06 Oct YOU DON’T KNOW WHO IS AT THE TABLE: THE PAIN WE DON’T SEE

We have never
known more about
one another, and
perhaps we have
never known less.
We know where
people went on
vacation, what they ate for dinner, whose
children got engaged, who had a baby,
who bought a house, who got promoted,
and who seems to be living the life we
wish we had. We scroll through pictures
and statuses and stories and somehow
come away believing that we know what
is happening in other people’s lives.
But we don’t. We see the picture, but we
don’t see what happened five minutes
before it was taken or five minutes after.
We see the family sitting around the
table, but we don’t know what someone
at that table is desperately davening for.
We see the smile, but not necessarily the
struggle behind it. We see what people
choose to share, but we have no idea
what they are carrying privately. That has
always been true, but in our
hyperconnected world it is easier than
ever to forget.
Years ago, I wrote about the particular
pain experienced by those struggling
with infertility and the responsibility the
rest of us have to measure our words
more carefully. What if you knew that the
person you were talking to desperately
wanted to have a child, or would give
anything to have another child, but was
struggling to make it happen? Wouldn’t
you navigate the conversation more
thoughtfully? Wouldn’t you think twice
before asking a question or making a
comment that might seem completely
innocent to you but could be enormously
painful to them?
And it isn’t only those waiting for
children. There are those waiting to meet
the person with whom they hope to bring
children into this world. They sit at our
tables and attend our shuls and simchas.
They celebrate engagements and dance
at weddings. They smile when yet
another friend announces good news.
They answer the questions about whether
they are dating anyone and endure the
well-intentioned suggestions of people
who are certain they know exactly whom
they should meet. We see them smiling
and participating, but we often have no
idea how much they long to find their
person, to build a home, to have a family,

and to move into the next chapter of life.
There are so many other invisible
struggles as well. Someone at the table
may be watching a marriage unravel.
Someone may be terribly worried about a
child. Someone may be carrying financial
pressure that keeps them awake at night.
Someone may be grieving a loss that
everyone else seems to have moved past.
Someone may be waiting for test results
or frightened by a diagnosis they have
told almost nobody about. Someone may
be struggling emotionally while
projecting strength and confidence to
everyone around them. We simply don’t
know.
Simchas Torah brings this lesson into
particularly sharp focus. We dance with
children and grandchildren on our
shoulders, often with our spouse lovingly
looking on. Kol Ha’Nearim is one of the
highlights of the year. We gather our
children together under a giant tallis,
shower them with brachos, and look on
with enormous pride and gratitude. It is a
beautiful moment, and it should be.
Parents and grandparents should kvell.
Children should feel the love of their
families and their community and
experience the sweetness of being
embraced by the Torah.
But years ago, someone who was
desperate for a child told me how much
she dreaded Simchas Torah. In the days
leading up to Yom Tov, she felt anxiety
rather than anticipation. For those
yearning to become parents, watching
parents and grandparents beam as their
children gather under the tallis can be a
painful reminder of what they don’t yet
have. And for the single man or woman
waiting and wondering when they will
meet the person with whom they can
build a home and hopefully bring
children under that tallis one day, that
moment can hurt too.
Does that mean we should celebrate less?
Of course not. It means we should feel
more.
Jewish life asks us to develop a heart
large enough to hold two emotions at the
same time. I can be profoundly grateful
for my blessing while remaining deeply
sensitive to your longing. I can celebrate
my children and grandchildren without
assuming everyone around me has been
given the same gifts. My simcha does not
require blindness to your pain. In fact,

genuine gratitude
should make me more
sensitive, not less.
That sensitivity begins
with the words we use.
Questions like, “How
many children do you
have?” “How long
have you been
married?” “No children
yet?” “When are you
going to have another?”
or to a single person,
“So, are you seeing anyone?” may feel
like harmless conversation. They may
come from genuine interest and concern.
But we don’t know what is happening
behind the answer.
We also need to resist the instinct to solve
other people’s struggles. “Just relax.” “It
will happen.” “You’re still young.” “I
know the perfect person for you.” “Have
you tried this doctor?” “Why don’t you
adopt?” “Go to this Rav.” “Try this
segulah.” “Hashem has a plan.” Even
when these words come from love, they
can land very differently than we intend.
If someone chooses to share something
deeply personal, that is an act of trust and
vulnerability. Often they don’t need our
solution. They need our friendship. They
need an ear. They need to know that we
see them, that we are thinking about
them, that we are davening for them, and
that they don’t have to explain or defend
the pain they are experiencing.
We should also be careful about
complaining casually about the very
blessings someone else is desperately
waiting for. Parenting is hard. Marriage
is hard. Life is hard, and friends should
be able to speak honestly with one
another. But context matters. The
sleepless night that feels exhausting to
one person may sound like a dream to
someone who would give anything to be
awakened by a crying baby. The
complaint about a spouse may land
painfully on the person who goes home
alone and wonders if that will ever
change.
Every year before Kol Ha’Nearim, we
have the opportunity to turn our joy into
tefillah. As we gather our children
beneath the tallis, we can think not only
about those who are there, but about
those who are still absent from that
moment. We can daven for those waiting
for a child. We can daven for those

waiting for another child. We can daven
for those who have experienced loss. We
can daven for those waiting to meet their
husband or wife, the person with whom
they hope to build a bayis ne’eman
b’Yisrael and bring a new generation into
the world.
And perhaps we can carry that
consciousness beyond Kol Ha’Nearim
and beyond Simchas Torah.The world
encourages us to look at people and
assume we know their story. Social
media practically trains us to do it. We
see the vacation, the family portrait, the
engagement picture, the birth
announcement, the smiling faces around
a Yom Tov table, and we fill in everything
we cannot see.
But a picture is not a life. A status is not a
story. A smile is not proof that everything
is okay. This Simchas Torah, dance with
all your heart. Celebrate your children
and grandchildren. Stand beneath the
tallis bursting with gratitude. We should
never diminish our joy because someone
else is hurting. But we can expand our
hearts enough to hold two things at once.
Perhaps that is one of the great challenges
and privileges of being part of a
community. To really see one another.
Not just the pictures we post, the clothes
we wear, the families we present, or the
smiles we display, but to remember that
every person has a story we don’t fully
know.
Before you ask the question, make the
comment, offer the advice, or tell the
joke, look around the room. You don’t
know who is at the table. And sometimes
the greatest kindness we can offer another
person is simply to remember that.
(As we have done for the past few years,
we paused before the Kol Ha’Nearim
aliyah, a painful time for many waiting to
have children, to recite a special prayer.)