By Rabbi Y.Y. Jacobson
A number of years ago, I was invited to a kumtzitz for teenagers one Motzei Shabbos in Pomona, a neighborhood near Monsey. These were boys who’d generally be categorized as struggling teenagers and were studying in a particular yeshiva which provided the kind of warm environment and camaraderie they sought.
There they were, about forty of them, sitting around a fire pit. Guitars, drums, some other instruments, roasted marshmallows, hot dogs and hamburgers abounded, as the boys sang several uplifting melodies. There was a majestic and magical energy between us all. I had been invited to join them and spend the evening together, sharing some words, and I was taking it all in.
In the middle of one song, a boy came over to me. He put his chair right near me and put his hand on my shoulder, as you can picture friends sitting around a campfire. He then said these words: “Rabbi YY, why did my mother die?”
I didn’t expect such a question. I looked back at him, caught off guard, and said, “I’m sorry, when did she die?” “When I was eleven years old, nine years ago. We had a family of eleven children. I was one of the older kids, with many siblings under me. We were living in London when she got cancer and passed away. She was a young woman in her forties. Tell me, why did my mother die? I was so close to her. I loved her and she loved me. She was such a good mother.”
“I’m So Sorry”
I looked at him, as my hand went on his shoulder. “I don’t know why your mother died,” I said. “I’m so sorry.” But the boy wouldn’t have it that easy. “C’mon, tell me why! Why did she have to die?” I looked back at him. “I really don’t know. But I would love to be here with you. It must be so painful. Nine years later you talk about it, and yet I can’t give you an answer. But you know what? I can sing with you, I can cry with you, and I can listen to you.” He started to cry, I started to cry, and we sang together. He didn’t say another word after that.
About twenty minutes later, he turned to me with tears in his eyes, again. “You know, you’re the first one from dozens of people who said that they don’t know. And this was the answer that I’ve been waiting a decade for.”
You Were the First to Say, ‘I Don’t Know, But I Can Cry with You’”
I wasn’t sure I understood. “What do you mean ‘this is the answer’?”
“I went to so many people,” he continued, “and everybody, and with good intentions, tried to explain to me some reason why my mother had died—whether it be relating to a gilul, neshama, gan eden, kapparah (atonement), tikkun—and it drove me mad. To me, it felt insensitive to my experience, even if they meant well. You were the first one to say, ‘I don’t know, but I can cry with you.’”
I realized at that moment how transformative those words had been for that boy. And indeed, this boy not only turned his life around, but became a powerhouse of inspiration and love for so many others.
Indeed, sometimes the right words, the right answer is, “I don’t know, but I can cry with you.” Those words say it all. They really do.
Reprinted from the Parashat Emor 5784 edition of the TorahAnyTime Newsletter. Edited and compiled by Elan Perchik.
