By Tamara Yeshurun, Opinions Editor
The word “Shabbat” conjures up an image in my mind of a well-dressed family poised around a set table, gleaming in the light of the Friday night candles. The scene is soft and still, infused with the flavors of grape juice, challah and chicken soup. It is perhaps the opposite of a rumbling bus crowded by beeping horns, billboards and pedestrians. That, however, was the Friday evening that awaited my OU Women’s trip to India in early August. That morning we had set out on what was supposed to be a four-hour drive from the rural villages of Mokhada to the bustling center of Mumbai. Ten hours later, we were still over an hour from our destination, and sunset was coming fast.
As I sat there, shirt sticking to my back, fans feebly tossing the humid air, I felt unsettled. Of course, the Rabbi of the trip had made all of the halakhic inquiries. He explained that our particular circumstances as passengers, and above all a concern for our safety, created halakhic conditions that required us to remain on the bus until we reached our destination. He also walked us through what we would need to do upon arrival. Essentially, we didn’t need to worry about it being a violation of Shabbat; everything was kosher.
But the issue of permissibility is not what was bothering me. In fact, it was comforting to see how the halakha was equipped for such a situation. No, my unease was the echo of a thousand Friday afternoons ill-spent: those countless weeks growing up when I had failed to give Shabbat the welcome she deserved, despite having every opportunity to do so. All too often the last rays of sun would glare onto an unset table as pens and chargers thrust themselves into drawers, shower heads fell silent and a hasty smear of lip gloss outlined my “Coming!” as I was called to candle-lighting. On all of those Fridays that I hadn’t been caught in standstill traffic in the middle of Maharashtra province (not a repeat occurrence, in case you were wondering) — why hadn’t I been dressed on time?
We ask a lot of Shabbat. Preoccupations and troubles creep up on us throughout the week, reaching a fever pitch by Thursday. Then, when the guest of honor arrives, we blame that very guest for our Friday stress, and then demand that she lift our load and soothe our aching joints. Shabbat gives us respite, an opportunity to gather with our community, time for contemplation, a mental reset and for quality time with family and friends. And what do we give her in return? A sigh of relief that, “Finally, I can kick back!” By the end of the seventh day, Shabbat’s gentle embrace has brought us a bit closer to our ideal selves — but the instant she departs, the difficult realities of life crowd our minds again, and we forget the mini eternity she allowed us to hold.
I had never encountered Shabbat like this. She was disheveled and surrounded by strangers; anyone might have mistaken her for a weekday. For the first time, Shabbat needed us to provide her with the serenity and comfort she gives us every week. But what could we do to welcome her? On the bus there was no meal to prepare, no paper towels to cut. The air conditioning had stopped working hours ago, and our suitcases of clean clothes were packed away in the back of the bus. But the less opportunity there was to make Shabbat special, the more I found my determination to do so increase.
As darkness fell, I cleaned my face, switched my glasses for contact lenses and applied makeup with the light of my phone’s flashlight and a pocket mirror. Everyone made last minute calls and zipped up their phones in their backpacks. Finally, I took out my siddur, and began to sing Yedid Nefesh. At first it was two voices in harmony, then three, and at last the bus filled with song. Even though it was dark, we were hungry, our clothes were crusty and there was no “atmosphere,” that Kabbalat Shabbat was stronger than any prayer I have ever experienced. We clung onto it, allowing Shabbat to sprout in a place that had never known it before. (And the bus drivers, who could only speak Marathi, seemed to enjoy it too.)
I will remember that Friday night service — or Kabbalas Shab-bus, if you will — for the rest of my life. However, it was not unique. That is precisely why it was so powerful: it opened our eyes to the reality that no Shabbos is “normal,” even the picture-perfect family scene from my imagination. Every Shabbat-keeping Jewish community on earth is a flickering torch surrounded by a cacophonous and uncomprehending city. How strange that, when Shabbat’s finery disappeared, the more hungrily we sought after her! Let us not wait for moments like those to give Shabbat the attention she deserves. If we invest in it properly, perhaps our Shabbat table will one day be as elevated as a Shabbat bus ride.
Photo Caption: OU Women’s trip to India on a bus.
Photo Credit: Jacob Sztokman, Founding Director at Gabriel Project Mumbai