In Light of the Fires We Continue to Do Good

As directors of Chabad of Thousand Oaks, my husband, Rabbi Chaim Bryski, and I, along with so many in the T.O. community, were here when the tragedies and horrors hit two weeks ago. Following are some lessons I’m learning through it all.

Two nights in a row I was woken up at 1 a.m.–  the first night, it was due to the shooting (Israeli news networks were calling to see if we had information we could share), and the second night, it was due to the fires (evacuation orders). The first night was due to the heinous act of a human being; the second night was primarily an act of G-d- while the sources of many of the fires are still not known, the strong winds most definitely fanned those flames to an uncontrollable state.

In both cases, though, what shone forth was that in the ugliest of times, whether it’s seeing the devastation of fires or the worst of human nature—you also begin to see the most beautiful parts of human nature. Somehow, they work in tandem.

It is almost a cliché to say we are supposed to fight darkness with light, and it doesn’t always feel sophisticated, but the reality is that our job as Jews is to uplift the people around us with goodness. It’s an incredible antidote to pain and despair. On Thursday, people were donating blood for the victims, my husband was joined by many other clergy members at the T.O. Teen Center and many brought food to the T.O. Center for the first responders and grieving families. Early Friday morning, as we along with many others evacuated, families, friends, and strangers, opened their homes for their loved ones, or for friends of friends; people purchased gift cards and clothing for those who had tragically lost their homes; and many drove to neighbors’ homes to make sure others were OK, especially the elderly or handicapped. 

When we were evacuating, I quickly realized that of all we own, there is very little that we ultimately needed to take with us. Important documents, a small case of jewelry, three albums from our 19 years of marriage, clothing. And of course, the ultimate possessions that we live and would die for- our sleeping children, and our three Torahs in the shul. The end. Would it be heartbreaking to lose our home and Chabad House right after we finished all this construction? Devastating to lose many valuables, especially things that have sentimental value? Of course. But it’s just stuff. Not people. Not Torahs. Nothing that we live and die for.

We evacuated to Tarzana, and stayed at my husband’s cousins, Rabbi Yanky and Hindy Kahn, who graciously hosted all seven of us for what ended up being a three-day weekend and treated us like royalty. As I tucked my children into bed Friday night after a beautiful Shabbos dinner, I felt strangely at peace. It made me muse about the meaning of the word Home. It’s true that Home is where I kick off my shoes after a long day, kibbitz with my kids, maybe even drink the last few sips of seltzer straight from the bottle. But I realized that Home is more than a place of physical and even emotional comfort. Home is a state of mind that all is OK and will be OK no matter what- because the truest things that are important can always come with me- my identity, my values, my way of life and my attitude towards life. When a Jewish couple gets married, we bless them under the canopy to create a “binyan adei ad,” an everlasting edifice.

Surely this can’t mean a physical everlasting home. People move all the time. And we all know too well that houses can literally vanish from the unforgiving flames of an atomic-like fire. That Friday night, as I sang the Shema prayer with my children, I more fully understood what this everlasting edifice refers to. For all I knew, my house was already up in flames. And yet my Home was fully intact- the familiar comfort instantly available as we sang the familiar words that Jewish mothers have sung to their children since the beginning of time, and Jews of all ages have uttered from the cradle to the grave.

Having an everlasting Home is what allowed my grandmother, although on the run from a young age in Communist Russia, to have daily moments of familiarity and comfort and solace- in the mezuza her father would kiss and savor for a few minutes before hiding it back in his drawer.

Webster defines Home to mean “the social unit formed by a family living together.” And there we were- 30 miles from our house, and yet Home, because we were with one another. Not just physically but in heart and mind and values.

The other Webster definition that intrigued me was, “a place of origin.” Here, too, the spiritual implication is that Home, or origin, is about living with a deeply-rooted identity; with my Jewish values that my ancestors lived and died for. “A place of origin” means that one can be uprooted, and yet never be uprooted, at the same time.

I drive up the grade to Camarillo, and down Westlake Boulevard in Thousand Oaks, and through the hills of Calabasas, and marvel, each time, at the incredible work of our firefighters. Every patch of blackened mountain that abruptly ends at the main road, or abruptly ends right where a home begins, tells the story of the tremendous efforts of all the brave men and women in uniform who fiercely protected that which is sacred to us. And I drive past the Borderline Bar on my way home, and see the touching tributes and accolades to our hero, Sgt. Ron Helus, who gave up his life in the process of protecting others,’ and once again I am reminded that a country of greatness, indeed a world of decent human beings, begins with each individual making a choice to choose, often courageously, to do good.

Rebbetzin Shula Bryski is co-director of Chabad of Thousand Oaks and has a writing business at shulaswritingservices.com