Getting In / Getting Out
Gingerly, I stepped foot into the surf on Kapalua Beach. I was a little anxious, but still determined. The swells were small, but the sand was soft and sloped. Getting in was not a problem. Getting out could be a struggle.
Usually in life, getting in is not the problem. Getting out is far more difficult. Ask Vladimir Putin or George W. Bush what they have learned. As a rabbi, I have seen that it is far easier for couples to get married than it is for them to get divorced. And as difficult as it is to be born, dying is often much harder. Usually getting in is not the problem. Getting out can be much more challenging.
The weather was Maui spectacular. My tan was Hawaii perfect. It was time to take the plunge. But how would I get out?
This past year, I endured four major back surgeries. I will probably share more on this hellacious experience in future newsletters, but for now—this trip to paradise was my first venture out after my year of horribleness. Hawaii was the place to be. I was going in the water. I hadn’t come this far to stay dry.
Last year’s scalpels and drains and forced inactivity (I felt like a goose being prepped for pate de foie gras) left me somewhat weakened and my balance is still not very good. That made the warm ocean water perfect. I could float. The exit with the soft sloping sand would be my challenge.
Concerned, I stayed in the water longer than I should have and now it was time to get out. I crawled up to the place where the waves lapped the shore. I could not stand up. A kind soul got up from his beach chair and kindly offered me a hand, which I gladly accepted. As I stood on my feet and centered myself, I asked my new friend, “How did you know I could have used your help?”
He replied, “I saw the scars on your back and I knew that you recently had surgery.”
“You are a smart guy, and a nice guy too. Thank you,” I said gratefully.
This experience has stuck with me. I have never seen the surgeon-designed roadmap on my back. Like all human beings my back is not in my sight line. On the beach, I had forgotten that the telltale markings of my adventures in the operating room are visible for everyone to see. Here is a lesson that I have learned.
Life leaves its scars on us.
Of course I knew that I had scars on my back. For me, they were invisible. But I also wasn’t consciously aware that everyone else could see them when I couldn’t see them myself.
Decades ago when serving as a rabbi in Los Angeles, I had the opportunity to meet Harvey Shapiro. I first visited him on the wards of the UCLA hospital, where I would see him frequently over the years. Harvey was quadriplegic. When he was a teenager, he dove into a lake and snapped his neck on a concrete abutment just below the murky water’s surface. He lost the ability to move or care for his body. He barely survived.
As an adult, Harvey had a distinguished legal career. He was well known throughout the state. Never alone, he was always accompanied by an aide who wheeled him to school or the courtroom, took notes during the lectures, wrote the answers that Harvey would dictate, feed him and turn the pages on his schoolbooks or legal briefs.
(As it turns out, the aide was granted a college degree and was permitted to take the California Bar Exam, which he passed and became an attorney himself.)
Harvey married one of his nurses. The marriage was not too long lived. And sadly, Harvey also died at a relatively young age. He was always fighting infections and eventually, to no one’s surprise, he succumbed. I guess for my friend, Harvey, getting out was easier than getting in.
The first time I met Harvey, all I could see was a man with his deficiencies—Harvey, immobile in his wheelchair, propped up at a 45 degree angle to facilitate his breathing. Harvey’s brokenness was glaringly obvious to everyone. But when we began to talk and share and know each other, Harvey’s physical limits soon disappeared. He was my friend. For me, Harvey was whole.
Graciously, Harvey agreed to come and address my confirmation class, a group of privileged tenth graders from the most affluent neighborhoods in Los Angeles. When he was wheeled into the classroom, I could feel the air rush out. The students had never seen anyone like Harvey. They were uncomfortable looking at him.
But, not unsurprisingly, they warmed up. Harvey told them his story, shared his struggles and also his accomplishments. He cast a good spell on these children and had them believe that whatever tenth grade stress they were going through, that it was nothing compared to what he went through. And if Harvey could go on and build a happy and meaningful life, so could they.
And he said one more thing. “Friends, when you see me you know where I am hurt and where I am broken. But, kids, everyone is broken in one place or another. Everyone is broken. You can see where I am broken. I may not be able to see where you are broken. You can hide it better than I can. But treat everybody as though they are broken, and treat yourself as though you are broken. You will be able to live kinder and more meaningful lives.” I remember crying at his gentle, challenging words.
My friends, I own my scars, even if I can’t see them. But others can. As a rabbi, so many people leading perfect lives opened up to me about their brokenness, the things in their lives that needed fixing. Sometimes their pain was obvious. Sometimes their pain was front and center. Other times, it was well hidden—scars hidden by bandages and layers of clothing. But everyone is broken in places here or there. Everyone has their scars. Some of the scars we can see. Some we might never see. But it doesn’t mean that the scars are not there.
If you want to be happy and appreciate what you have and who you are, lend a hand to everyone.
As I experienced at Kapalua beach, we sometimes need a hand when we don’t know how to ask for it.
Life scars us.
Kindness heals us. But even then, the years leave their scars, even in places we cannot see.
King Williams III, the president of Temple Sim Shalom, is always two steps ahead of Rabbi Tuvya Greenblatt. He is the most clever character in Take My Dog, my unpublished novel. King is my story’s Darth Vader, the black soul who sucks the energy out of every interaction and casts a malign shadow on every relationship he wants to nurture. He just can’t help himself. He is often correct in his assessments and unhappily, he often gets what he wants only to find that what he wants is not satisfying.
I love the guy. He was so much fun to create on the pages of my book.
I wanted the Temple President and Rabbi Greenblatt’s foil to have a memorable name. King Williams III is memorable, to be sure. More than thirty-five years ago, I met a man whose first name was King—whose last name was Williams, and who bore the same name as his father and grandfather. I officiated at King Williams III’s wedding. Obviously I hadn’t forgotten the name.
As I was collecting information, I asked him the routine and necessary question: “What is your father’s name?”
He responded with a question, “What do you think, rabbi?”
I remember feeling kind of stupid.
Please enjoy and stay tuned. Backwards and Forwards will appear, again, magically in your inbox in a few weeks. In the meantime, feel free to drop me a note at backwardsforwards.newsletter@gmail.com.
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Whether we are going backwards or forwards, none of us is standing still. And successful people can move both forwards and backwards at the same time.
Until next time, shalom,
Jonathan