When purpose finds you

When I received the midweek call for a Shabbat Bris, I didn’t feel my normal rush of excitement. For the past few months, I’ve had events away from home every other Shabbat. I felt tired and was longing for a low-key weekend. And like all the recent time I’ve spent away, my family would be unable to join me. I feared a lonely 26 hours.

The family who brought me to Mitzpeh Yericho for their Simcha is large and boisterous, much like mine. The father of the baby is one of eight siblings, the majority of whom already have children of their own. Everyone squeezed into the grandparents’ home for all the meals where the conversation and laughter filled the space.

At one point during the Friday night meal, someone asked the baby’s great grandfather, “Are we Kurdish or Persian?” He responded, “We’re Kurdish Persians”. He then detailed a brief history of Iran and how the country was divided into different smaller states, thus giving them their multiple identities.

After the meal, small blue books were distributed and the “Brit Yizthak” began. Everyone prayed for the baby’s well-being in the upcoming Bris. The ceremony concluded with “Lichvod Hemdah,” a beautiful piyut often sung at happy occasions. I thanked the family both for the warm meal and for my first full rendition of the song. I was not raised Sefardi, and during its recitation at a Bris, I am usually arranging my tools and unable to fully participate.

The following day’s Simcha was held after Shabbat morning services. The synagogue was packed with attendees who filled the sanctuary with their own raucous rendition of “Lichvod Hemdah” to start things off. The great grandfather was honored with Sandak and held the newborn as he came into the covenant.

As is Sefardi tradition, the moment the Bris ended, a line formed for the Sandak to give blessings to all interested parties. But it didn’t end there. Each person went from the Sandak, straight to me, the mohel, for an additional blessing. It felt like I blessed people for hours.

When the line finally dissipated, a full-bearded man stood in front of me. He began to speak to me in English, which I hadn’t heard since I left home. “You’re one of the only people I’ve ever seen wear gloves for a Brit Milah who actually keeps some semblance of sterility.”

At first, I assumed he was a doctor but as our back and forth continued, I sensed this gentleman was actually a mohel. “Why didn’t you do this Bris?” I asked. As it turns out, he was also visiting for Shabbat and only happened upon the shul by the grace of God. “I performed 2,000 Britot in Lakewood, but since I made Aliyah, I’m no longer practicing.” He added: “‘What do Americans know about Brit Milah?’ is what everyone told me.”

When Shabbat ended and I was packing to leave, I noticed my cell phone was dead. It hadn’t been charging over the holiday. I figured it would come back to life once I plugged it into the car, but no such luck. I had to start my drive blind. I didn’t know how reliant I’d become on Waze. I wasn’t sure I’d even get out of the Yeshuv, let alone all the way home. It was a strange sensation to actually read the highway signs. 

About 20 minutes into the drive, as I was thinking back on all I had just experienced, my phone lit up. I feverishly turned on Waze just before things got complicated. That’s when I realized what the trip had really been about. For a moment, before I embarked on this journey, I was a bit lost. I had forgotten how blessed I am to serve in this capacity — not only to meet and help such wonderful families, but also because there are some who’d happily take my place. I needed a reminder that God always has a plan, even though sometimes it’s hard to see.