Spirituality - My Recovery

by Rebbetzin Feige Twerski

My leg wasn’t the only thing that got shattered that fateful day.

A year and a half ago I was struck by a car during a casual summer walk with a friend. I was fortunate to survive the accident, but my leg was shattered and I needed surgery to reconstruct my leg. Complications followed and, not unpredictably, my recovery has proceeded slowly and sporadically, with many ups and downs. Additionally, the accident had an adverse effect on my immune system, and what might have been ordinary episodes of cellulitis and shingles, turned into prolonged and excruciating ordeals. It is fair to say that the physical residual toll is still being exacted. The post-traumatic emotional scars are less obvious, manifesting themselves in almost imperceptible ways, but are, nonetheless, a reality with which I have to contend.

Life as usual came to a halt. Deadlines to which I was committed had to be abandoned, appointments canceled, and a myriad of other obligations which are generally viewed as non-negotiable, were set aside in deference to healing and recovering. All the must-do’s became irrelevant, non-issues. Slowing down was mandated by a wake-up call, a message sent by Divine providence. This unanticipated respite in the stream of my life provided necessary reflection and contemplation. The following are some of the thoughts and insights born from this experience.

‘God is a fraud’

Parashat Beha’alotecha (Numbers 8:1-12:16)

BY RABBI PAUL KIPNES

In this week’s parasha, Beha’alotecha, Moses faces the fragility of life as he watches his sister, Miriam, struggle with tzara’at, a dangerous skin disease. Overcome with anguish, Moses cries out to God. His five-word prayer, the shortest recorded in the Torah, beseeches the Holy One: El na r’fa na la (O God, please heal her). God hears, and miraculously Miriam is healed (Numbers 12:1-16). For some, this parasha provides comfort that, indeed, our prayers for healing work. And then there are people like Sarah.

Sarah walked into my office, sat in a chair and confessed, “My mother doesn’t know me anymore.” Tears began streaming down her face. I recognized that a while had passed since I had seen her around the synagogue. She continued, “My mother sits in the convalescent home, weeks now after her fall. Her hip is on the mend, but her mind continues to deteriorate. I tell her, ‘Ma, it’s me. Your daughter.’ Sometimes she looks confused. Sometimes she smiles. Then … then it is as if she’s gone. She just doesn’t remember me.”