, you can
discuss things calmly. But not while you're thinking him to
be thoroughly hopeless. And you've so often mentioned kind
things he's done for you. How he surprised you by preparing
dinner last week, how he washed the dishes after Shabbos,
bought you flowers for your birthday. He sounds like a nice
guy..."
"I guess you're right."
"You know, we're told to judge the whole person
favorably. On the whole, your husband is certainly committed
to you and the family, and on a high level. So maybe today
something's bothering him, a run-in with someone, stress
about money. Who knows?"
"But, Sima. What he said was still wrong!"
I didn't seem to be getting through. I tried a different
tack. "So, Brochy, let's say it might have been wrong. But
what did we say when we stood before Hashem on Yom Kippur?
Did we explain extenuating circumstances why we sinned? No.
We just asked for forgiveness. We were wrong, but, Hashem,
please forgive us, anyway. And He did."
I let this sink in. "So let's do the same thing. Let's say
that So-and-so was just plain wrong. But I forgive him."
Silence for a moment. Then, "You know, something, Sima?"
Brochy said brightly. "I don't even feel angry any more."
Thank you, Hashem, for the words. And please help me
remember them for myself. When there's something to forgive,
let me not pretend it's fine. Let me admit that it's not fine
and then let me forgive. Only then can I begin working on
helping make things better.
