A sequel to last week's rainy day saga in which Ruth's
dryer was repaired, only for her to discover that her stove
had also sprung a gas leak which cannot be repaired...
This week: a lesson in thanking Hashem for the `bad' as well
as for the good.
A mitzva tows a mitzva, a blessing tows another
blessing... and one broken machine tows another. I take out a
bag of shnitzel from my freezer to cook, two at a time, in my
fleishig toaster oven. Ever since my stove broke down
weeks ago, this is how I've been preparing for Shabbos: one
electric ring that we hauled out from our Pesach ware and
converted to everyday use, on which I cook rice or pasta,
saute onions or simmer vegetables, and my toaster oven for
the shnitzel and small roasts.
Strangely enough, the plastic shnitzel bag is covered with a
thin sheet of ice. I place a couple of fingers into the box
where ice is automatically made. Instead of grasping a hard,
slippery ice cube, my fingers sink into a pool of water
— not even ice cold. I carefully pull out the box,
praying not to spill the water any place but into the kitchen
sink. The pool could even hold a couple of swimming ducks!
The freezer thermostat is obviously out of commission. Why on
a Friday morning, of all times! I empty out the shelves one
by one onto plastic chairs, more plastic packages coated with
ice, and a couple of soggy paper bags of cookies. Oh, the
days when I baked... You can guess where they (the cookies)
went.
I dry off more packages of shnitzel, corn patties, burekas
and the chocolate chip ice cream that my husband bought as a
Shabbos treat. A couple of inches of water also fill the
freezer's bottom bucket.
"This, too, must be for the best," I say to myself. It needs
a cleaning. I wash out the breadcrumbs, burekas crumbs and
cookie crumbs. How did all this get here, anyway? I place the
bucket upside down across the railings above my courtyard to
dry. By now, I've soaked all the kitchen towels. I put the
packages piled on the chairs in dry plastic bags and go down
the twenty-five steps to each of my neighbors in the
courtyard.
"Do you have room in your freezer?" I ask each one. Now I
understand why this had to happen on a Friday morning: so my
neighbors would all be home. They all help me out; each moves
her own freezer products over to make room for some of
mine.
Relieved, I climb back up the steps, stick a second pair of
shnitzels in the toaster oven, and go up a further twenty-
five stairs to see to the laundry. I gasp: my bathroom cum
laundry room floor is flooded. A whole flock of ducks or a
gaggle of geese could happily glide here.
What shall I do first? Empty the bed sheets from the washing
machine into the dryer (luckily, they are spun), or dry the
floor? My portable clothes rack is still full of damp
clothes. I'm thankful that at least my dryer works. Either
way, I'll have to stand ankle deep in water.
I often opt to do the more difficult chore first, but today
is Friday and I need to get those sheets dry fast in order to
get them back on the beds before Shabbos. I shove them into
the dryer and hear it churn as I slosh water into the dustpan
and pour it down the drainpipe. Don't I need to wash the
floor for Shabbos, anyway? It's getting cleaner than I ever
imagined I'd get it.
With a fatigued "Boruch Hashem!" I squeeze the last
drops of water from my floor rag.
I'd better get downstairs for the next couple of shnitzels.
Truth is, I'm on the verge of frustrated tears. But then I
hear my good friend Miriam's calming voice in my head. "Why
should a leaky machine, freezer or washing machine wash out
my morning's decision to be happy today? Why should I allow a
mere machine exert such power over me? Thank G-d the toaster
oven's working. Thank G-d the dryer's working! Thank G-d for
Shabbos!"
I flip the light switch at the top of the steps. They always
seem darker going down than up. Nothing happens. Then I
remember: we tried to replace the flourescent light two days
ago but the new bulb didn't work.
"It must be the starter that needs changing," my son said. I
tried to pull out the starter, but it wouldn't come out. I
called my son. He twisted, twiddled, but it wouldn't move. I
called my husband to pull it out, but he was no more
successful. Exasperated, I called my neighbor's son, but he
didn't succeed in pulling it out, either. He called in his
dad. He, too, fussed and fiddled with it.
"You'll need to replace the fixture," he told us.
That was two days ago.
Thank G-d the light in the hall works.
I go back down to the kitchen, put the third couple of
shnitzels in the toaster oven and set up the Shabbos candles
in the dining room. Mr. Fixit, who came to us before Yom Tov
to replace the dimmer switch, still hasn't returned. The old
switch still lies on the bookshelf and a hole in the wall
marks its place. I need to give him another call. For now, I
arrange twice as many candles on my Shabbos candle tray. May
twice as much inner light grace our Shabbos table!
For some reason, I recall the peanut butter and jelly
sandwich I ate for breakfast. Not so much the sandwich
itself: an ordinary whole wheat sandwich, but benching
after it.
"Ve'al HAKOL... anachnu modim Loch — and for
EVERYTHING, Hashem, we thank You and bless You."
Not only for all the things that are working, but also for
all the things that are not...
