I had never met a person who had such a debilitating illness that noise prevented them from taking a step. Yet despite the constant pain, here was this woman requesting that I blow a horn at the edge of her bed! I tried to blow slightly louder to modest success. She again assured me that it was ok.
So I blew.
First with eyes staring into the distance, and then looking at her, I blew the shofar clearly and loudly. My lips and lungs automatically ran through the pace of tikya-shevarim-truah-tikya, while my mind thought about rabbis who commented that the sound of the shofar was meant to resemble crying. But the call of the shofar that day did not cause this woman to cry, but brought her comfort.
I had come to help someone fulfill a mitzvah of hearing the shofar, and left with a sense of marvel at a woman who chose to bring a life into this world at a tremendous personal cost, and further marveled at her desire to seek out and engage so fully into Judaism, even when the pain was so dear.
Tears
A few years later my family was back in our community for Rosh Hashanah (one has to visit the in-laws and parents after all). I once again offered my services of blowing shofar for anyone who could not attend services in shul. To my surprise, the rabbi asked if I would blow for some Jews who were in a nearby hospital that treats mental disorders. I did not mind the long walk to the facility even though it meant I would be home quite late for lunch; my concern was much more basic and childish: fear. I was fortunate to have never been in a psychiatric ward and have a deep childish fear of even visiting ordinary hospitals. But how could I refuse? I told my wife that she should have lunch without me and went on my way.
While the rabbi warned me about the security at the hospital, I nevertheless tensed every time I was buzzed through another set of locked doors as I worked my way through the large building complex. I was ultimately led to a medium sized waiting room where a woman of perhaps 20 or so sat with her parents in fine clothing. I attempted to make small conversation and only the parents engaged. I handed the father the machzor for them to recite the prayer on the shofar blowing. The three of them stood up, each parent holding a hand of their daughter as they waited for me to begin.
Blowing before an entire synagogue brings its own considerations and nervousness. However, my feelings at that moment passed nervousness towards discomfort. I was nervous about my surroundings; edgy about what affect blowing a shofar in a mental hospital might have on people on the floor. My lips were tight and the sound barely came out. The family didn’t seem to notice. They waited. Patiently. After some time, I found some calm and began to blow.
As the first tkiyah came out from the shofar, my fears became realized. The girl began to cry uncontrollably and tears flowed from both eyes like a river. Her mother holding her right hand did not move and continued to stare at the floor. Her father on her left, continued to stare directly at me. Neither one moved or sought to calm their crying daughter. I stopped blowing and pulled the shofar from my lips.
The father told me it was Okay and that I should keep going. I do not know what kind of expression I wore, and covered my mouth with my left hand and returned the shofar to the right corner of my mouth and continued to blow 40 blasts.
