I remember the first time I faced something difficult that felt too big for me. There was an unbearable pain, paralyzing anxiety, and fear, and I was searching for the strength to get through it—not to change the situation itself, as it was beyond my control at that moment, but rather to escape the emotional and mental state of pain, fear, and anxiety.
A little more honest introspection, and I discovered that hope counterbalances fear. The less hope there is, the stronger and more intense the feelings of pain and anxiety become.
So, I was left with one big question: Here I am, alone with myself, facing challenges that feel far beyond my capacity. My mind is overwhelmed with negative thoughts, my heart is flooded with emotions—where do I find hope in this moment?
I remember the moment I realized where I—speaking only for myself—draw hope from.
I imagined my grandmother, Bobe Chaika Feldman, of blessed memory, when her infant daughter passed away as she and my grandfather, Zeide Avraham, fled from the Nazis, escaping from Belarus southward to Uzbekistan. A young woman whose entire world had collapsed—what did she tell herself in those moments to keep going for many more years?
And when my grandfather, Zeide Moshe Wishedski, was told that his entire family had been murdered in Vitebsk in the Nazis' most creative and horrific ways, what did he say to himself in that moment to keep moving forward?
Wait—don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t following the common tendency of seeking comfort by comparing my suffering to someone who endured worse. No. What I was searching for was their strength. I believed they had passed it down to me. I searched for their ability, in the most painful and paralyzing moments, to carve a small opening and allow a flicker of hope to enter. I sought their ability to let the faith within them push its way in and influence their consciousness.
I knew them. They—like the rest of my family—were noble and special, yet entirely ordinary people. Simple Jews, just like you and me.
And if they could do it, then so could I. If they succeeded, then I, too, would succeed.
I imagined that they had sent me with a sealed treasure chest, filled with strength and hope, with power and joy, with deep breaths and a lifted head—a treasure that exists within me, though most of the time, I am unaware of its presence, and, thank G-d, I usually do not even need it. But now, the moment has come to recognize it, to open it, and allow everything inside to rise to my consciousness.
This guided imagery helped me immensely.
And when something helps me so much, I no longer care what the rational, reasonable, and often melancholic voices within me might say about it. I don’t care.
I open the treasure chest, inhale deeply—drawing in much hope, strength, power, and joy—that allow faith to penetrate my soul and spirit. And slowly, the fear and the pain fade away, or at the very least, they diminish and balance themselves against the immense treasure I inherited and have now unlocked.
Yesterday and today, I felt that I needed this—not only as an individual but as a member of our people.
The news is heavy, the images are depressing, hope is taking a hit, and faith is being challenged.
And this is precisely the moment to close our eyes and unlock the treasure.
It works for me. Maybe it will work for you too?
Try it at home.
Am Yisrael Chai!
Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Zalman Wishedski