LIFE JOURNEYS — TRUE STORIES ABOUT REAL PEOPLE
Avrohom Ovinu, by passing his Ten Trials, bequeathed to his
descendants the spiritual DNA to withstand their own
individual tests . . .
I walked out of his office into the crisp fall air, and I
felt my life on the edge of change. I had made a
decision.
I grew up in a home that was rapidly assimilating into
American society. My father is a brilliant cardiologist, and
my mother is the vice president of a large public relations
firm. Despite their busy careers, they were warm and involved
parents. They wanted me to be a happy and accomplished
individual, and they sent me to the best of schools with that
in mind. Our Judaism was a Saturday ritual. We would all
dress up and go to the local Modern Orthodox shul
where we would pray and meet up with our friends.
There were two traditions that my parents insisting on
keeping, though. One was Shabbos, with all its seemingly
outdated rules. And the other was not eating non-kosher meat
or fish. Needless to say, these rules were very confusing for
a girl growing up in secular American society. I wanted to go
out with my friends on Friday night, and I was embarrassed
that I couldn't even turn on and off the lights when my
friends would visit on Saturday afternoon. Nevertheless, I
trusted my parents and wanted to make them happy. So when my
mother lit the silver candles on Friday night and my father
went to shul, we sat and read together and accepted
Shabbos as something peculiar about my family.
The kosher rule didn't affect me much since I could still eat
in all the same restaurants as my friends and order
vegetarian dishes. A lot of my friends had even become
vegetarian by then, and I didn't even stick out of the crowd.
As I progressed through my high school years, I began to
appreciate the deep rest and peace that Shabbos gave me from
my intense academic studies. In fact, I began to see that my
family was unique even in sitting down to dinner once a week!
I had begun at that time to excel in the sciences, and in my
senior year I was accepted to an elite university with a
sterling reputation.
In university, I was placed with a Catholic roommate who was
also a science major. I explained to her about Shabbos, and
how I would have to put my light on a timer. I told her that
I would light candles every Friday night, and I asked her to
please remember not to turn my light off. She looked at me a
bit strangely during these explanations, but she seemed happy
enough to accommodate me. At night she would say, "Now I lay
me down to sleep," and I would say the first paragraph of the
Shema that I had so often heard my grandmother recite
before bed. It comforted me and made me feel connected to our
tradition in the spiritual desert of university.
The university had a Hillel House which organized Shabbos
meals, and I attended them regularly. Shabbos had become an
opportunity for self-reflection and letting go, in my
increasingly competitive environment. When I lit candles on
Friday night I felt connected to my mother and grandmother in
a way that I never had before.
When the turning point in my life came, it caught me by
surprise. I had always perceived myself as a rational, stable
person and suddenly, I couldn't integrate the two "faces" of
my life anymore. It happened so gradually that at first I
didn't realize it was happening. I was a chemistry major, and
the highlight of the year was the Chemistry Award for the
most ingenious experiment. I worked hard for months devising
my experiment, and eliminating any inconsistencies in my
work. Finally, the time came to present our experiments to
the board of professors. We each presented our work, and the
professors spent hours deliberating over the winning
project.
The next day they announced the winner. When they called my
name I was ecstatic. I had worked so hard, and now I was
reaping the reward. However, when they announced the date of
the award ceremony, my face fell. It was on Shabbos.
I didn't say anything, and I smiled as all my friends
congratulated me. When I returned to my dorm room, I stared
out the window at the autumn leaves falling from the
courtyard trees and I thought about my dilemma. How would I
succeed in a world that has no Shabbos? Another voice inside
me said: Maybe just this one time you'll ride on Shabbos
and speak into a microphone. And then next Shabbos, you can
go back to observing it. But as soon as the voice rose, I
quieted it immediately. I knew that I couldn't do that. I
knew what I had to do.
When I walked into the professor's office and told him that I
wouldn't be able to attend the awards ceremony, he looked at
me in shock. And when I told him that I couldn't attend
because it was my Sabbath, he looked almost angry. He said
that the ceremony was a prestigious university tradition and
"my" Sabbath could wait. I repeated that I couldn't attend.
He looked at me with uncomprehending eyes and said: "Well, we
will have to give the award to someone else, then."
I walked out of his office into the crisp fall air, and I
felt my life on the edge of change. I had made a decision. I
had declared my loyalty. I began to study Torah with a fellow
student from the Hillel. Eventually, I married, and we began
to keep all of the halochos. Today my husband learns
in kollel, and our children know the beauty of a
Shabbos full of Torah.
I kept the Shabbos, and the Shabbos kept me.
