Newcastle is the most magnificent city. And one particular clear night, as I picked my way through the dark shrubbery, and carefully descended the dark path towards the water, the beauty was not lost on me. The radiance of the moment coupled with the absurdity of the situation tickled the humour inside me.
It was mid-2021, and Australia was taking Covid-19 extremely seriously. There were strict laws in place about when and how one could leave their homes, even just to take a walk. Grocery shopping? Better sign in at the front so any potential outbreaks could be traced back to the individual! Roadways were shut to limit exposure from state to state.
Which all meant that my usual, challenging, two-hour drive to mikvah was no longer an option. I thought I knew exactly what we’d be facing when we moved to Newcastle. A modern day break-the-ice-to-dip kind of moment? Not what I signed up for! I was willing to drive or fly anywhere for the mitzvah, but the airport was shuttered and roads blocked.
With the guidance of several rabbis, we found an alternative - to use the local beach’s natural pool. So there I stood, watching a beautiful, full moon illuminating the water.
The scene was so beautiful and serene and despite the fact that the tide was rising and I had only minutes to finish before I risked being washed away by the growing waves, it felt so spiritual and right.
Despite how beautiful the setting was, it was still chaotic as I tried not to be swept away by the increasingly ferocious waves, and also to remember to focus on doing the mitzvah properly.
As I leapt back out of the water, I realised I hadn’t had those moments to pray, not even said one tefilla. I quickly threw a, Hashem, you put me here in this situation, and anyways You know better than I do what I need, so please, hear those unsaid tefillos and clambered back up to the car. But, as the adrenaline subsided, I was worried that my hurried, one-size-fits-all tefilla wasn’t good enough.
Several weeks later, to our utter shock and delight, we found out I was pregnant. It had not been an easy road, and we’d suffered much loss and grief. To me, it was Hashem’s biggest hug. A reassurance that the mesiras nefesh of going to mikvah on time, following the guidance of the Rabbonim, was exactly what I was supposed to do. A nod that my unsaid tefillos had been heard, and answered.
I couldn’t wait for the epic conclusion of this inspirational tale, my cherubic rainbow baby.
A couple of months later, as I waited for the Friday night meal to begin, I sighed a content sigh, and gratefully placed a hand on my growing belly. Our rainbow baby growing inside of me, finally approaching a gestation that perhaps would let me let go of that breath I’d been holding since we found out we were expecting. In the quiet, the cold tentacles of dread gripped my heart, tight and fast. When was the last time I felt the baby move?
I’d done this a thousand times before this pregnancy. Every small inconsistency made me fearful. I was triggered by everything. But I was right. For once in my life, I pleaded in my head that I was wrong.
On erev Chanukah, the doctor confirmed that our sweet rainbow baby had died in utero. We went from finalizing our Chanukah events to scheduling an induction. The pain of our loss was amplified by the lost opportunities to do what we were here to do: spread light.
While regional shlichus is lonely at the best of times, it’s amplified to a whole new level by loss and grief. We flew to Melbourne to bury our little baby and were wholeheartedly embraced by the community. They gave us all the love, support, delivered meals, and friendship we so desperately needed to heal.
When we flew back home, the gaping chasm in our hearts was a little bit less vast.
Baruch Hashem, we were blessed with another miracle - our precious baby boy, Yehuda.
