A Letter of Integrity

A Letter of Integrity 

A letter of integrity pried open the Pandora’s box. Fireworks of explosions shot at me from all directions. I was on the chopping block; the firing squad stood as my neighbor. There was nowhere I could hide, let alone think of how to fix this. Who can help me out of this? 

A Maze of Confusion

What to do? What to think? Which way to turn?  Which way to go? I couldn’t sort my thoughts. What was up seemed down, and what was down seemed up. It was being caught in a maze. It was like the deepest of fog at dusk in the middle of a blizzard; the path ahead seemed narrow. For the first time in as long as I could remember, my close friend and confidant did not agree with my stance with a congregant. I knew that friends could have differing opinions, but this hurt! 

We were always like two peas in a pod and shared our stories with each other, hoping to see clarity and comfort when something happened in our respected communities. We needed the wisdom to understand how to approach each person in the gentlest of ways. This time, though, it was like she, my close friend, was disappointed in my approach. This concept of her not agreeing with something so close to me felt like this was emotional whiplash or a deep-seated rejection when, in reality, it was a strong breeze on a cold summer’s day coming from a place of warmth and care. 

A Bold Choice

That Friday night, in hopes of hearing a fresh, new perspective. I dared to share my troubled thoughts with another friend who was staying over. What was the right choice? She had never heard of this congregant’s story, and even though I never shared names, this was a unique story, so I shared with her what happened to my congregant and her family without too much detail or names.   

I told myself that I had written to my congregant a letter of integrity, clarity for her, and perhaps that check mark that goes deeper than a rebbetzin to her congregant, a check mark as a target board to focus closer to a special friend. This checkmark contrasted with others, marking a point that needed to be honed in on, for I did everything I could to help her. I spent deep introspection and a goodbye to our personal friendship, for this bold move could change the course of our relationship, but honestly, it was the only way to truly help her and her family. 

It was a hard decision, one that I wrestled my conscience with, but I knew this was the only move that felt right, that felt necessary, that felt to me as her rebbetzin an enormous obligation to do. I had to interfere; I had to sow the seeds of doubt. To instill the doubt that everything was not okay in her new life – a life that can never be complete without G-d, her Jewish community, and her extended Chabad family. Chiding myself of the desire to not go through with this and Reminding myself of what I stood for, a phrase I like to live by, “What’s best isn’t always comfortable, and what’s comfortable isn’t always best.”  

I had to unfollow the cardinal rule of never putting oneself between a couple and a family and choose to put myself between this couple and her family. This family took themselves from their Jewish community and claimed to be very observant, but in reality, the father seemed to be a narcissist. To top it off, he was caught up in his own struggle with what his Judaism meant to him. He enjoyed being the rule of law; rather than being a piece of the puzzle to the Jewish community family, he took his family an hour from our community to isolate them. 

The family is now alone and isolated, vulnerable to the vultures of the times in those who want to convert Jews, with no friends in sight and just the father’s mixed-up teachings to inspire them. To truly help them, I had to get over my desire to appease them and instead uplift them from the deep tunnel they were digging themselves into, which would be a greater hardship in the long term to pull themselves out. 

Reminiscing of the other night I witnessed an electric Farbrengen, a night of community brotherhood, new buds of friendship boldly unearthed matching the bright moon, and my feelings relaxed after a good night that ended with emotional fireworks. Today deeply contrasted its night’s elixir, and what usually is the night’s shadow of the day became the opposite; even with the brightly lit sun beaming proudly through the windows, it was still noticeably slow-moving. 

This morning, my eyes needed training wheels to accept the letter on the computer screen. Replaying the written conversation, I had said my usual “hello, and I’m looking forward to class.” For this dear congregant of mine, I had struggled to get her involved in anything Jewish from the get-go, even though she told me she and her family were very “Frum,” observant in the faith. Rather than acting observant, they barely touched on what Jewish culture asks of them: “Don’t separate oneself from the community.”

 Jews, religious or non, are all about community. It helps keep a person and a family in check, where the husband can’t act like a hierarchy, but rather, the family works as a unit and receives outside influence in one’s community. For example, if one needs advice from a friend, the rabbi, or an elderly community member, all help each other. This circle of Jewish community input has always kept Judaism strong. 

The Response

I had taken a double-take. I read it and re-read it again. I had to read it a few times to make sure I understood her words correctly.  As I trained myself in all things hurtful and sad, I had to wait out the moment.

 The moment was too tragic to tangibly hold in my hand, let alone my mind to give claim to it and absorb it. My only choice was to keep it in a so-called folder- a locked box in my head- and select it when ready, too. My tears, though, fell, flowing down my face, for I understood the reaction was far greater and troublesome than I ever could imagine. I struggled; it was such a great day, but I had a choice and a decision to make: do I be quiet? I was realizing that when this congregant was saying to me that her kids and their family are no longer part of anything Jewish through the telltale signs of her husband holding on by a thread of practicing his faith, and she herself having gone through a terrible personal tragedy, and sadly, it seems that she, too, never recovered. 

My inner question, my beating heart, so to speak, was how do you even talk to someone, to begin with, who is very emotional and sensitive? They are almost certainly putting their kids into the public school system. Here, it is very religious and Christian. This aura that they protrude- not wanting to be a part of any kind of community- in itself stems not from a Jewish perspective but from a goyishe outlook. These were red flags held as flares like one would escort a plane to land on a runway, but I didn’t pick up on the cues until now. Perhaps it was my stubborn heart that always wanted to wish for the best and hope that all was well.

I had to write this letter; it was a letter of goodbye. I  sat down and struggled to figure out the right words; what does a rebbetzin say to a congregant, knowing that they are saying goodbye? How do you ever say goodbye? Whether a five-second congregant or, in this case, one whom I’ve known for years. 

However, I thought to myself, sighing, that she was one of my special congregants: a dear friend, like one of my girls, a daughter that I never had. She made a firm decision: she chose that she didn’t want to climb up the ladder. Each step and word I wrote had to be an accounting, and each word had to have a place in such a letter. Searching for the right words, I understood her not wanting to learn anymore. 

Each congregant has their personal journey, even though you realize that it’s a letter of goodbye. It’s one thing if the congregants didn’t grow up observant; it’s another if you know that they were always very much a part of some Jewish community. Some people come to our neck of the woods and get “lost.” Here, it’s like out of sight, out of mind. To choose to live almost an hour away from anything Jewish, it began to gnaw at me, what’s going to be?

I can’t just write a very passive, nonconfrontational letter. It’s so easy to do; it’s so much better if I didn’t want to break open the Pandora’s box. I hated confrontation! But what’s the best thing? Perhaps it won’t be comfortable this time, and I won’t remember what comfortable means for a long while.  

Her family was not coming to anything at all, even Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur, and this encouraged me to press “send.” Sometimes, to certain congregants who are not ready to be a part of anything, one just says, “okay.” But, in times such as this one, each word put down has to be weighed and measured. I have to see what is right to be said. A good moment I took is to send a letter into the Ohel, the Lubavitcher Rebbe resting place, to see what would be best to say. 

I thought of the Chabad community’s public letters where the Lubavitcher Rebbe had expected his Chassidim to work harder and put the effort in, rather than a regular person who came to see him for dollars that just wasn’t on that page. At the same time, he did it with love, care, and respect. If I commit to this letter with integrity, then all the way around, I will be at peace with it. 

It’s hours and hours of love and care that go into the love for every single one of G-d’s creations. Each person matters; each person is special. As shluchim, each one goes out and does the best that one can; they even do the impossible, especially what one feels is the impossible for them. I was losing the relationship temporarily to help her family fly again. Everything that they needed was no walk in the park, and it would take lots of effort, love, and care. Rolling up my sleeves, I prepped myself and readied myself to press “send.” Then, realizing all what’s at stake, I finally did, and sent out my letter of integrity.