The Short Vort
Good Morning!
Today is Thursday the 27th of Adar 5781 and March 11, 2021
The Light at the End of the Tunnel
It has been a very long and painful year.
We all suffered during the pandemic.
There were funerals and dozens of family members, relatives, loved ones, and Shul members who struggled with the novel coronavirus.
As I look back at the last fifteen months, it still seems so surreal to me.
The shul was closed for four months.
I did not attend a Minyan beginning from Parshas Parah until two weeks after Shavuos.
Shiurim in person became a faint memory, and I had to make do with grainy images on my sometimes unreliable computer connecting to something known as Zoom.
I learned an entirely new vocabulary over the last year, from learning how to spell coronavirus to understanding what was so "novel" about this lethal pathogen.
Terms such as social distancing and masking became part of my lexicon, and I lived in fear of this hitherto unknown virus.
Unfortunately, I, too, was eventually smitten with the infection during Succos.
And although my case was mild compared to others, the lingering fatigue still plagues me.
Yet, perhaps the most painful part of the virus, which only now, as the world begins to reopen, do I realize, was the loneliness.
As more people are vaccinated, and people are beginning to meet unmasked and unsocially distant, I realize how incredibly and painfully lonely I was.
Right before the world closed down last March, I had redone my office.
I renovated my office with a new stylish carpet and two new chairs for you and your spouse to sit on.
I was proud of how clean and fresh my office looked. I even purchased a small candy dish and placed sugar-free candies on my desk to make visitors feel more comfortable.
And then the world came crashing down.
I was only able to transfer a tiny part of my workload to the computer to work virtually.
After all, my work is interacting with people.
I continued to come into my office every day at 7 in the morning, and I remained until 10 or 11 at night.
Often I stared at the empty, pristine-never-sat-on-chairs and wondered if they would ever be used.
I would sit in my office alone in a building that once pulsated with the sounds of over a thousand people.
I would sometimes wander the halls of the massive edifice during the day, which felt eerily desolate.
Often when I would enter the Main Shul, I thought I was hearing the sweet sounds of davening, but, alas, the room was empty.
No large social functions which were so indispensable for maintaining congregational morale were happening.
At times I felt so forsaken and abandoned that I would cry alone in the privacy of my new, unused office.
Virtually, I would send out messages, doing my utmost to maintain the illusion of calmness and serenity.
I would assure everyone that we would all be back soon, while inside, I suffered painful inner turmoil.
At the rare times, I met someone on the street, and I was lucky enough to recognize them under their masks, they would compliment me on my rock-solid inner tranquility. When they would walk away, I could only mutter to myself, "If they only knew the truth."
With Hashem's help, the pandemic will hopefully soon fade into the past, and our masks will be happily discarded.
As that day looks closer and closer, I must remember to dust off the new chairs in my office.
After all, I have company coming, and I can hardly wait to greet you face to face.
"If Not Now, Then When?"- Hillel
Ron Yitzchok Eisenman
Rabbi, Congregation Ahavas Israel
Passaic, NJ
