A Chasidic rabbi walks into our house….
Sounds like the beginning of a joke, right? Actually, it’s quite the opposite.
I had asked our local Chabad rabbi, a friend whose home we have been to for Shabbat dinner on many occasions, to come and check the mezuzah on our front door.
For those who may not know, a mezuzah is a small parchment scroll inscribed with Hebrew verses from the Torah, placed inside a decorative case. It is affixed to the front doorpost of Jewish homes and, in many traditional Jewish homes, to almost every doorway in the house (bathrooms are excused) as a symbol of protection. In what felt like an act of desperation, I asked the Rabbi to check ours because of a story I remembered from my childhood, passed down from one of my grandmother’s friends.
The story tells of a boy who suddenly became very sick, struck with paralysis clear out of the blue. One day he was running and playing with his friends; the next he was unable to get out of his bed or move his legs. For weeks, doctors racked their brains trying to figure out what was wrong with him, to no avail. Finally, someone thought to check the mezuzahs that had been placed in the doorways of the family’s home. Lo and behold, they found that one of them was cracked or the parchment had slipped out or the paint had chipped off. Okay, the details are sketchy but the bottom line was that the mezuzah wasn’t protecting the family because it wasn’t whole anymore.
Long story short, the broken mezuzah was replaced with a brand new, Rabbi-approved mezuzah, the family said a few prayers, and the boy was miraculously and instantaneously cured. Even as a 9-year old, I knew that this story was about as likely to be true as the tale of the towering Paul Bunyan and his blue ox, Babe.
But it turns out that when you have your own sick boy, you reach for even the tallest of tales in hopes of finding a miracle.
Our son’s blood disorder was diagnosed about six and a half months ago. Late last June, he received a 4-day intensive treatment in the hospital and has been undergoing immunosuppressive therapy since then, including a dozen pills each day and weekly platelet transfusions. We were told that a response to the treatment could take three to six months, which meant that I didn’t really have to start worrying until late September. A failure to respond to the treatment could mean a bone marrow transplant for our boy.
Late September came and went with no response. It was early, I reasoned. Most people on my group message boards didn’t see a response until months four or five.
Another month passed. Late October, we celebrated his tenth birthday. There was pizza and presents and tickets to go see Frozen on Broadway. But no response to the treatment, the only gift any of us really wanted.
It is now about five months post-treatment. We are still within the window for a response, but as each week passes, my anxiety level rises. For some reason, I recalled the story about the mezuzah and mentioned it to a friend recently. She remembered the same story from her childhood; I hadn’t realized it was the stuff of Jewish urban legend. I felt embarrassed as I wondered aloud if perhaps we should get our mezuzah checked too, just in case the story was true. I figured she’d tell me I was nuts. Instead, she encouraged me to call the Rabbi. It couldn’t hurt, she reasoned. And why not look for miracles, anywhere they might possibly be hiding?
Which is how a Chabad Rabbi wound up at my house last Sunday. He knew about our son’s situation, and we agreed that we wanted ¨the works:¨ mezuzahs on each doorway–even the large closets– in our home. I felt like I was buying an insurance policy, and maybe I was. We started at the front door, to check the one mezuzah that we already had. It was, indeed, cracked. An old Leonard Cohen lyric flashed through my mind.
“There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.”
And maybe some hope, too.
As my family gathered around the front door, we said a prayer over our brand new front door mezuzah. Then, we marched to each doorway in our home and affixed all the mezuzahs, some with nails, some with double-sided sticky tape. We followed the custom of hanging the mezuzahs one-third the way down the right doorposts, slanting them in towards the room. Fifteen mezuzahs and several hundred dollars later (for the mezuzahs; the Rabbi would not take money for his time) our house somehow felt more stable, and I felt calmer than I had in a while.
Our mezuzah was broken, just like in the tale I had heard as a child. As crazy as it sounds, a part of me wondered if repairing ours would yield the same miraculous turnaround as it did him. We will do anything to help our child get better, even something that feels totally absurd.
But the more rational part of me saw the crack as a reminder to let faith in. Besides doctors and medicine, there is room for believing in something bigger, for making room for prayer and spirituality and even far-fetched stories about miracles. The act of replacing our mezuzah was an act of faith, and doing it felt good.
I plan to be the batty old lady recounting my own miraculous story to my grandkids one day.
Please consider joining the National Bone Marrow Registry if you are between the ages of 18 and 44. You could save a life!
Dear Lisa,
You are so gifted,not just as a writer, but as an exceptional mother,wife, teacher, daughter, sister, cousin, leader and friend! We are so lucky be have you and your family in our lives. Rest assured that we are sending daily prayers your way. Of course we are all excited to see you soon and spoil you- know who! ( names and places kept vague intentionally for your privacy ! Hugs, Cousin Gail