A few years ago, immediately after Rosh Hashanah, I received a call from an askan (literally translated as an "activist," but colloquially the "can-do-man" of a community or Rebbe's "court") who worked for a well-known leader of a Chareidi group. He asked if I would be able to see a grandchild of this leader and said it was an emergency.

So I said that if it is an emergency it is important to go to the closest ER. "The child has already been there," he said, "and medically he is cleared, but he still has fears."

Living in Israel is frequently awe-inspiring and awesome. In Hebrew the words for the High Holy Days of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are called Yomim Noraim, Days of Awe. This connotes both the grandeur of the holiday, the solemnity, and at the same time, the fear pertaining to G-d's decisions of who in the coming year, will be written in the "Book-Of-Life" and who will not. With years of piguim (terrorism) and now war, many people have been left with terrifying fears, so I assumed this was the case of this young boy.

"Never assume," my late uncle (a federal judge) used to say. And once I met the 10- year-old boy and his family and heard his story, I again understood the sagaciously succinct: "Never assume."

They started by telling me that the event that caused their son's fears occurred just before the holidays. They explained that before every holiday members of certain chassidic groups come up to Jerusalem to get their Rebbe's blessings ("up" connotes the holiness of Jerusalem and is not related to geographic direction). On this occasion over 15,000, mostly men, gathered, and an overall orderly fashion, passed the Rebbe's table (Tisch).

The Rebbe's table was on a platform, and many disciples − it seems close to 500 − were standing on this platform built for a maximum of 100. This youngster was standing among them, when all of a sudden there was a loud crash, and the whole platform caved in and caused many to topple and fall on one another. He was buried under eight people. Miraculously, no one was killed, and he was pulled free without serious injury.

Up until now the father was speaking. At this point, the mother said: "But now he is so fearful, he won't go out of the house and pulls his mattress into our room at night out of fear and cries out in his sleep from terrible nightmares."

I looked at the parents and the child and said that I'm not sure I can do this alone. They looked at me and said that they would not mind if I consulted with other specialists. "No, that is probably not going to be enough," I said, "I need your help, and especially your son's. Would you be willing to sign a contract that you will help me help him?"

Now, you have to understand that for a Chassidic family, especially father and son, to come to a psychologist is a departure from the norm. To go to a woman is even more unique. On top of that, I am not from a Chassidic following and though I have lived in Israel for over 30 years, my American accent is quite noticeable. Suffice it to say, this was a strange and unusual experience for them. Then this person (I) asked them to sign a contract that all three of them would help me help them − this was even odder. The parents looked at each other over their son's head, the father nodded, and they agreed to sign.

With great flourish, I went ahead and wrote out the "contract" and all three signed and affixed the date. I signed it too, and said it was now official.

I still wasn't quite sure what I was doing, but went by my instincts, in that I felt the success of the therapy depended on their trusting my expertise. Also they could not just "hand over" their child for therapy to one so different than themselves. By creating this "contractual" relationship, I reinforced the fact that I considered them my partners, and we as a unit, would work on the problem.

Then I said to the boy, "I would like to call you Moshe, and we'll use that name when we meet." More looks between the parents, and now "Moshe" was also looking perplexed. "Well then," I said, "didn't Pharaoh's daughter give Moshe Rabbeinu that name when she pulled him out of the water? You were pulled out, saved from drowning in a sea of people." (Again subtly, re-affirming that I knew I was of a different culture, but would try to save their son so that he could retake his position as the Rebbe's grandson and possible future leader of the group.)

"The next thing I need from you," I said to the father, "is the video, DVD, CD or movie of the event." "We don't watch televisions and we don't have video machines," was their reply. I nodded, but stuck to my guns and, pointing at the freshly signed contract, said, "Please bring it to our next meeting in two days."

Before they left, I asked "Moshe" to draw a picture of how the line of people filing in front of the Rebbe looked, and also where he was standing in relation to the Rebbe. I felt it was important to have him give his perspective of the events, all the while recognizing that he had a special "position" being close to the Rebbe. Knowing that he was not comfortable speaking to me yet, I requested this sketch. His father looked on, and as the drawing came to life, he often said how good and accurate he thought it was. I asked many questions about the rituals of a Tisch and how so many people could line up for hours without pushing or getting into arguments, when waiting for a bus here is a nightmare.

I thanked him for the picture, and pointing again to the contract said, "I'm looking forward to seeing the event. I gave Moshe homework: could he please draw in color what he saw when he was pulled out of "the sea of people." Two days later, we met again. The father brought in a CD disk. He asked how I knew there was one. I said it would not be ''natural'' that so many men should be at such an auspicious occasion and there wouldn't be at least one video camera. He smiled and handed it over to me. I had my computer available and loaded it and the four of us saw it together. I felt it was important that "Moshe" see what happened from the distance of the video images, and that he watch this event in the safety of my office with his parents present.

As it turned out, "Moshe" and I were the ones who had not seen it before. Both his parents had viewed it a few times.

I replayed the part of the stage falling, the quiet immediately after and the pandemonium that followed as "Moshe" and others were pulled out of the abyss.

We went over Moshe's homework and replayed the video again. Show me again, how you got out. Please point out the person who pulled you out. Do you know who he is? Have you spoken with him to thank him? Can you show me again where you were standing before it happened? There were many questions, and there were earnest answers on the part of "Moshe," helping me understand and teaching me about things I didn't know and would never have the opportunity to see for myself.

With each retelling, "Moshe's" body language became more relaxed as did that of his mother. At the end of the session I returned the disk and said, "We won't need this anymore. Next time, 'Moshe,', could you bring along the Birchat HaGomel you said, and oh, I have a book to lend you." I gave him a children's book on first aid, in it were clear explanations of how to deal with immediate medical problems, how to care for burns, bandage different sorts of cuts and bruises and other skills in helping the wounded.

The next appointment was scheduled for before Sukkot; they called and said that they needed to postpone it until after the holiday. I took this "cancellation" as a positive sign. The "emergency" seemed to have abated, I thought, or it might also mean that they found a "real" psychologist. The next appointment was also cancelled; I smiled to myself as I heard the message on my answering machine.

About two months later, I received a package. It was the first aid book and a letter from the mother. She said she had to admit that she and her husband were both very skeptical about the "therapy" I did with their son. Draw pictures at home, see a video, asking silly questions and then, giving a child of 10 a first aid book! All this seemed at odds with what they had envisioned therapy to be.

"Moshe" had read the book inside and out, she wrote. He had practiced bandaging his siblings' arms and legs. And "Moshe" went out during Sukkot − on his own. Not only that, he had slept in the Sukka which was outside and not attached to the house.

She wasn't sure how, but the unusual therapy had cured him.

May we go into this New Year, pulled from the sea of doubt and fear, with a renewed sense of competence and strength, to fulfill our future roles, as we, B'Ezrat Hashem, will all be written in The Book of Life.

 

Originally published in the Jewish Press on September 20, 2006.

Tags: Birchat HaGomel | Jewish Press