“Ah! There is nothing like staying at home, for real comfort.”      Jane Austen

“All the comforts of home!”  Travel brochure

Home can be comfortable, though not always all of it.  Depending on who else is at home, comfort may be limited, perhaps to one room.

Our former home was in Galut. In exile, you share your core identity with just a few. For instance, I was and am Jewish and Shomer Shabbat. There were no other observant Jewish kids in the town where I grew up. Later, when we could choose, my wife and I moved to places where there were enough people like us to know who we were, and where there was enough of what we needed—shuls, food, schools for the kids, camaraderie—to live our lives with others like us.

That was our home’s comfortable room, where no explanations were necessary. Our home had other rooms, for casual contacts, or for people whose connections were civic or professional. These were comfortable too, in their less personal way.

Then we left Galut and came, as we thought, home. As expected, many things here are different.  Not all.

Oyneg Shabbes at a Jerusalem Hospital

At my prior Shabbat in a Jerusalem hospital, I was a patient. This time, at a different Jerusalem hospital, I would be a visitor.

A friend had surgery planned for the next Friday morning. I joined him early that week for trom nituach, preop evaluation.

He would not be discharged until Sunday, though, and even visitors need to eat. The ward administrator assured me that there would be meals for visitors. “They’re delicious, traditional Shabbat meals,” she said. “There is even a d’var Torah.” The only thing she did not tell me about these meals was where to find them.

Hospital stays are all business. For me, this one came with cholent and a side of ambivalent nostalgia.

Shabbat Food—available but unofficial

The surgery went well. My friend was in Recovery by 10 AM, back on the ward by noon.

I asked his nurse about the Shabbat meals for visitors. She said someone would bring them mid-afternoon into the lobby near the hospital entrance. I went down there about 2 PM but saw nothing. I asked the receptionist at Admissions, who did not know what I was talking about. A colleague told her to send me down a circular staircase off to the right.

I found the stairs. To the left at the bottom was an empty conference room.

I climbed back up and started to ask random people about the meals. The first was a young Israeli—casual clothes, untucked shirt, knitted kippa. “No idea,” he said.

I tried my luck with haredi young man, sitting near the lobby with his wife and baby. He smiled and answered in Aramaic. “Sayata dishmaya,” he said. “Divine assistance! I was here last week and found out for myself.” He said meals would show up........

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)