Dear Friend,

If change could be measured by seasons, autumn would certainly snag first place. The startling bursts of color crowning what used to be green-topped trees, the unexpected breezes that nudge summer heat out of the way… They are physical markers of a world changing beneath the surface.

Yet standing in the shadow of those golden-hued leaves, change seems elusive. You stand alone. Your hands seek the handle of the carriage you had envisioned for so many long months. Your arms are achingly empty; devoid of the little miracle you had already claimed your own. And your heart… your heart feels as though it has simply ceased to exist.

Change?! The word doesn’t resonate with you. You had pictured Rosh Hashana as a wonderland of change…but now it is anything but. You thought that your tefillos this year would be mumbled hurriedly, between bouts of feeding and cooing and cuddling and soothing.

Instead, your seat in shul beckons with its stark emptiness. You have been deposited back in the waiting room… a room that you had hoped never to visit again. It is enclosed by walls. Walls of limitation. Walls devoid of emotion. Walls that separate you from those in the Land of Life.

Sari, a 19-year-old girl in Eretz Yisroel, also came face-to-face with a wall, though her wall was physical in nature. She met it while walking along a particularly strenuous hiking path in the Negev. Sari was attempting the hike in the company of her 14-year-old brother. Levi was unfazed by the obstacles. He marched ahead, commenting on the various wonders of creation that surrounded them.
“Mmm…” Sari muttered, biting her lip as she once again lost her footing. “Awesome.”
“And these trees!” Levi rapturously continued. “They’re towering above us! Each one is so unique!”
Sari didn’t bother responding. She focused on putting one foot in front of the other. According to her calculations, they should be just one hour away from the finish line, where their mother was waiting.
“One hour left, Sari,” she told herself. “You’ve already done three-quarters of the hike!”
Buoyed momentarily, she picked up her pace, nearly matching Levi’s energetic stride. And then she saw it. A wall. Not a sloping hill. Not a steep mountain. It was a WALL! And she was supposed to climb straight to the top!
Levi didn’t flinch. Using tree roots for support and wiggling branches for added assistance, he climbed higher and higher. From the top, he jovially waved to his sister.
I can do this, Sari whispered. If Levi can do it, then I certainly can! What’s one little wall in the scheme of things?
Her progress was slow but steady. Standing atop that treacherous wall, Sari felt a thrill of achievement. She had done it!
And then… then she looked down. Straight down.
“Levi, forget about it. I am not doing this.”
Levi laughed, skittering down the face of the wall with the agility of youth. “Come on, Sari! It’s easier than you think!”
Sari didn’t even reply. I can’t do this! I’ll stay here forever! I’ll live on top of this wall. There is no way I am going to attempt climbing down!
Levi begged, cajoled, threatened and encouraged. He explained, he demonstrated, and even offered to climb back up as moral support. But Sari was immovable. She could not be budged.
Shrugging his shoulders in defeat and barely concealed annoyance, Levi trudged off to the finish line, where he could summon help for his stranded sister.
Help arrived within the hour, in the form of two husky park rangers who had seen too many youngsters stuck in similar positions. They carried stretchers, first-aid equipment, and an array of supplies that Sari couldn’t identify.
One of them climbed up the wall. He looked at Sari and said, “You can rely on me. I will be your source of support. When you lean on me, you have nothing to fear.”
The park ranger stood straight and tall, silhouetted in the midday sun. “Ani Chomah,” he stated confidently. “I am the wall. You can follow me down with confidence.”
Sari closed her eyes and repeated, He is the wall. Walls don’t waver. Walls don’t crumble. Walls are bastions of support.
She followed him down, step after step. She felt no fear, for she was leaning on a wall. A wall of stability.

We all need that wall. We need the support; the knowledge that there is someone – or more than one ‘someone’ – holding our hand and guiding us past the obstacles.
The past few months have taxed your strength.

What you envisioned as a smooth journey along one of life’s most pleasurable paths unexpectedly morphed into a challenging hike. It’s a hike along unfamiliar, bumpy terrain. You placed one foot in front of the other, determined to see yourself once again on paved territory. But then you met the wall.

The pain of loss was overwhelming. You climbed, grappling with obstacles that threatened to send you hurtling downward. You persevered. You pushed yourself beyond your endurance… and you felt that you were making progress.
Standing there on top of the wall, you looked back at several days of unbearable agony. You had survived those days. You had triumphed.

And now you look down.
Rosh Hashana heralds the new year. Life stretches ahead of you. Daily life. Routine. A life devoid of hopes and dreams. A life drained of the anticipation that had been yours to savor. A life with gaping holes where childish laughter should have been.

Looking down, you see no recourse. You feel that there is no way you will be able to descend into the places where life continues to pulsate.
Standing atop that wall, think of Rochelle, a young woman who had tragically lost her infant son. Rochelle gave up. She was stranded atop the wall and she had no desire to reacquaint herself with life. Her husband Dovid suffered. Her children suffered. But Rochelle could not be swayed.

Atop that wall, she could burrow her head in the darkness of loss. She could lose herself to the depths of agony that no one else could fathom or share. But Dovid forced her to take one step down. Just one step.

At his behest, she dragged herself to the wedding of a close friend’s son. She stood in that festive wedding hall… but she was still stranded on the wall. She could not come down. Overcome with piercing pain, ever more glaring in the orbit of joy, Rochelle escaped to the ladies’ room.

And that’s when she saw her. A Wall. Ani Chomah. The woman, aged and wrinkled, stood before her and demanded to understand her pain.
“You will never understand,” Rochelle whispered. “I lost… a child.”
The woman stared at her with eyes that had seen the very underside of pain, and she said, “I lost ten children. Ten children were taken from me during the Holocaust. And I never had any others.”

Rochelle stepped back in shock, but the woman was not done. “And I cried, mein kind. Oh, how I cried. But my tears were not just for myself and my pain. They were for others. I cried for relatives who needed salvation. I cried for those whose hearts were shattering each day anew. I cried for the Redemption.”
The woman turned to go, not waiting for a reply. “Cry, mein kind. Cry for yourself… but also for others, and your pain will diminish.”

And Rochelle cried. She let the tears flow, softening her heart to feel the pain of others. She cried for friends. She cried for relatives. And she cried for Hashem Who was with her in the midst of her agony. Outwardly, nothing had changed. But Rochelle’s inner world had completely reinvented itself.

As Rosh Hashana turns the page to a fresh new year, all of creation is changing. The seasons; the leaves on the trees; the nip in the air that whispers promises of change. It is not sweeping changes that leave an impact. It’s those little changes; those imperceptible shifts of thought and emotion that shape your life.

You may feel entrapped in a void where dreams and hopes once roamed free. In that blackness of despair, change seems impossible. Let the tears flow, mein kind. Cry for yourself; for that which was and will never be again. Cry for others. Cry for Hashem Who is with you in your pain.

Because you are not alone in this void that has consumed your very existence. There are walls all around you. Walls of support; walls to lean on and confide in. Ani Chomah. Reach out for support. Look for those walls, for they are there for you. Here at Knafayim, our walls are pillars of promise, offering hope for a future filled with life, love and laughter.

Ani Chomah.
When you feel that the pain is overpowering, allow yourself to feel the stability of Hashem’s presence. His Wall never falters and can never be breached. He has constructed the walls that block your path…yet simultaneously provided the walls to help you down.

May your tefillos this Rosh Hashana breach the walls that surround you, allowing you to find the fountains of change that are the essence of our survival.

With Best Wishes for a Gut Gebentshed Year,

Mrs. M. Klaristenfeld
Loss Support Services