The Harley and the Chabad House Manny
A Need for Helping Hands
Rain poured on gray old cement; puddles and bigger puddles splashed each other, filling the pavement’s dents and cracks. Tiny apartments huddled together; the buildings didn’t feel proud, and neither did their tenants, but it was a home to live in, to survive until something better came along. Sometimes help comes from the least likely of places; a star was born to help us in our plight to find someone special to care for our most precious gifts and future-our children.
It wasn’t the best neighborhood, but it wasn’t the worst. We placed ourselves fifteen minutes away on foot from our first little Chabad House, not for comfort but by choice; we chose the tiniest apartment that fit our needs, since the expense of both places had to be feasible. Our very prized place, our own little corner to raise the family that separated our homeschooling life, with all that entails with little ones, to allow the fresh start of our tiny ranch to grow and blossom into a real cherished Chabad House.
It’s the life of young mothers, and the details most don’t share: the worry, nerves, and bringing positivity to what might seem- to put it lightly- like pure mundanity. The broad strokes of picturesque moments in day-to-day life with toddlers. It’s having little ones on my skirt at all times, constantly reaching for little hands to make sure everyone was close on our walks, and letting my husband, the Chabad rabbi, be free to help as many community Wisconsinites as he could.
Closing the door, I came back early because it was a rainy day, and this led to someone crying and needing an extra hug. Then it happened: I could hear his Harley motorcycle from miles away, its loud engine whistling with purpose as he zipped to help the rabbi’s kids. Not a thankless job for our Manny (Male babysitter), the man of all trades, but his buddies didn’t always appreciate it. Besides babysitting my kids, he did construction and plumbing, but somehow beshert was beshret, and he carried out his helpful work with great pride and esteemed character. At the time, he was a major help in keeping our little Chabad house running like clockwork.
The clock held time for no one: With our new helping hands, this encouraged our Chabad programming to move into fine-tuned efficiency. Our community wished and demanded that we run our Chabad house like a big-city, well-oiled machine, as if with a million hands, but I saw only my two hands and my husband’s. Regardless, we took on the challenge of making it mimic a big city, yet kept the touch and feel of a small, warm, heimish place that holds each person as if they were the only ones in the whole world who’d matter to us. With this style of community parenting, our Chabad house proudly wore its handmade banner; its specialty was born, and then flourished into its present-day self.
A warm house with a chimney going and a cozy fireplace is how one imagines a good house runs. With three kids under the age of five and a fourth on the way, I began to realize that I needed help to make our little Chabad house -our three-bedroom ranch that we gifted to our community- run with a feel of alacrity and electricity as most should. Living in our 500-square-foot apartment, with barely any room, made it harder to imagine that I am not only a homemaker, a school teacher for my kids, but I’m also the co-director of our Chabad house, and each step needs to fit the balance to help others in need. This includes our Hebrew school, Israeli families, American locals, and tourists for a city of football!
A Rush Back into the Past
These thoughts rushed back as we chose to hire him as our contractor for the construction of the lower floor in our Chabad house, floors being pulled up, the sound of drills, hammers, schlepping, and tools. Half my boys were already out of the house in Yeshivas (Rabbinical school). The other half didn’t need as much mothering and constant attention; instead, they had our homeschooling, art activities, cooking, writing, and time together. Finally, we had a house of our own; seven sons later, we renovated the building and are now adding another floor to create a bigger home for our community’s needs. Although there were times when we somehow missed all the chaos.
I remember right after I had my fourth son, who needed extra food supplements even at two months just to keep his weight up, I wondered what caring mother would want to leave a two-month-old behind at home, even if duty calls? It was a huge challenge: How do I force myself out the door to make sure everything is perfect while I’m gone? It was a relief to feel at peace that we found not only a babysitter but a great second pair of hands in times of serious need.
Raising the Future in 500 sq ft
In our tiny apartment, many nights, so to speak, “I gave my husband to the community” to help build up the Chabad House, a place where doors are always open and a home for all. There were no retakes. Each day, I brought the same positive energy, or so I had hoped, no matter my responsibilities at the Chabad House. That meant cooking, cleaning, bath time, and everything else in between became my job, and I tried to get it all done. However, that didn’t stop because we had programs, classes, Shabbos, and holiday cooking. As we took turns helping the community, it meant leaving the house, where I chose to treat each one of my sons like a prince- my princes- and this babushka (bubby) approach meant things were ten times harder, because I also had a job with very long hours, and walking a slippery tightrope was very important when I was raising the future generation in my five hundred square foot apartment.
We looked everywhere for interviewees, but the rabbi and I just couldn’t find a babysitter or part-time nanny. We needed more hands, but we couldn’t compromise on our fundamentals; our little future rabbis needed to feel like the most important person in the world, no matter how many hours it took to be there as adopted parents to our community. As the Chabad rabbi and rebbetzin, we quickly became everyone’s parents; many depended on us for what seemed like all hours of the night, because the community never stopped needing us. Finding where helping our community ended and our children’s upbringing began was a tall ladder that needed a solid foundation.
Only in Wisconsin did I hear our plumber say, “I could do it.” He said it shyly, but with real, genuine confidence. I thought he was joking. My husband and I looked at each other, then at him, as if for a split second we entertained the possibility of our hired plumber, whose head was peeking out from fixing our sink, in helping us with our precious jewels. It was the mindset, approach, mentality: could he fit the bill? A plumber, construction guy, riding up on his Harley- could he be so gentle, caring, and respectful of our lifestyle to make this work?
After plenty of interviews, we chose to try him out and watch how he interacted with our children. As a father of four, he’d been a stay-at-home dad for some time, and we quickly noticed he fit the bill. As usual, the structure of our requests was sheepishly asked, for it was always, “We don’t want to bother you, but can you watch them for today, or tonight, or just for a few hours?”
Sure! Was his response, and he quickly added, “I’ll make it work out somehow.”
This approach helped me get comfortable with working harder in our new Chabad house, allowing me to pry myself away from my young children. It seemed almost impossible, but it had to happen. In our shlichus, as Chabad emissaries, we were the Jewish experience for 100s of miles around, because there was no Chabad around for hours in each direction. Well, soon after, our babysitter started helping with the kids, and then more followed: My first time taking over the Chevra kadisha here, and the many classes, book club, ladies’ programming, and much more, and all the while he was there to be a part of the helping. He understood that I wanted the choice to have my sons be a part of certain things, rather than my sons having no choice and being a part of all my activities. In remote locations, where Chabad houses are rare, we walk this circus like a tightrope to try to make sure that neither the adopted community nor our princes, our children, lose out.
Don’t Judge a Book By Its Cover
It happened once when I noticed that next to our little apartment, our neighbors became a rowdy, louder crowd. As a young mom of four, this became difficult until one day our manny came zooming past on his Harley and parked right in front of our little apartment. The shocked look when he came inside our home and helped with the kids and our Jewish lifestyle shows the true meaning of don’t judge a book by its cover. But the magic worked! The neighbors became more tolerable, quieter, and respectful.
When couples go out, one is always told that the Rebbe’s energy and watchfulness are still going out with us in our place of shlichus, in setting up a Chabad house. The question is: who will take care of your children? How will you raise them and give them what they need when you are always needed to help raise a community? How will they be Chassidishe, kind, caring, and feel loved in such a place so far from New York?
We were moving to a bigger apartment because a 500-square-foot apartment just couldn’t house two adults and four little children. However, our new apartment, although bigger, wasn’t much better; our living room by day became our bedroom by night, and we somehow made it work. It was so important for kids to have a school environment, dressed in uniform, with desks, set hours, and the rabbi and I teaching them. Even for such a small group, it was the only way to keep it on a set schedule, because adults and kids thrive on routine. After school, they needed a place to sit, play, and relax together. That was an important part of the day, even when I was still busy helping others.
Wait, stop! Our Manny cried out, “We almost crushed his little toy; he would never forgive me if his toy truck got smashed.” Yup, he was also helping us move, and even so, as hectic as things were, he knew how important each little toy, chair, and book was to my children.
As Rosh Hashanah comes near, and our babysitter-construction worker fixes our new Chabad House, I think about what still needs to be done, with my oldest, almost twenty, focusing on his spiritual preparation for the Yom Tov, and my other sons following suit. But nostalgia: I remember that whenever we needed it, Hashem sends his angels to help us in our time of need. Our manny, like an overprotective babushka (Russian grandmother), made sure my children were taken care of back then and still helps us, as many other helpers and angels come our way. As one chapter closes and another clearly begins, it’s important to find the puzzle pieces that help create the journey’s remarkable path.