The Folded Garment: Unveiling G-d’s Kindness

On the morning scheduled for my third IVF treatment, I was awakened early by my phone. A call from the IVF unit just before an embryo transfer is not a good sign and the nurse on the line did not have good news. Unfortunately, none of my embryos were viable and the procedure would have to be cancelled. 

While I was on the phone, my husband received word that my sister-in-law had just given birth. My sister-in-law and I were close friends who later married two brothers one week apart. She’d just had her fourth child; I still didn’t have any. 

At the brit a week later, I had mixed emotions. Part of me wanted to soak up the joyful atmosphere and love and support offered by family and friends (who either knew or assumed what we were going through). Exiting the bubble of relentless thoughts, questions, and fears about my fertility that I’d inhabited over the past few days was liberating and allowed me to shift my focus to the abundant blessings in my life, including the simple pleasure of attending a family gathering. Yet I felt angry, sad, and uncertain about the future – feelings which were intensified by the juxtaposition of my loss with my friend’s gain. Spiritually, I struggled to make sense of why G-d – Who made children a fundamental part of Judaism and biologically wired most women to want to give birth – would decide that, for now at least, not being able to become pregnant was best for me.

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On one of his travels, Rabbi Akiva was turned away by the inhabitants of a certain village at which he sought to spend the night. As a result, he was forced to camp out in a nearby field, along with the donkey and rooster he had with him. Soon, a lion came and killed the donkey; then, a cat came and ate the rooster; finally, a wind came and extinguished his candle. Each time, Rabbi Akiva affirmed that everything happens for the best. In the morning, he saw that Roman soldiers had passed by overnight and destroyed the village¹. Suddenly, it became clear that had he been admitted to someone’s home, or had his donkey brayed or rooster crowed or candle illuminated, the Romans would have found and killed him too. The series of events which had first seemed unfortunate ultimately proved to be life-saving.

Several years later, the Romans put ten of Jewry’s leading scholars (including Rabbi Akiva) to death. Rabbi Yishmael, the Cohen Gadol, who was exceptionally handsome, had the skin of his face flayed off first. When the executioner reached the spot on his forehead where his tefillin sat, Rabbi Yishmael uttered a harrowing cry. In reply, a Heavenly Voice called out, “If I hear one more sound I will bring the whole world back to tohu va’vohu (the state of chaos at the very beginning of the creation of the world)!”² The Sages are confused by G-d’s response, but one commentator explains that the world is like an intricate garment, with folds, layers, and seams concealing the good in certain situations and making them appear bad. Rather than get angry – as a simple reading seems to imply – G-d actually begged Rabbi Yishmael to accept His judgment, even though it was beyond his comprehension. Otherwise, G-d was prepared to unravel the entire garment of creation in order to demonstrate to His beloved son that this was the way things had to be.

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To me, these stories represent the spectrum of humanity’s experience with hester, or concealed Divine Providence. Rabbi Akiva’s patience is rewarded when G-d’s kindness becomes plainly visible; Rabbi Yishmael accepts G-d’s justice without ever understanding – while in this world – the reason for his suffering. Rabbi Akiva teaches us to search for the good in every situation; Rabbi Yishmael reminds us that even when we can’t find it – due to our limited perspective and insight – we must still remain loyal to G-d and His Torah. Reflecting on this helps me remember that there is always hope that a difficult situation will turn around and that even the things I will never understand are nonetheless good and right. 

Rabbi Akiva teaches us to search for the good in every situation; Rabbi Yishmael reminds us that even when we can’t find it – due to our limited perspective and insight – we must still remain loyal to G-d and His Torah.

Our sages teach that Torah can be explained on four levels: phshat (the literal meaning of the words), remez (insights which are alluded to in the text), derash (interpretations which are not alluded to in the text but whose origins are in the Jewish literary tradition),and sod (the mystical or secret meaning of the text). These methods form the acronym PaRDeS, or orchard, which is symbolic of the vastness, beauty, and spiritual nourishment found in Torah. Just as these techniques can be used to understand our texts, I think we can also apply them to our lives. 

We all have experiences which outwardly look and feel good (pshat), experiences in which we need to dig around a bit in order to find the good (remez and derash), and experiences which seem to be the opposite of good (sod). When we are pressured, scared, and in pain, we instinctively accuse G-d of being “indifferent” or “cruel” – after all, what could He possibly gain from making us suffer like this?! Recognizing that this world has sod, or secret folds, changes our perspective and helps us rise above the situation. The orchard has a Planter; the garment has a Tailor; and while our individual importance and potential is immense, our perspective is that of a lowly fruit or stitch. We think we are best situated or expressed in a certain way, but the Planter/Tailor sees the big picture. 

In general, we engage with the world by working, striving, and building – and that is what G-d wants. But sometimes in order to grow, we need to let go of our desires, plans, and illusions of control, take a leap of faith, and allow ourselves to fall. In doing so, we open ourselves up by leaning into G-d, letting His plan unfold through us, and reaching a higher spiritual, emotional, and intellectual plane. When we get there, we find that our relationship with G-d has also evolved because it is able to withstand a rockier climate.

My ten-year fertility struggle has carved out a painful void inside me, which was once filled with the naïve confidence that if I only worked hard enough, I would achieve any goal. I may never fully understand why I had to inject myself with and swallow massive doses of hormones, watch my family hurt because of me, or endure the agonizing waits and bitter disappointments of IVF. But through that emptiness, and despite that lack of understanding, is room for creativity, connection, awareness, acceptance, sensitivity, strength, and love to flow. Ultimately, the person I am meant to be cannot come into being any other way and the world needs that person. Yehi ratson that I, and everyone, should see their challenges, and the whole world, turn to revealed good very soon. 

¹ Talmud, Brachot.

² Midrash Eleh Ezkera, Rabbi Yishmael Cohen Gadol.