MUSINGS

Mi LaHashem Elai

Yitti Berkovic

My husband and I often laugh that we are the least assertive people left on the planet.

We are the couple who go out to eat, receive our bowls of obviously spoiled French onion soup, and smile at the waiter and say, “Everything is delicious. Thank you so much!”

We are the couple who pay the painter his full fee even though he left behind a mess that rivals a lunchroom after a food fight. We are the couple who groan when the neighbors block our driveway (again!) but tell them, “It’s not a problem at all!” when they stop by and ask if we mind.

We are the couple who never ask for late check-out at a hotel, who never handle for a better price – even in the shuk, and who apologize profusely when the shopper behind us runs their cart over our toes.

It’s not because we’re tzaddikim – well, at least it’s not because I’m a tzadekes – but it’s because we don’t like to be pushy. We don’t like risk or venturing out of our comfort zones. We like to preserve the status quo and avoid rocking the boat. 

That’s why, during this last year, I’ve found myself praying for a personality transplant. I’ve found myself wishing I could change everything about my disposition and magically grow a backbone overnight.

Because as I’ve watched the gadlus of our nation since the atrocities last Simchas Torah, I’ve suddenly discovered what I want to be when I grow up: I want to be an askan.

I want to be a doer.

I want to be a mover and a shaker.

I want to be one of those people with big ideas who actually make those big ideas happen.

Because who could watch the chessed revolutions happening around us – the duffel bags of military supplies coordinated overnight; the pallets of meals arranged – week after week – for the wives of soldiers; the toy drives for the children of displaced families; the Contigo water bottles purchased for the chayalim; the tzitzis tying campaigns; the care packages – with diapers and baby clothes – sent from every corner of the globe; the Tehillim rallies that required obtaining permits and police protection – and not be awed and inspired to act?

I watch the whirlwind, and I feel like a couch potato.

Because I know it took herculean efforts to pull off each of these initiatives. Someone brainstormed, someone worked tirelessly to raise the money, someone lobbied powerful people, someone schlepped, someone made a thousand phone calls, someone didn’t sleep at night. And all of this happened while I sat at home, paralyzed by my own helplessness and fear, numb to the tectonic shifts around me. 

While I sat at home doing nothing.

So while I say with awe, “Mi k’amcha Yisrael!” I am intensely jealous of everyone who made the whirlwind happen.

Why didn’t I think of those initiatives?

Why didn’t I try to pull off those projects?

Sometimes, though, I laugh away my self-flagellation.

You?

You panic before booking a plane ticket for yourself – you wouldn’t know where to start if you needed to charter a plane or get permission to bring 40 duffels onto one flight. 

You?

You couldn’t plan a neighborhood Tehillim rally – you don’t even like to ask the neighbor if you can borrow her brown sugar.

But then I think of the heroes I watch in real time – Yossi Landau of Zaka, Shai Graucher of B’yachad Nenatzeiach, and Eli Beer of United Hatzalah to name just a few in a sea of so many chessed trailblazers – and I wonder: were they born with the skill set? Or did they dig deep for it? Did they cultivate it because their thirst for chessed overpowered their natural inclination to hide from the spotlight or accept the status quo?

I think of Rabbi Meir Schuster z’l, the famed Man of the Wall, who was painfully shy, but fought against his discomfort to stand at the Kosel and ask complete strangers, “Are you Jewish?” so he could invite unaffiliated Jews to the Heritage House where he would introduce them to their glorious roots.

He wasn’t born with a skill set. He developed it because he needed to. Because his desire to do overrode the limitations of his innate capabilities.

Is it delusional to think I can still do the same?

Or maybe I’m missing the point.

It’s almost Chanukah.

I picture the Maccabim, the ultimate doers, calling out to the masses, “Mi LaHashem eilai“- whoever is to Hashem, join me!

The Chofetz Chaim once told Rav Shimon Schwab that in every generation there is a call of “Mi LaHashem eilai” and we Yidden have an obligation to respond to that call.

I want to respond!

I want to join this incredible nation of movers and shakers, of thinkers and doers, of big hearts and big aspirations!

But while I can start sharpening those askan skills, I probably won’t become an askan overnight – not when I still break into a sweat when I have to call my insurance company to fight an unpaid claim.

So instead of beating myself up or praying for a personality transplant, I need to appreciate that the beauty of the call “Mi LaHashem eilai!” is that it doesn’t come with an instruction manual. There isn’t one right way to join – we can heed the call with the skill sets Hashem has given us (while working to develop skills we don’t yet have!). 

While I can still marvel at the chessed powerhouses in our midst, I can also look around and be inspired by the quieter chassadim, by the efforts and sacrifices of the non-askan types who might fit better in my wheelhouse.  

There are the women still bentching licht ten minutes early on very, very short Fridays.

There are the children who still join weekly Tehillim calls and recite their one perek with the sweetest intensity because they know Hashem is listening especially to them. 

There are the men who stopped talking in shul – cold turkey – even though it’s incredibly challenging for them.

There are those who swallow the lashon hara that sneaks onto their tongues, there are those who avoid a fight with their sister-in-law even though they are clearly in the right, there are those who lose their temper one less time when the kids are fighting over the Playmobil for the tenth time that night.

Maybe there’s still time for me to grow up to be an askan. In the meantime, I can respond to the call of “Mi LaHashem eilai” in a way that is more natural for me, more doable for me, more reflective of who I am right now.

Each of us can pick something – something big, but also something small – to answer the call.

May our nation’s big, dazzling chassadim and our nation’s quiet, almost invisible chassadim be a zechus for all of Klal Yisrael, and may we once again see the miraculous victory of the rabim beyad meatim, the temeim beyad tehorim, the reshaim beyad tzadikim.