November/December 2009

Finding Peace in the Eye of the Storm

It’s amazing how our lives can suddenly turn upside down in an instant. It was a normal and bright spring morning, just a few days after Purim, the holiday of life upside down, of God seemingly hidden yet present. I was on my way to work, like any other day. The blur began with my cell phone ringing. My wife, Batya, was calling about my eight-year-old daughter. “Meirav’s really sick. She’s having trouble breathing. She’s screaming in pain…” And then suddenly, the cell phone got cut off. Images in my memory become disjointed after that. Trying to call back again and again. Trying to keep calm. Finally getting through: “We’re on our way to the hospital. You have to come down and meet us.”

The next clear memory I have is of arriving in the emergency room. The children’s section was empty and dimly lit, save for one room with harsh fluorescent lighting and a flurry of nurses and technicians walking in and out. At first, it looked like the bed was vacant—a child Meirav’s age takes up only half the bed. But there in the crowd was Batya, holding a little hand dangling off the bedside. There was my daughter. Her skin…I had never seen it that color before. It was ashen. And her eyes—normally so bright and blue—were dark, sunken and gray. Her sweet beautiful face was shadowed in suffering that no parent should ever have to see. I moved toward my wife, over to my little girl. “Hey sweetie, it’s Abba,” I said.

For the rest of my life, I’ll never forget those eyes looking through me. That gaze, weary and far-away. Eyes with the light all gone out. I recognized them, the eyes of the dying. Then there was my wife’s soft face smiling gently at our daughter. When Batya looked at me, all the strength she had been mustering to hold her composure for Meirav slipped for an instant, and the tears began to well up.

This was the nightmare that all parents fear. And it was happening to us. Was she going to die? I might have gone into denial if I could, but those eyes…

And then something happened that I would have never expected in my wildest imagination. Right there next to that hospital bed in the midst of everything, I suddenly felt a wave of peacefulness washing over me. There was no more time, there was no past, no visions of what might be. In that timeless moment, all the surreal confusion melted away. My whole soul, my whole being was just focused on my little girl. There was no more harsh fluorescent light and tumult of medical personnel, only the beautiful light of my daughter’s soul. There was only love and gratitude pouring out for the gift, for this miracle that is my little girl. What time was there left with her? Minutes? Hours? A lifetime? It doesn’t matter any more. Thank you, God, for the joy this little one has brought into our lives. All the thanks and praise in the world couldn’t possibly express my gratitude at that moment.

I wondered how I could be feeling this. What had happened to the terror and horror? An understanding emerged from somewhere deep in my soul that the life of this child was never, could never be “mine” to possess, to cling to and hold onto forever. I was merely the witness to the unfolding miracle and wonder of life.

As it turned out, modern medicine is also a miracle. With the doctors’ help, the light came back into Meirav’s radiant blue eyes. After days in the ICU, her cheeks flushed pink again. My little girl was diagnosed with juvenile diabetes. My wife and I now gratefully manage her daily insulin injections and carefully monitor her diet. I can come home again and say “Hey sweetie, it’s Abba,” and see that magnificent, joyful smile.

Today, when I meet with parents of sick or dying children, I am different in their presence. No longer do I project a fearful nightmare of my own onto their experience. Instead, amazingly, I can rediscover that moment of timeless love and share that deep, abiding peace. I have seen through my own fear of death and know that those parents and I are fellow travelers, discovering wisdom and the miracle of life together. Even with parents whose children have died, I take their hands, and together we find a way through the grief. To my astonishment, I have discovered that amid the tears of rage and guilt are tears of love and gratitude.

I believe that true Torah—the very mind and heart of God—rises to meet us in every experience of life and of death. Sometimes the greatest teachers of Torah are children. My wonderful little Meirav continues to instruct me in sickness and health. Through my Meirav, I have learned that it doesn’t matter how much or how little time we have together. I’ve realized that each day, each moment together, is the greatest miracle in the world.

Rabbi Gil Steinlauf is the senior rabbi at Adas Israel Congregation in Washington, DC.