I grew up in a Hasidic Jewish sect called Chabad. Hasidim means “disciples.” The Chabad community believes unequivocally in their spiritual leader, the Lubavitcher Rebbe. Our connection to the Rebbe strengthens our connection to God. When Hasidim face challenges, they turn to the Rebbe. The Rebbe isn’t a demi-god, and he doesn’t replace prayer, but he does stand, so to speak, right by God’s ear—delivering our prayers upward and eliciting blessings downward. Therefore, when our Rebbe blesses us, God is blessing us. On that Sunday afternoon, my parents sought a miracle from God, so they turned to the Rebbe.

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          It began on a typical Friday night. My family was sitting around a festive table covered in a shiny white tablecloth with pink-flowered Corelle plate settings. An ornate silver candelabra with eleven branches—one for each member of my family—graced the center of the table.

          Dad sat at the head of the table, decked in his satin Sartook frock, white dress shirt, and pinched black hat. He stroked his straggly brown beard as he ruminated over the weekly Torah portion. My family and our Shabbat guests passed around Challah bread, gefilte fish, horseradish, salad, and pickles. My sister Tzippy, ten years my senior, got up to serve the matzah ball soup. I sprang up to follow, my six-year-old feet padding after her into the kitchen. A fluffy ivory circle floated in a deep yellow pool glistening with shiny fat. I ran barefoot around the kitchen while Tzippy ladled the matzah ball soup into white plastic bowls. 

          “Stop running,” Dad warned.

          I giggled mischievously as I dodged through Tzippy’s legs, knocking her off balance. A flimsy bowl fell. Scalding hot soup spilled onto my naked foot. Heat seared into my toes, and bolts of pain shot through my leg. I gasped and fell. Tzippy scooped me off the floor and raced up the steps. She flung open the bathroom door and set me down in our rust-stained tub. She twisted the steel knob. Cold water gushed out of the faucet, swirling around my feet. My pink Shabbat robe floated up, creating a tent around me.

          Tzippy sat on the edge of the tub. As she stroked my hair, I gulped air and felt hot tears streaming down my face. The water in the tub warmed up. Tzippy ran up and down the stairs, carrying bowls of ice from the freezer to dump into the tub. My parents left Tzippy to care for me while my family and our Shabbat guests continued the meal downstairs.

          After the meal, Tzippy lifted me out of the bath and wrapped me in a towel. She dressed me in my flowered nightgown and curled up beside me in bed. Dad came to my bedroom with an ice bag and a scolding, “See what happens when you don’t listen?” Tzippy pressed the ice bag against my throbbing foot. I writhed in agony. I sobbed and sobbed. Tzippy stayed in my bed all night. Years later, she told me how she kept refilling plastic bags with ice, only to watch them melt within minutes against my burning flesh.

          The next morning, dark cherry dots covered my foot, now swollen to several times its normal size. Dad got a stepstool and searched through the medicine cabinet. He spread Silvadene burn cream over my fragile, waxy skin and bound my foot in gauze. I don’t remember the conversation we had, but I’m pretty sure Dad felt concerned about my burn while also scolding me for my misbehavior. I wasn’t concerned; my foot no longer hurt. I ran upstairs to dress for services. I wiggled into my blue dress with rows of silver fish and a white scalloped collar, but I couldn’t squeeze my bulging foot into my patent-leather shoe. I asked Mom to help me find shoes, but nothing fit my swollen foot. 

          I hated missing services at Seven Seventy. I must have argued with Mom, but in the end, my family left without me. I sat in the kitchen, eating my favorite Reisman’s brownies. Then there was a knock on the door. One of our neighbors came by with her three sons. I invited the boys to play soccer with me in the cement backyard behind our kitchen. I ran barefoot on the frigid February concrete, caught up in play, oblivious of my injured foot. The dirty soccer ball bounced off the clean gauze wrapping my burned foot.

          “Get inside right now,” Dad yelled as soon as he came home. He stood in the kitchen, motioning at me furiously to come inside. “Why are you running outside barefoot? You can get an infection.” Dad sat me at the kitchen table and removed the brown, dirt-streaked gauze. The bright cherry dots had darkened to deep crimson. Patches of yellow oozed pus. Dad gently redressed my wound, brow furrowed. Mom found an oversized cloth shoe in one of our closets. My bandaged foot was placed safely inside. The rest of Shabbat passed uneventfully.

          On Sunday morning, I slipped my burned foot into the stretchy cloth shoe, ready to start my day, but my parents were alarmed. Why was my foot still swollen? They sent me to visit the pediatrician, Dr. Plaut. I sauntered down Kingston Avenue by myself, crossed the street, and opened the door. I told the receptionist that my parents sent me to see the doctor. 

          In my Hasidic sect, sending children alone to the doctor, bakery, or synagogue was common. The adults in these places were part of the fabric of our community. I knew the staff at the doctor’s office, and they knew me. This independence was likely a combination of a more permissive parenting style and a Hasidic culture that considers community an extension of family.

          When Dr. Plaut called me in, he inspected my blotchy red-and-yellow foot. Then he sat down at his desk and called my parents, urging them to take me to the hospital. When I got home, my parents informed me that Dad would take me to the hospital—but first, we would go to Seven Seventy. We needed the Rebbe’s blessing, my parents said, so the Rebbe could beseech God on my behalf. The Rebbe’s blessing was more powerful than any pharmaceutical drug or the word of a medical specialist, because a doctor’s power to heal comes from God. 

          The Rebbe was not scheduled to be at the synagogue on that Sunday afternoon, but as we strode down Kingston Avenue—past the bagel shop and Raskin’s fish market—we heard a familiar beep, beep, beep, beep. All around us, Hasidim were pulling out square black pagers. Our community was being notified of the Rebbe’s unexpected arrival at Seven Seventy. The words “The Rebbe is coming to Seven Seventy!” buzzed through the air. Hasidim dropped what they were doing and raced past the colorful awnings lining Kingston Avenue.

          “See? The Rebbe already knows you need his blessing!” my mother marveled.

Although we were just minutes away, a crowd had already formed by the time we arrived. Mom and I headed up to the mezzanine section of the synagogue, designated for women only. “Sick girl coming through, sick girl coming through,” Mom bellowed, elbowing forward, past stockinged ankles and long black skirts. Women pressed against each other to make room—here, closeness was valued over personal space. As Mom jostled me down the aisle, the crowd thickened. The crush was too thick. Hands grabbed my body, lifting me overhead. Hands planted my feet on a windowsill, pressing my face against the tinted glass. I squinted through the darkened glass to see the men’s section below. The Rebbe sat on a podium amid a swarm of pinched black hats.

          From her position three rows behind me, Mom cried, “Rebbe, we need a blessing!” The Rebbe lifted his head and turned his face toward the women’s section up in the mezzanine. I stood in amazement, wondering how the Rebbe heard Mom’s cry above the din of the crowd and from so far away. The Rebbe’s piercing eyes found mine through the tinted glass. A warm glow surged through my body. My insides felt feverish. My throat closed, holding on to the power of the Rebbe’s gaze as it filled my entire being. The stench of stale sweat and the tumult of the crowd melted away. Physical sensation vanished. I no longer felt the hands on me, or my face pressed against the glass. I was alone with my Rebbe. I felt his eyes reflecting my soul. He knew me intimately. In his presence, my energy was magnified.

          Then, just as suddenly, the Rebbe turned away. The warmth and silence faded, replaced by the roar of the crowd, clammy hands gripping me, and the thick scent of perspiration. Hands peeled me off the windowsill and guided my body to surf over the sea of congregants. Someone set me down just past the synagogue exit. Mom stayed to pray in the synagogue. Dad grabbed my arm and tugged me along to the subway station.

          The train roared into the station. I skipped on cheerily, gripping Dad’s firm hand, then nestled against him on the fluorescent-orange bench. We were going on a new adventure—just Dad and me. But when we got off the train, Dad hesitated on the platform. He scrutinized a map carefully. I felt suffocated and hot; the platform stunk of rotting garbage. What was taking Dad so long? He always knew the way. Dad asked a policeman for directions. Apparently, we were lost. The policeman directed us up an escalator and down an endless flight of stairs onto another train. I felt unnerved. How could the policeman know the way better than my father? Exhaustion seeped in, swallowing my excitement. My limbs felt feverish, leaden. My head started to swim. Fog swirled around me. I heard my father’s voice, urging “Come on, come on, move, we have to go.” Dad’s voice pulled at me, but my legs refused to obey. Dad’s arm reached for me. I tried moving forward—but my body sagged. I wasn’t walking. I was falling. My body crumbled against my father. Through a hazy blur, I sensed being lifted. I was in Totty’s arms. My eyes were closed. Dad’s soft arm hairs brushed against me. I blinked up at the night sky. Orbs of red and green traffic lights danced and expanded before my eyes. 

          “It’s an emergency,” I heard my father’s voice whine.

          “Wait your turn,” a voice replied.

          I drifted in and out, cradled in my father’s arms. I vaguely sensed the crowded waiting room—babies wailing, blue images flashing on a television, a voice calling names. 

          I surfaced from my haze to a gruff voice—sharp and urgent. Emergency. Specialist. Sleeping? Wake him up. Backup. Immediately.

          Voices buzzed around me. The bitter odor of antiseptic lingered in the air. I groggily opened my eyes, trying to make sense of the commotion. Women in blue scrubs were running in and out of the room. A man in a white coat was yelling into a phone. Six-year-old. Girl. Dying. 

          Did he say “dying”? I don’t know if I heard it or simply sensed it—but the word slammed into me. The world crashed into focus. I was on a hard patient examination table covered with crisp white paper. The frantic man was a doctor. The women were nurses. The doctor was scrutinizing Dad with calculating severity. What kind of parent? Why did you wait? Dad, forever composed, squeezed my hand.  “We have the Rebbe’s blessing. The Rebbe is going to save you.” But when I looked up, I saw fear. Dad was trembling. His face—always steady, impassive—was grayish white.

          The doctor drew a blue circle on my thigh. He asked me if I could feel how hot my leg was up until the circle. Heat emanated from my lower leg. The doctor said that the heat was an infection. When the skin burned off my foot, there was nothing to stop an infection from entering my body. The infection entered my bloodstream and was swimming up, up, up my leg. My blood vessels were now carrying an infection that could stop my heart. 

          The doctor took a needle attached to a bag of cloudy liquid. He inserted the needle into a vein in my arm. The doctor told the nurses to keep checking on me all night. He told me that I should keep feeling inside the circle, that if it got hot, I should call a nurse right away. Then he turned to Dad, “If she makes the night, she’ll be fine.” 

          The nurses wheeled me into a room and put me in a bed. They gave Dad a blue reclining chair so he could stay with me. Dad sat quietly, shoulders hunched over a book of Psalms, rocking gently, murmuring his familiar prayers. I heard his murmurs turn into hiccups. Then I watched—stunned—as his body began shaking, shoulders heaving, tears skittering down his face. Between gasping sobs, Dad told me that this was all my fault. I was sick because I did not listen. I had an infection because I played outside while he was at the synagogue.

          A ball of anger grew inside me. Why didn’t you take me with you? This is YOUR fault, I wanted to shout, but I stayed silent. I only stared helplessly at the fat droplets rolling down his cheeks. I had never seen my father cry before. I wanted to tell him, “Dads are not allowed to cry.” But I sat frozen, unable to speak. I wish six-year-old me knew how to ask my Totty to reach out and hold me. In that moment, I despised his holy book. Why does he hold it and not me? “Hold me,” I wanted to tell my father. “Hold me.”

          The monitor beeped blue and red dots. Taut white sheets lined the hospital bed. Wires penetrated my arm and attached me to the blinking device. Humming machines dwarfed my tiny body. I spent a fitful night dozing. Every time my eyes fluttered open, a different nurse hovered above me. Angels in long white coats flapped their wings as they surrounded my body. Human voices murmured. Machines thrummed. Blue lights flashed.

          I lay in the hospital bed imagining a snake slithering up my leg, its spindly tongue flicking at my heart. I touched my sweaty thigh again and again to check if it was hot. The doctor’s words kept echoing in my mind, “make the night, make the night.” I later found out from my sister Leah that my family also spent that long night wide awake, praying for me and reading Psalms. Finally, in the wee hours of the morning, I fell asleep.

          When I awoke, streams of gold flooded through the hospital window, casting shimmering rays onto my bed. The doctor was in my room, telling Dad that the worst was over, that there was a long road to recovery, but “your girl will be okay.” Dad sighed audibly. His shoulders dropped. “See, the Rebbe saved you!” he exclaimed. Suddenly, I could see the image of my Rebbe—his knowing blue eyes, his tender smile, his face nodding toward me. As I felt the Rebbe’s gaze return to my body, my throat caught and warmth infused me. He removed my infection with just the turn of a head. I am so fortunate, I thought. All my life I was told miracle stories of the Lubavitcher Rebbe. Now I was the miracle. The Rebbe saved me. The words, “Thank you, dear Rebbe,” reverberated through me.

          The rest of my hospital stay passed in a hazy comforting rhythm—bowls of red Jell-O, mini apple juice cups, neatly arranged meals on divider foam plates. Every day the nurses gathered the children from the burn unit into a movie room, lined with bay windows overlooking the East River. Movies are banned in the Hasidic community. As boats bobbed in the distance, I experienced movies for the first time. My favorite was Beauty and the Beast. Beauty was beautiful. The Beast was terrifying. I cried for Beauty’s father.

          At night, Dad slept in the recliner beside me. In the morning, we sat on the deep window seats together, watching the boats through the bay windows. I treasured alone time with Dad, but here, my attention kept drifting—what movie was I missing? When Dad sighed that he must leave for work, I reassured him that I liked the hospital. Dad would laugh and wag his finger “no” in the direction of the TV monitor. I wanted to listen to Dad, but I couldn’t resist Bambi’s eyes.

          Mom visited often, too. But when she didn’t come, the nurses took me to the game room. There, I played with a black boy who was not Jewish—my first non-Jewish friend.

          One afternoon, a troupe of clowns visited, trailed by a television crew. I ran after them in my green hospital socks, clutching my IV pole—so excited I spun in circles, winding the IV line until I was stuck to the pole. The nurses laughed as they gently walked me in reverse circles to untangle me.

          “Would you like to be on television?” asked the cameraman. 

          “Yes! Yes! Yes!” I jumped up and down. 

          Sometime later, the nurses crowded into my room to watch my debut. Television was new for me, too. When the clowns came on, I watched dumbstruck. There I was, microphone in one hand, IV pole in the other, static blond hair flying wildly. Mina the movie star.

          “Why do you love clowns?” a voice offscreen asked.

          “Because ‘dey make bubbles.” I squeaked. 

          Mom laughed, shaking her head. "Clowns bring joy to the world. That helps bring the Messiah," she said. Then, uncharacteristically, she let me finish watching.

          The day finally came when the doctor signed my release papers. I trotted through the hospital in my green socks, saying goodbye to my new friends. At Eva’s room, I lingered. Eva was around my age, Jewish, and had a similar injury. Eva and I became fast friends. But while I explored the hospital, meeting kids, playing games, Eva stayed holed up in her room. She seemed so afraid of the hospital. Eva’s burn never got infected, and her parents rushed her to the hospital—yet her recovery dragged on. Eva had no miracle. I hugged Eva and gifted her my favorite VHS tape of Jewish holiday songs. It was no Beauty and the Beast, but Eva didn’t have any Jewish tapes.

          The nurses hugged me tightly as I stepped into the elevator. As the doors closed, a lump rose in my throat and hot tears formed behind my eyes.

          I did not want to go home.

          I fought the tears, confused by the heavy sadness weighing me down. I had missed school terribly the entire time I was in the hospital. I missed my family and friends. But suddenly, I did not want to leave. I wish I could be Eva, I thought. I wish I didn’t get a blessing from the Rebbe. I wish I could stay longer. Watch another movie. Star on television again. An instant recoil of guilt chased my thoughts. How could I wish for these things? The Rebbe saved me. I felt so ungrateful. I tried to erase the thought, I wish I could be Eva, from my mind. Mom and I got into the yellow taxicab. I stared out the window until the towering hospital receded from sight.

          When I got out of the taxi, my brick house seemed at once familiar and distant. Mom helped me limp up the stairs in my hospital socks. The door flew open. Siblings and friends crowded at the entranceway, holding balloons, cake, boxes wrapped in colorful paper. My siblings jumped and cheered as friends clapped and whooped. Tears filled my eyes, my body felt warm and fuzzy—but also languid, exhausted. I was finally home. I peeled the wrapping paper off one of the boxes. Inside was a motorized fishing game, but instead of jumping excitedly, I stood still.

          “Say thank you,” Mom said, nudging me. 

          I felt so confused—both happy and sad. Then I did something unusual: I quietly told my family that I wanted to go to bed. I usually loved parties—no matter how tired I was. It was still daylight, but my parents and siblings hugged me good night. My big sister, Tzippy, carried me up the stairs and stroked my hair.

          The next day, I went back to school. Tzippy took me in a car service and helped me to my classroom. The teacher made me stay indoors during recess. She said that a girl who is wearing hospital socks because her foot is swollen cannot play outside.

          It took several months to fully recover. Throughout the spring and summer of first grade, going into second, Mom and I spent one day a week at the New York Presbyterian outpatient center. The nurses held me down and squeezed out yellow pus until my foot bled and tears filled my eyes.

          Then, the wind rustled through the leaves. Bright green turned to gold and crimson and lemon and tangerine. With Autumn came the holiest day of the Jewish calendar, the Day of Atonement, Yom Kippur. I was in second grade, and all caught up. Mom tutored me diligently. I could read the Hebrew prayers fluently. 

          I stood praying in the synagogue, wearing my forest-green non-skid hospital socks for the last time. My foot was healed, back to its regular size. I could walk normally, but I was wearing my hospital socks. It is a ritual to wear synthetic shoes on Yom Kippur to symbolize shedding physical comfort, but I insisted on wearing my hospital socks instead of the cloth shoes. Mom and I had argued before heading to the synagogue. She held out my cloth shoes. I shook my head no. The sun was setting. Services were about to start. Mom reluctantly relented.

          After services, I went home and rolled up the hospital socks. I saved them in the back of my hosiery drawer. They remained squished behind the many pairs of tights that modest Hasidic girls wear.

          Over the years, when I turned seven and nine and eleven and thirteen, I occasionally pulled the socks out from the back of my hosiery drawer. I unrolled them and massaged the knobby sock-buttons into my palm. I closed my eyes and relived the moments of another world. I saw Beauty’s father cowering in the dungeon, begging the Beast for mercy. I saw a boat zip up the East River, sails flapping in the breeze. Then, I saw my Rebbe’s gaze, searching. I reminded myself how fortunate I was to be a Hasid, to be alive. I rolled the socks back up and shoved them into the recesses of the drawer. I left my imagination and returned to my Hasidic life. I dressed in my Hasidic garb, the long-sleeved buttoned-up blue shirt and calf-length pleated blue skirt. I pulled up the thick tights that itched my legs. I attended the girls-only religious school where I studied Torah all morning. In the afternoon, I sat in my science class and faithfully followed the teacher’s instruction to rip out the pages covering the theory of evolution. 

          When I walked around my neighborhood, I would sometimes pause when I passed the boys playing baseball in the park. For a second, I saw myself standing there—feet apart, knees bent, shoulders forward, hands gripping the bat, ready to strike. I dreamed that one day, I too would be able to play, even though I was a girl.

          Every Saturday, I prayed in the Rebbe’s synagogue. When I was eight years old, the Rebbe died, but I kept going to Seven Seventy every week. When I stood in the ladies section and looked down through the tinted windows, I could still see the Rebbe on the podium, with his full white beard, black coat, and pinched hat. I saw his broad smile and his radiant blue eyes. I saw his right arm swinging in a circle the way he used to every time the Hasidim sang. 

          Now thirty years later, as I came back to Seven Seventy, the exact same movie rolled through my mind: the piercing eyes, the arm swinging, the gentle smile. When I saw the Rebbe’s penetrating eyes before me, I felt that old catch at the base of my throat. The Rebbe’s gaze filled me in the way only this place can—my body remembering: chest opening, throat closing, heat rising. I felt connected to a deep space inside myself. My heart held love, joy, and longing alongside a deep aching pain. This life I lived was a weighted blanket on my shoulders—both comforting and suffocating. Without it, I am free, but I am also left with a quiet emptiness.

          I never formally left the Hasidic community. There was no flight scheduled, no ticket issued. When I was nineteen, I decided to go to Brooklyn College, to become a musician and a cheerleader—choices that clashed with the expectations for a Hasidic girl. I remained close to my family, but as time went on my relationship with Hasidism frayed. I dropped one custom at a time, until one day I realized that I just wasn’t part of it anymore.

          It is now two decades since I went off to college, swapping my Hasidic garb for a modern American lifestyle. Sometimes I get so stuck on trying to piece my life together. I examine every aberration, every time “the pious one” deviated from the path, and I wonder, “Was that the moment of transformation?”

          However, I am not sure myself what it means to transform. In the home of my life, the image of the Rebbe saving me at six years old, still hangs on the wall, so to speak. In my actual living room, across from my large HD television is a bookshelf containing family albums, Hasidic sheet music, a biography of the Rebbe, novels, historical fiction, self-help books, a documentary on evolution. Every book belongs, yet none of them fit together. The Rebbe, Seven Seventy, my immodest dress, movies, television—they all have a place in my life.

          As services in Seven Seventy drag on, I turn to Mom and kiss her goodbye. The aisles are still too crowded, so I hoist myself onto the back of the bench to carefully navigate my way out.  I don’t stay for the long holiday services. I only come for a little while—to stand with Mom, to be her pious one again, to feel my body and heart echoing the power of the Rebbe’s gaze. Once outside, I descend into the subway station to take the train home.