Piles and piles of stiff cream card embossed with swirly burgundy lettering. I sat down with a half-sigh, quickly replacing it with a sort-of smile. It really was a huge simchah, marrying Aryeh off. But oh, so much work as well…
Elbow-deep in dinner invitations, dancing cards, and those little ribbons that the kallah had asked for, I hardly heard the sound of the key in the front door.
“How’s it going, Miri?”
I looked up, startled. “Tzvi! What’s the time? Are you home early?”
He laughed gently. “No, I’m actually a few minutes later than usual. What have you been busy with?”
“This.” I gestured at the envelopes strewn around, the open address book. “Trying to find all my great-aunts’ addresses…and before that, we were dealing with the suit, and the tie – oh, and that photographer called again, something about the lighting in the hall, I really can’t handle it. I told him to call back tonight, when you’re home.”
“No problem.” Tzvi circled the dining-room table, taking a seat. “Listen, Miri, I actually need to speak to you about invitations…”
“Hmm?” I was concentrating on whether Tante Basha would be likely to fly in or not. “Didn’t we finalize our dinner invites last night?”
“Yes, but then Aryeh spoke to me.”
“Aryeh? What’s the problem? He’s already done all his friends’ invitations.”
Tzvi sighed. “Miri, he asked me if he could invite his uncles to the chasunah.”
At this, I stopped what I was doing. “He what?! Tzvi, they haven’t spoken to him in years.”
“I know.” Tzvi lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “But he wants to invite them, and I think it would be the right thing to do. It’s one more table on each side of the mechitzah, that’s all.”
“That’s all?” Two more tables equalled twenty more portions, equalled… I closed my eyes briefly. The costs of this chasunah, which we were bearing the brunt of, weren’t just adding up. They were multiplying exponentially.
I knew what Tzvi would say even before he answered. “It’s all part of the mitzvah, Miri.”
“Right.” I picked up a dozen spare invitations. “How are we going to get the uncles’ and aunts’ addresses?”
“Let me find them for you,” he offered. “And don’t worry about dinner; I’m going to order us bagels. I think you could do with a little break.”
“Can that money also be part of the mitzvah?”
Tzvi laughed as he left the room.
All part of the mitzvah. When we received that phone call a few years ago, I could never have imagined just how much would become a part of that mitzvah.
A young bochur, the woman at the other end had told me. Lost his mother at an early age, and now his father passed away as well. His extended family show little interest in helping out, and he desperately needs a home. Would you be willing to take him in?
I’d discussed it with Tzvi, at length. We’d spoken about the emotional difficulties of fostering, of the impact it might have on our own children. About the mitzvah of taking care of a yasom and the berachah we hoped this zechus would bring into our home.
But we never spoke about the expenses. The astronomical expenses of a child who, due to his foreign background, couldn’t qualify for our insurance. Since we were not fostering him through the government, only by private arrangement, we weren’t receiving any financial recompense from there, either. That left tuition, medical costs, therapies, dental care, even clothing and seforim and travel and summer camps squarely on our shoulders.
When it came time for Aryeh to enter shidduchim, we worked extensively on his behalf. We made inquiries, met girls, and walked him through the nerve-wracking process until his recent engagement. Now, we were making practically the entire chasunah.
But the uncles? We never heard a word from them.
Not when Aryeh moved in. Not on his birthday, or the yahrtzeit of either of his parents. Not when he got engaged. They showed no interest at all.
But they’re family, and he wants them at his chasunah.
Fine. I was ready to send them invitations. If they would bother to turn up would be another story.
Strains of music accompanied us down the red-carpeted aisle. Teary-eyed, I kept my gaze down as Esty’s mother and I guided her on the all-important path to her and Aryeh’s shared future. As we stepped under the canopy, I glanced momentarily into the crowds. My family and friends, Aryeh’s friends, the kallah’s side. And just a few feet away, a cluster of women that I definitely had never met before.
Aryeh’s aunts. So they came.
And then the music changed, we began slowly circling Aryeh, and I caught Tzvi’s eye. There were tears sparkling unabashedly there. My own emotions rose to the fore, and Aryeh’s not-so-distant relatives fled from my mind.
Somehow, the chuppah was over, the glass smashed, and Aryeh and Esty glowingly made their way to the yichud room, cheered on enthusiastically by hordes of dancing bochurim. My daughters pranced around, exchanging mazel tovs with the other side, while Ruthie – the kallah’s mother – and I received our well-wishers more sedately. In all the commotion I lost sight of the aunts, and almost forgot that they were there. Until my sister Shaindy tapped me on the arm.
“Miri, who are those women there? They’re sitting all by themselves; no one seems to know them!”
I peeked in the direction she was pointing. Of course, it was the aunts. Briefly I told Shaindy who they were, and why they had been invited. As I watched them, staring in my direction and pointing at different people round the hall, I felt a fluttering of resentment. “You know, Shaindy, it’s really not right,” I concluded. “After all the effort of inviting them, they haven’t even come over to wish me mazel tov! I mean, we’re the baalei simchah, we’re paying for their meal and everything. The decent thing would be to introduce themselves!”
Shaindy looked thoughtful. “But Miri, they must be a bit embarrassed. After all, they’re his family, and you’re the one who stepped in to raise Aryeh when they didn’t give a thing. And you’re right, it’s your simchah, but maybe you should go over to them and try to make them feel more part of the celebration. Maybe they’re waiting for you to make the first move?”
I thought about that for a minute. Shaindy was right; whatever the aunts were doing, I should still do the mentschliche thing and go greet them myself. With that in mind, I headed purposefully over to their table.
Silence fell as I approached. Twelve unfriendly faces stared up at me. What on earth had I done to deserve this?
“Hi, I’m Miri, Aryeh’s foster mother. You must be his aunts –”
That was as far as I got.
“His aunts? We must be his aunts? How would you know?”
A hailstorm of recriminations hit me from all sides.
“You never let us have contact with him, for all these years!”
“You stopped him phoning us. Do you know how long we haven’t seen our own nephew??”
“Our family. You ripped it apart. And why? For the money!”
“Of course, the money. That’s why everyone does anything. Because you’ll get a few measly dollars from the government, you take a child away from his…”
“And then you claim to be these big tzaddikim!”
I felt dizzy. What were they saying? They had no idea, no clue about the tens of thousands of dollars we had poured into Aryeh. Of the difficulties of raising him, of making him part of the family, of taking him through shidduchim. And the nerve – to accuse us of deliberately cutting them out of his life!
The heat rose in my face. Other guests were turning, hearing the commotion at Table 8. The humiliation was overwhelming.
I took a deep breath, ready to fight back, to defend myself from their crazy accusations.
And then I stopped.
There are two choices here. One, to shout back and let them know just how unfounded and how out of place their arguments are. Or two, to turn around and go back to my place, and let my whole family know what just happened.
Both options will turn Aryeh’s simchah into a battlefield.
So I chose option three.
I swallowed my pride.
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” I told the aunts, when the barrage of comments had died down. “I have no idea who your sources are, but you should know that we were asked to take Aryeh in, entirely as chessed, without ever receiving a penny from anyone. And as far as I understood you didn’t want to be involved, otherwise I certainly would have encouraged him to be in touch with you.”
The aunts were unimpressed. “You know,” one continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. “The kallah doesn’t even know who we are. No one realizes that we’re his closest family.”
This time, it was easier to hold back the sharp retorts. “Of course I’ll introduce you to the kallah. We really appreciate you’re coming, and so does Aryeh. This was really important to his simchah. Thank you.”
I made my way back to the head table. Shaindy caught me on the way. “What happened, Miri? They were getting all angry…”
I brushed it off. “A little misunderstanding, but it’s been cleared up now.”
I took my seat, a tefillah my mouth. “Hashem, in the zechus of keeping quiet, please let there be total shalom when I marry off my own children. Please let their chasunahs not be marred by machlokes and hurt. Please let them be completely happy occasions!”
A burst of music. The chosson and kallah, ready for their grand entrance! I hurried to the doorway, silent moments of introspection forgotten. But I hadn’t forgotten the promise to the aunts. After Ruthie and I danced with Esty, I pulled her over to the cluster of stiff-lipped women at the edge of the circle.
“Esty, these are Aryeh’s aunts,” I introduced them. “They’ve come all the way to share his simchah, they care so much about him, they are so excited to welcome you to the family…” I prattled on, ensuring that each one had a turn to dance with the kallah. I wasn’t acknowledged for it, but by then, I wasn’t expecting anything.
The chasunah passed in an exhilarating haze of music and song and the sheer joy on Aryeh’s face. Seeing him exchange a look with his new wife, my heart soared. This was what it all boiled down to – keeping Aryeh’s simchah completely happy, for his sake.
Aryeh and Esty celebrated their sheva brachos, and life continued. The uncles and aunts faded back into the distant background of Aryeh’s life, never to initiate contact with him afterwards. And I almost forgot the whole incident.
Until a friend met me on the street, a short while after I married off the fourth of my own children.
“Miri, I have to ask you. How do you do it? I’ve been to the chasunahs of your children, and I’m telling you, there’s just something extra special in the atmosphere that I’ve never felt at any other simchah. It’s pure and simple happiness, with nothing marring the day. What’s your secret?”
And in a flash, the silent prayer came back to me, and I remembered those few hours of keeping quiet, those insignificant few hours where my pride seemed an insurmountable obstacle. And what I would have lost if I hadn’t won that battle…
And I knew with diamond-sharp clarity: it was worth it.
Adapted from the Chazak hotline Shalom Series: From War to Peace
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