Personal Stories

In my pursuit to be “helpful,” I was quickly killing the intimacy in my marriage.

When my current husband and I married, I asked him to “gift” me my Aunt Dot’s ring. I understood that the diamond was only a symbol, and that the practice of committing oneself to love and understanding of one’s partner was the true treasure.

He suddenly said he wanted to talk. I had butterflies in my stomach. This was the moment I had longed for.

My last correspondence with my spouse, with each child, family members, friends, coworkers and neighbors—are they positive, and ones I would “be OK with” if they were the last impression someone had of me?

At dinner I found myself sitting across from David. He was smart, not bad looking, and had a real British sense of humo(u)r. After the meal ended, we continued talking for over an hour.

Eight months later, Shira gave birth to their fourth child, Yehuda Shlomo, in the very same ambulance that took her husband to the hospital for the last time.

It all started one year ago, as my husband Felix and I were celebrating our 24th wedding anniversary . . .

That very same hour, I was looking through my digital files and uploading my pictures. And there it was. In big, bold, black letters, scribbled on the wall, so close to my name, written just a few minutes before me, “Avi Richler 2005” . . .

All that matters is that for two whole hours, it’s just the two of you. Alone. Together.

For Lilly the dress symbolized the innocent, normal life she and her family had once led- before the world descended into madness...

The stress of the morning reached its crescendo, and I proceeded to lay down my royal flush of emotional cards in my epic battle to win the "blame game" with my husband...

To my great surprise, the Rebbe asked me about my very personal plans, about my dating to get married.

Gila grew up in an observant home, Ben's family was less observant. Gila didn't know why Yosef thought to put them together...

The following words, as painful as they might be for you to hear, are coming from a place of love. I wish that I did not have to say anything, but I feel that I have no choice...

"You married a white boy!" a high school pal exclaims in an email after discovering my wedding photos online. I groan. Later, my grandmother peers into my husband's blue eyes while watching our wedding DVD and repeatedly asks me, "Why did he marry you?"

In this world of instant gratification, instant marriages, instant divorces – in fact instant everything one can possibly imagine – here, right beside me, is proof that time is the ultimate test of love...

I had signed up for J-date, the on-line Jewish dating service, and I was getting frustrated with the whole experience. From the music industry braggart with the purple Jaguar to the seventy-five year old who’d claimed to be fifty, the prospects were disappointing...

I didn't intend to like Colin, to dip my toes into the forbidden waters of the non-Jew. After all, I grew up deeply religious my whole life, in strong deference to the traditions imparted from my parents and grandparents...

With such inconstancy in my personal history, I didn’t make such good marriage material, probably because I am very hard to measure and define. And I vaguely remember myself being described by that epithet “She’s not good marriage material” which placed me in the category of cheap, flimsy chiffon unraveling at the edges...

When I was able to finally meet my husband's grandparents who could not travel to the wedding, my entire outlook on the fragileness of love was challenged forever...

After all these years, I may be less sensitive to your wants and wishes. My guard is down; my words and actions no longer reflect the nuances of care they once did. But you, too, don't give yourself as freely as in the olden days...

That moment made it clear to both of us: I’m committed to you, and you’re committed to me, and an argument won’t change things.

No one knew how to tell me the news, and so, although I knew the truth in my heart, for those agonizing minutes I kept on hoping. Hoping that it was just an accident . . .

Through trial and error, and now years of experience, I’ve come to realize that communicating is not about talking and “listening”; it’s about understanding.

Neither parent seemed to notice the presence of their young daughter in the entranceway. I was only ten at the time, but my sensitive nature detected that the room was full of their love for each other . . .

On the cosmic mitzvah scale there really is no difference if I make a blessing over my lulav-and-etrog set, or if that same set is used by a Jew on the streets of Brooklyn.... mitzvah = mitzvah, right?

During his convalescence, the morning blessings assumed a new poignancy and meaning for both of us: “Blessed are You, L‑rd our G‑d, King of the Universe, who releases the bound . . . Who straightens the bent . . . Who gives strength to the weary.” For the first time in his life, Jeff recited these blessings unable to stand . . .

A chassidic son-in-law who aspired to be a shliach (emissary) of the Rebbe was something they had never planned for their daughter.

During the engagement period, I continued to be pestered with occasional waves of doubt and fear—not based on anything tangible, just phantoms in my mind.