The Maggid of Bergenfield

Va-eyra: Getting the Boot

Shemot: 7:3, 8:11

Rebecca loved her shoes. All of them.

She wished it were otherwise. In theory, she didn't want an entire closet stacked with shelf upon shelf upon shelf of fine leather footwear. But each pair was beautiful in its own way, or reminded her of a particular day, or a wondrous event, or a magnificent sale. And as much as she wanted to glean her shoe collection, she couldn't bring herself to do it. Such memories.

Those Capezio satin pumps, with the killer three inch heels? She wore those to Sandy's daughter's wedding.

The Bandolino sling back sandles, with the cutsie bows? She wore those on the vacation getaway to Palm Beach, just her and Don.

The DKNY patent leather flats? Those would always remind her of the weekend in Boston, when Carly  went for her Brandeis college interview.

And the Enzo Angiolini suede mules? Those will forever be associated in her mind with that killer sale at Nordstroms. What a steal.

But with the economy the way it was, and her lack of further storage space for her babies, Rebecca had imposed a moratorium on any more shoe purchases. Don was certainly in agreement. After all, the man had only five pairs of shoes in the entire world. He was such a Neanderthal.

Rebecca was in Macy's to pick up pajamas for her son Mark. His old flannels had holes in them, and he was growing so fast his jammies were practically up to his knees. She had to cut through the shoe department to get to the escalator, and besides, it doesn't cost anything to look.

There they were.

It wasn't a dream. The boots were just sitting there, right on the shelf. Like no one else had seen them yet. Jet black, Steve Madden pointy-toed, knee high boots, with three inch heels, a suede upper, and side-zip closure. And in her size.

She would try them on, just for fun.

Perfect.

It wouldn't hurt to look at the price tag.

Rebecca looked both ways to make sure no one was watching and turned over the boot to take a peek.

Oh no.

There was no way.

Was it a mistake?

Who cares? If Macy's wanted to be robbed blind, who was she to argue?

She was in and out of the checkout line in less than a minute. It was so easy. Just a swipe of her credit card--a simple flick of her wrist-- and they were hers, all hers. Just wait until she told her friend Lizzie. She was going to die of jealousy.

Rebecca went to her car and drove home. Mark would get his pajamas another day. He didn't care any way. If it were up to him, he would sleep every night in his tidy whities.

She didn't tell Don about the boots. Why should she? It was a free world, and on most budgetary issues, she was quite fiscally conservative. Shoes were another matter, of course, but hey, nobody's perfect. Rebecca knew that Don sneaked frequent Hershey bars, and the man had high cholesterol, for goodness sake. Who was he to give her a hard time about self-control?

Friday night Rebecca slipped them on, zipped them up, and wore them to shabbat dinner. They felt so good, like a natural extension of her skin. Everyone came home from shul, pulled off their coats and took their seats at the table. Rebecca tried to be nonchalant.

"Wow, Mom, nice boots." Darn. Carly gave her away.

"What boots?" Don asked. She could already hear the pain in his voice.

"Oh, these? I've had them for years."

"Nice try, Becks, but I'm not buying it."

"No, really." She felt like a child.

"I saw the Macy's box in the bedroom."

"Oh, that. I can explain."

Don sighed. "What are we going to do with you?"

"You know, Dad," Mark said. "Mommy is just like Pharoh in this week's parsha."

"Great, now I'm not only suffering from a shoe obsession, but I'm like the king who enslaved the Jews?"

"What are you talking about, Mark?"

"Well, in Va-eyra, Hashem tells Moshe that he is going to harden Pharoh's heart so that he doesn't let the Jews leave Egypt, even though the Egyptians suffered through all the plagues. Rabbi Weiner suggested that Hashem would never take away Pharoh's free will to make his own decisions, but that Pharoh developed an obsession with enslaving the Jews, and the more desperate the situation became, the more it took hold of him. It was a personality flaw that he couldn't stop. G-d didn't force him to resist liberating the Jewish people, but He knew what would happen based on Pharoh's unique personality."

"Very interesting, Mark."

"Thanks. And Mom is the same way."

"I know I'm not going to like this..."

"Her heart is hardened against resisting shoe purchases. She is obsessed with shoe buying, even if it leads to her eventual downfall."

"Or the downfall of our family or the entire Jewish people," Don added.

"Or even the whole world!" Carly added.

"That's quite enough," Rebecca said.

"Well, it's true," Don said. "You have a hardened heart, hardened like shoe leather."

"I can change. The Israelites were eventually given permission by Pharoh to leave Egypt."

"Yes, after Makat Bechorot, the Plague of the First Born," Mark observed.

"I hope it doesn't go that far," Don said.

"Yes, but G-d let Pharoh have free will, so I have free will as well. I can choose to stop."

"I suppose it's possible," Don admitted.

"So then I'm stopping. No more shoes for the rest of the year."

"I'll believe it when I see it," Don said.

"And I'll even return these magificent boots."

"I'm impressed," Don said.

Tears were welling in Rebecca's eyes. She tried not to cry.

"O.K., O.K. Keep the boots. You can start tomorrow."

"You're the greatest, Honey."

"Free will at its best," Mark observed.

No one knew what to say to that, so they made kiddush and began the shabbat  meal.

Shemot: The Car Light That Was Not Consumed

Based on a true story

 

Shemot: 3: 1-4

It was a chance occurence.

Michael went outside to take out the garbage. He passed by his car every time he went to the trash cans, on the side of the house. But this time was different.

Friday night was always a momentous evening in the Brandeis house, the biggest of the week. The shabbat meal was a serious affair. Sure, there was the recitation of Kiddush and the singing of Shalom Aleichem and Eishet Chayil. If all went well, each child would tell over a dvar Torah about that week's parsha, and some zemirot might be sung. But along with the shabbat reverie came the big meal, and Chana was an excellent cook. Matzoh ball soup. Potato kugel.  Mushroom chicken. Mommy's special rice. It was quite a spread.

And with an amazing shabbat seudah comes an amazing amount of garbage. Michael was in charge of cleaning up after the meal, and the final act of cleaning was taking out the garbage. The bag was usually overstuffed with the remains of the family gathering, and tonight was no exception.

It was a very cold night in Teaneck, and Michael was not savoring going outside. Still, it had to be done. A blast of cold air struck him in the face as he opened the front door. Probably the Crocs with no socks was a bad choice of footwear, but it was too late to turn back now. As he passed his car in the driveway, he saw something he wished he hadn't. The interior dome light was on.

"Oh, great."

Now he remembered. He had turned on the light over his head at the gas station that afternoon, to scrutinize a receipt he had found on the passenger seat. Had he remembered to turn it off? Apparently not. Now it was shabbat, and there was nothing he could do about it.

He stuffed the garbage bag into the can and turned back toward the house. The light still burned brightly in his car, clearly visible through the Honda's windshield. Michael knew what it meant. The car battery would be dead by the end of shabbat. Now he would need to haul out the jumper cables Saturday night and jump start the Civic from the minivan. It would be cold, it would be unpleasant, and it had to be done.

"Just what I needed," Michael muttered under his fog-forming breath.

The next morning, Michael got up for davening, had his cup of tea, and then bundled up for his trek to shul. On his way, he put his gloved hands to the glass and peered in the car window.

The light was still burning bright, with an otherwordly glow through the frosted glass.

"Hmmm, there's something you don't see everyday." Still, it was another eight hours until shabbat was over. The battery would never last that long.

He didn't check the car when he got home from synagogue. He was too focused on the hot, steaming chulent that was waiting for him inside. But when went back out for his walk to shul for Mincha, Michael eyed his car from the front steps suspiciously. Dare he check? Yes, dare he did.

Still lit. "Wow, I'm impressed," Michael said to himself. "I should call the Honda dealer and tell him. That's quite a battery."

But would the car start after shabbat? That was probably asking too much.

The candle from Havdalah was barely extinguished when Michael rushed outside, key in hand, to check on his car. Would it start? Could it start? Stranger things have happened, but not much.

Sure enough, the light was still on in the Civic. He popped the key in the ignition and turned it to the right.

"Dear G-d, let this work."

There was no hesitation. The Honda roared to life in moments.

"Fantastic."

Michael sat behind the steering wheel, amazed at his good fortune. In a way, his Honda kind of reminded him of that week's parsha. The night before, his eighth grader, Zvi, had given a dvar Torah about the burning bush. Moshe is a shepherd in the wilderness, and he goes over to check out a thorn bush that just keeps on burning.

The Torah states: vehiney hasneh bo-er ba-esh, vehasneh aynenu ookal. The bush was burning with fire, but the bush was not consumed.

Zvi suggested that Hashem communicated with Moshe through a thornbush, because He chose to communicate with man through the humblest of trees. And surely there was no more humble car than his seven-year-old Civic.

Zvi also said that G-d chose the thornbush to show that there is no where in the world without the Divine Presence, not even a small bush. Could the Divine Presence be in his Honda, an old Japanese import? Why not?

The burning bush was a small miracle that began the entire story of yetziat mitzrayim, the exodus from Egypt. It showed that anything was possible. Maybe the Honda miracle was a sign of great miracles to come, or at least good things in his life that were on the horizon.

Michael pulled out the car key and closed the door to his car. He patted his car fondly and turned toward the house. He would keep his thoughts about the miracle of the Honda to himself. Chana and the kids wouldn't understand.

Just before he entered the front door, Michael stopped.  Maybe it would be a good idea to go back to the car and shut off the dome light. Small miracles aside, he probably shouldn't push his luck.