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Rabbi Yom Tov Glaser
Loving Closeness
Following the Second World War, at a moment of a humanitarian crisis, orphanage homes filled up with children of all ages. Procuring beds and blankets from wherever possible, children were hospitalized and given medical treatment to help ensure their survival. At a time when the lives of these children were at risk, a beacon of optimism nevertheless shined in the hope that with proper intervention, this was not the end of life, but just the beginning.
Yet while many of the children’s health steadily improved, the medical personnel took note of numerous children who were getting sick and not surviving.
With no explanation for why this was occurring, as sanitary conditions were decent and the cleanliness of the children maintained, the mystery continued for some time. It was not until later that staff members came across a startling observation.
The babies and children who were not surviving were those who kept quiet. It was only the children who made noise and cried that stayed alive. Investigating the matter further, the source of the discrepancy between those babies who were crying and were not was identified. The babies who were crying were being held, while the babies who kept silent were not.
And then they realized. It was the loving closeness of human contact which was ensuring survival or hindering it. At this point, people began flocking in just to hold the babies and provide human warmth and contact. And remarkably so, the babies stopped dying.
When word got out in Russia about what had occurred, experiments were done in an attempt to duplicate the results. Creating an identical scenario as was found in the orphanages, babies were attached to intravenous machines which fed them, worked their muscles and kept them warm. The only variable which was withheld was human contact. And guess what happened? Within a month, these babies who were sealed in perfectly sanitary environments yet were not being held were getting sick.
After seeing with their very own eyes these fallouts, one of the most important and literally life-saving conclusions was reached. More important than food, water, clothing or shelter is the loving closeness of one person to another.
When a child is born and starts growing up as a separate entity independent of its mother and father, its deepest desire is to reconnect to its parents and be held and cared for. To this end, Hashem perfectly surrounds a child with a mother and father, brothers and sisters and grandmother and grandfather. While this beautiful setup provides the optimal framework for a child to develop and grow, all of its components must remain healthy and strongly interconnected for the child to flourish.
A child is like a beautiful monarch butterfly which has come out of its cocoon and opens its wings. Yet the most important part of the butterfly are its two antennae. They are its source of guidance, and without them, little chance exists for the butterfly to find its way around. Being so very important, everything must go right for those antennae to remain healthy and functional. If they are singed and not properly cared for, the butterfly is at risk of getting lost and floundering.
What though is the secret of maintaining healthy antennae? What will ensure that our children thrive and lead lives in the right direction? The loving closeness of a parent, a teacher and a friend. Human contact suffused with love is all it takes to grant life and warm the heart of our beloved son and daughter and brother and sister.
However, there is one important realization that must be crystallized before we can love anyone else. And that is recognizing our own value and significance. If you have ever thought about the phrase, “I love you,” it presupposes that something is in place. And that is that there is an “I.” Yet where does that “I” come from? What builds that individual who can say “I love you”?
During one “The Possible You” seminar I ran for married men, which taught them to envision and structure the best and most productive lives for themselves, I asked them when they had last told their wife, “I love you.” They all looked at me surprised. Finally, one of them raised their hand and said, “Ten years ago.” As it turned out, he was the most recent of them all.
But then came the punchline. “Rabbi,” he said, “do you know what I actually said to her? ‘You are loved.’” He hadn’t even said “I love you.” I then knew that we had something to work on. Before we can give of our self and our love to anyone else, we must have a healthy sense of self-worth.
Years ago, I had the privilege of running a mini seminar for a number of prominent rabbis. While the audience was comprised of Yiddish speakers, my English was far better than Yiddish. As such, I did not intend to deliver an entire speech in Yiddish. Thankfully, Mechi Spiro agreed to serve as my translator. I spoke in English and he translated into Yiddish line by line.
After an hour, I realized that we weren’t getting anywhere. Nevertheless, we hoped that continuing with the program would bear some positive results and reactions, so we kept on talking. Yet, even after another hour, we were not making the powerful impression we intended. Calling Mechi over, I said, “I think the issue is that there is no ‘I’. We need to personally involve the audience.”
I then turned to the group sitting in front of me and said, “Is there anyone here who has ever undergone something challenging?” I hoped that this would cause some hands to go up. And it did.
“Yes,” one of the men said. “When I was twelve years old, I lost my father.” Hearing of the traumatic experience this man had gone through as a young boy, I said, “So what did you say?” While I meant to ask what he had said internally and how he dealt with the loss, the man innocently looked up at me and said, “I said Kaddish.” “That is true,” I replied, “but what did you say inside to yourself? Who are you?”
Now even more confused, the man bent down and picked up a triangular sandwich pack, looked at me once again and held up the sandwich. “This is who I am,” he said.
Perturbed, I quietly said to Mechi, “Look at that; he’s a sandwich!” Mechi whispered back to me, “His name is on the sandwich. He is the rav hamachshir who grants the hashgacha (kosher certificate) to the sandwich.” It then hit me. This man who had experienced this hardship during youth went on to become someone who understood his own value and achieve something.
No matter who you are, you can blossom into a beautiful butterfly, spread your wings and become great. It all begins with recognizing who you are and who you can become. Once that is in place, you can start sharing yourself and your love with others and begin changing the lives of your family, friends, community and the world.
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