My Husband, My Warrior

First published on chabad.org

The last shade of the pink sky faded, and stars began to illuminate the sky. It is Rosh Chodesh. Absolute renewal is Divinely downloaded into my soul.

How can I trust that we can play this game called “normal life” when just one breath ago, just one week ago, I thought this was the end?

The end of us.

The end of you.

The end of all I hold dear and sacred.

The end of my trust in the One above.

Yosef, you wouldn’t speak to me. You lay lifeless on the hardwood floor, depression sucking every smile from your normally glowing face.

The depression raged. I didn’t dare look at you. I couldn’t. I grabbed my yoga mat and fled for the refuge of the studio. I worked out my pain in “child’s pose.” G‑d, why did you give this monster permission to eat my beautiful husband?

I screamed. I prayed. I baked challah. I lit my Shabbat candles and watched the sunset. I said Psalms, I helped others, I got coaching. I put the blue ceramic bowl overflowing with cheesy pasta in front of you. I didn’t give up.

Until I did. My hope died one morning as I grabbed my Tanya to go teach. You lay in bed as you had the last three days with the blanket covering your face. My chest sank with loneliness.

And then, you came home humming today. You used to do that when we first got married. Can I trust this joy?

Why should I heal? Just to break all over again?

But you are the reason I must heal. The reason I must choose to allow this new moment of G‑dly energy to recharge my soul. You are the reason I must release the breath I forgot I was holding.

It was 10 minutes until candle-lighting. I set your Shabbat clothes out for you.

“Sweetie, it’s time to welcome Shabbat.” Your body shook.

“Why should I heal?” you demanded. Rage finally broke your silence. You screamed louder than the sweet pre-Shabbat melodies drifting through the streets. “G‑d, why should I heal just for You to knock me over again?”

I have learned not to answer your pain with intellect.

But there was no spark of wisdom I had to conceal. Your question left me dumbfounded.

I watched as the pain in your body shook you. Bravely, you put on your top coat and laced your black leather shoes.

You did the motions your body knew by rote. The ones your essence—your pintele neshamah—knew would free you. You walked to the synagogue and opened a prayer book; you welcomed Shabbat, covered your eyes and declared G‑d’s unity on your lips. You let your body lead you to make kiddush and wash for bread. Usually, your soul runs with joy to guide your body through this routine. Now your body reminded you gently of your path back to yourself.

You had begun to heal and now it hit me, crumbling the bricks I had neatly stacked around myself. I ran to the forest, tears flowing. G‑d, why do you make my husband suffer like this?

I stared out at the starry night and said “thank you” to clear out the pain. Thank you, for all I will never understand. Thank you, for Yosef’s soul journey. Thank you, despite the fact that it hurts so badly.

Thank you, because I know you love me, and beyond this pain, I know I love you.

Thank you, that I love someone so much, who suffers so deeply.

Today, I dropped my “too busy for you unless you’re in crisis” attitude. I canceled a class and let you be my teacher instead. We hiked and laughed and filled our bottle from the fresh cool stream. Your body, which felt incapable of doing anything, now rushed with excitement to feed the ducks and tell me all about G‑d’s glorious creations.

As I watch you come back to life, I am scared. Why should I live a normal life just for the next wave of depression and anxiety to hijack our home all over again?

No! I tell myself. This is a new month, a new moment in time. The cosmic refresh button has been pressed.

I will remember the silence that filled our home when it was too painful to speak. I will pause and appreciate the miracle that is you. I will thank G‑d for freeing you from that dark prison.

I will remember the compassion I had knowing you were trying your best when your best was putting on tefillin at the last possible moment, just before sunset. I will be compassionate with myself and know every day that I am trying my best, and not pretend to be holy by demanding more of myself than G‑d asks of me.

As your mind is filled with new life and excitement, as your body leaves shock and enters play, I will not be annoyed and shut down ideas that scare my fixed mind.

I will celebrate you.

I will celebrate that G‑d has reopened your creativity.

Trusting that life can be good again is terrifying. Why should I heal? Why should I trust and feel joy for trauma to just resurface as I suffer all over again? But you taught me how to answer that question. Don’t! Don’t answer the fear. Don’t let this question paralyze me. Just take one foot in front of the next.

I don’t need to change my mind, just my physiology. I don’t need to wait for my body to relax. I can put it in a relaxed position and the message will sink in. I don’t need to wait until all the fear melts to laugh at your jokes.

I want to cry and scream at what you went through this month. I want it to be unforgivable. Yet I see you going to the store to buy goat’s milk to make kefir to boost your gut health, as gut health is key to mental health. I see you grab your tefillin bag to join the early-morning minyan, to pray Hallel and sing praise for G‑d.

Here you are, refusing to be defined by your pain. You will not allow this black hole to swallow you.

So, yes, I will scream and dance to your rhythm. The rhythm of a new beat as you set a new tone for your life. Your unwavering determination, not to allow yourself to be defined by the traumas of the innocent child within you.

You are living with the heartbeat of creation. G‑d was, is and will be. G‑d is creating the world constantly in His goodness. G‑d is the ever-present Creator. G‑d is right now, so drum along or lose the rhythm and suffer.

Now. Now. Now. I will drum alongside my hero. My friend, my teacher, my inspiration, my warrior. My husband.

It is a new month. This past month has prepared me to live deeper in each moment. I will embrace the gifts and release the wrapping they came in.

Thank you, G‑d, for teaching me the power of a good moment. Thank you for showing me how to let go of what a good moment must look like and tap into the truth that every moment is good, and how sweet it tastes when I pause to savor it.