What We Saw at Shaare Zedek: A Moving Lesson in Honoring Parents

I never thought I would write a column about this. Partly because I have plenty of other, more important things to write about, and partly because there are some things you would rather people not know.

It reminds me of a remarkable rebbetzin I once wrote about. I had gone to visit her and was waiting in her spacious living room while she prepared tea for us in the kitchen. Left alone, I found myself studying the photographs covering the walls. There were nine married couples, photograph after photograph of brides and grooms, flowers and wedding canopies. Nine beautiful pictures of nine beautiful beginnings.

The rebbetzin returned carrying two delicate Rosenthal teacups, carefully balanced on round saucers edged in gold. Beside each cup were two sugar cubes, a tiny spoon, and a single butter cookie. She placed them on the lace tablecloth covering the little table in the corner.

There was something I wanted to ask her. “Rebbetzin, what don’t we see in the pictures?”

What Pictures Don’t Tell Us

She was a woman of extraordinary wisdom and humor. “What don’t you see in the pictures, Efrat?” she repeated with a smile.

Without missing a beat, she walked over to the first photograph. “What you don’t see is that I still don’t get along with this daughter-in-law. No matter what I do, something between us just doesn’t work. And what don’t you see in this picture? You don’t see that this couple’s parents still haven’t paid the portion they promised. What don’t you see in the pictures, you ask?”

By then, we were both laughing. We remembered a children’s book many of us had grown up with, Pictures Tell Stories.

Pictures do tell stories. But they also conceal things. They hint. They wink. They leave things unsaid. Pictures have layers too.

The Shabbat We Had Been Waiting For

I didn’t think I would write about what happened to us that Shabbat because, frankly, it didn’t make for a pretty picture.

We had been looking forward to that weekend for a long time. We were going to spend Shabbat with some of our closest friends, people we love and admire and had very much wanted to visit.

Friday morning was where I made my mistake. I didn’t need to cook. All I needed to do was stop by the nursery, because I love flowers and apparently cannot enter Shabbat without them. So I decided to treat myself to a little outing by the sea.

I stayed mostly above the shoreline, wandering and thinking, gathering inspiration for future columns. For me, every wave seems to carry a prayer with it. It was hot. Very hot. I could feel the heat, but I drank plenty and bought myself a red popsicle.

On my way back, I remember having one of those private conversations you have with yourself, the kind no one else can hear. “What a happy day I’m having,” I thought. The sea and friends. Jerusalem and Shabbat. Time, place, anticipation, holiness. What more could a Jewish woman ask for?

A Perfect Evening Takes a Turn

The first Shabbat meal was perfect. The food was delicious, the conversation fascinating. There were children, stories of people returning to Judaism, the pride and joy of Torah learning, and the most wonderful cake made by Tamar. After finishing my own piece, I found myself scraping the last remaining crumbs from the pan with a spoon.

At two in the morning, the story took a sharp turn. Very gradually, I began to feel unwell. Then worse. And worse.

I will spare you the details, but about half an hour later, I found myself in an ambulance with my husband, heading to Shaare Zedek Medical Center.

That is where we spent the rest of the night and the entire Shabbat. I was severely dehydrated and thoroughly embarrassed by the whole ordeal. The sea will not be seeing me again anytime soon. That much I can promise.

At the hospital, I was given four bags of intravenous fluids and electrolytes.

Somewhere in the middle of all those long hours in the emergency room, I noticed that my husband was watching a particular family.

Most of the curtained spaces around us were occupied by elderly patients. I think I may have been the youngest person there.

“What are you doing?” I asked my husband.

There are many hours to fill in an emergency room. Hours of worry, gathering strength, and faith. “I’m watching one Haredi family here,” he told me. I could see that he was deeply moved.

“What did you see?”

A Grandfather Surrounded by His Family

Perhaps what he told me will sound completely ordinary to some readers. Perhaps it will seem obvious.

“Most of the elderly people I’ve been watching here came with their Filipino caregivers or another foreign caregiver,” he said. “But there’s one Haredi grandfather here, and ever since we arrived, every few hours another grandson or granddaughter has taken a turn sitting beside him. They sit by his bed and care for him. They say Psalms. They learn Torah. At six in the morning, his daughter arrived. They surround him with love, respect, concern, and prayer.”

My husband asked one of the grandchildren for the family’s name. They were the Bloch family from Bayit Vegan.

A Lesson in Honoring Parents

I want you to know, Bloch family, that you brought tears to our eyes.

Every few minutes, my husband would return to my hospital bed and tell me again how moved he was simply by watching you. By the way you honored your parents and grandparents. By the love and devotion you showed your grandfather.

“Just watching them,” he said, “could inspire a person to return to Judaism.”

The Pictures No One Takes

Those are the kinds of pictures that tell a story.

Not only the polished pictures hanging on a living room wall. Not only the photographs of perfect moments that show us everything beautiful while concealing everything complicated.

Sometimes the picture that matters most is one no one thought to take: an elderly grandfather in an emergency room, a grandson sitting beside him, a granddaughter taking her turn, a daughter arriving at six in the morning. Psalms. Torah. Concern. Prayer. Love.

Pictures like these tell stories too.