BY RACHEL LAVICTOIRE / AJT //

My grandma is sick. I say this with overwhelming blatancy because when someone close to you falls ill, you can’t beat around the bush with your emotions or be comforted by euphemisms.

Rachel LaVictoire

Just four months ago, she was dressing herself in high heels and sequined tops to meet up with friends she had just seen on the tennis courts. Then, three months ago, she was diagnosed with lung cancer.

Today, we sit as a family and reminisce. She tells us her favorite stories, and we try to take over with longer ones when we hear her voice begin to weaken.
As with everything else in life, our time right now is both a blessing and a curse. Each time she lets out a groan, her pain seems to leak out and hit everyone in the room. Seeing in distress the woman who used to crash into my bumper boat with her teeth shining through a smile…well, it just doesn’t seem right.

Still, I can’t help but be thankful for this warning signal from G-d. He could have taken her whenever He so pleased, but instead G-d is telling us, “Hey, so, I miss her up here. I’ll be taking her soon to be with me, so it’s time to say good-bye.”

Never in a million years would I have thought I’d be saying good-bye to her now, with me at 18 years old, but that is what G-d has planned for me. So that’s what we’ve all been doing – sitting close to her and touching her hands and listening to every word she has to say. For the first time in my life, I don’t know what to say.

There are no words.

She says that she knows I’ve gotten involved in religion, and she asks me what will come after this life. I don’t know. I don’t know, and I’m scared of being wrong or painting a picture of a heaven she won’t find comfort in. I muster up a few words about peace and happiness and being worry-free and connecting with G-d, and then I go silent.

I’m scared, and she’s scared, and we’re both trying to control our faces so they don’t show the fear that’s swallowing all the words we’ve ever learned, leaving us speechless.

Take the Leap

Today, though, my grandma said something fantastic. It’s what you’d expect anyone in her position to say, but because the words came from her lips…I finally understood.

My brother mentioned the possibility of renting a motorcycle during his upcoming trip to Ireland. An “absolutely not!” leapt from my mother’s lips, and a “why not” jumped right back from my brother. Grandma quieted the room. She whispered:

“No, I don’t necessarily want him on a motorcycle, but I want him to have adventure. When he gets to my age, I want him to know that he’s done it all. If that means riding a motorcycle, then so be it.”

My mom nodded, trying to hide fear behind her brown eyes. But she understood, too; we can’t let fear control our lives. This week’s Torah portion, Shemot, tells the famous story of the burning bush, of G-d calling to Moses to free the slaves of Egypt. What could bring more fear than a promise to G-d that you will free thousands of slaves from an unrelenting Pharaoh?

And yet, Moses agreed to do so. One might argue that, “of course Moses could do this, G-d called on him to do so,” and this is a good point. G-d said directly to Moses:

“For I will be with you, and this is the sign for you that it was I Who sent you (Exodus 3:12).”

But this begs the question that many will ask: If I don’t know that G-d is with me and will protect me, why should I embark on any adventure that scares me? Basically, would Moses have tried to free the slaves had G-d not specifically called on him to do so?

This is why I find other stories in Shemot to be somewhat more powerful. For example: In the very first chapter of Exodus, Pharaoh says to the two Hebrew midwives:

“When you deliver the Hebrew women, and you see on the birth stool, if it is a son, you shall put him to death, but if it is a daughter, she may live (Exodus 1:16).”

But the very next line reads:

“The midwives, however, feared G-d; so they did not do as the king of Egypt had spoken to them, but they enabled the boys to live (Exodus 1:17).”

Then, later in the parsha, the Hebrew women are instructed to throw all newborn sons into the Nile River. Again, they rebel:

“A [Hebrew] woman conceived and bore a son, and when she saw him that he was good, she hid him for three months. When she could no longer hide him, she took for him a reed basket, smeared it with clay and pitch, placed the child into it, and put it into the marsh at the Nile’s edge (Exodus 2:2-3).”

These incredibly courageous acts were done with no divine instruction, no burning bush, just an inherent love for G-d and a belief that everything would eventually work out.

Yes, it would be nice if G-d came to me, and told me just what Heaven was like so that I might comfort my grandma. And yes, my mom could benefit from a “your kids are going to be OK” from G-d every now and then.

However, the absence of those divine interventions isn’t an excuse for living in fear. Just imagine: When those first two midwives, Shifrah and Puah, reached their old age, they had no regrets. Without direct instruction from G-d, they’d broken the law, done things that could have gotten them killed, and did what they felt was right.

Whether it’s introducing yourself to that cute barista, seeing a new country, standing up for what you believe in or just riding a motorcycle, do it. G-d may not send instructions, but He’ll watch over you, and when you’re in your old age, you’ll be able to say you’ve “done it all.”

Rachel LaVictoire (rlavictoire@wustl.edu) is a graduate of the Davis Academy and Westminster High School, recipient of the prestigious Nemerov Writing and Thomas H. Elliott Merit scholarships at Washington University of St. Louis and an active member of Temple Emanu-El and the Marcus Jewish Community Center of Atlanta.