The Obvious Cover-Up

There was an early morning chill in the air as I got into a cab to the Reno/Tahoe Airport enroute to my corporate headquarters in McLain, VA.

My plane was leaving at 6:00 a.m., too early for my morning prayers, whose appropriate time is at sunrise. I'd never yet prayed on a plane in front of strangers, so I decided to wait until I stopped in Washington to pray.

Before boarding the plane I donned my kipa skullcap and read the Travelers' prayer. I then noticed a fellow wearing a brightly colored beret very proudly. I had reached for my kipa to tuck it away, when I suddenly felt better leaving it on. I've had a lot of "firsts" since discovering Chabad and pride in my Judaism, but I had never worn a kipa outside my home or shul.

Watching the fellow proudly wear his beret made me think, "This is the day to go public with my kipa." Filled with trepidation over what my fellow passengers would think, I pushed my kipa to the back of my head like a confused cowboy, and boarded the plane. I planned to wear it until I arrived in Denver and then take it off while running to my connecting flight.

The trip to Denver was a long two hours. I was self-conscious, thinking everyone was looking at me, judging me, laughing at me! Actually, my fellow passengers were more interested in their USA Today than in my kipa, but you don't feel the truth when you're filled with anxiety.

As we approached Denver, the flight attendant informed us that the Denver to Washington flight was delayed two hours. I suddenly had plenty of time for my morning prayers. I strolled through the airport until I found a nice, private place to pray. After I was done, I wrapped my tefilin and folded my talit into my bag. Just as I reached to grab my kipa and put it away, the guy with the brightly colored beret strolled by again.

I kept the kipa on. Walking to the gate I decided to leave it on until I arrived at my hotel later that day. "Go for it, Shlomo Yakov," I told myself, "make your dear Great Grandfather Charlie proud."

Next to my seat on the connecting flight was a sad looking woman. I said "good morning," and when she glanced up at me, the woman smiled. The ice broken, we started talking, and she shared a sad tale about her son who was mentally challenged, as a result of surgery that went wrong.

With tears in her eyes, she told me that he was in a rehab center and needed care for the rest of his life. She was very angry with the doctor and couldn't believe in G-d anymore.

I asked if she prayed to G-d while her son was in the operating room. She had. "So you do believe in G-d," I said. "But you're angry at Him."

"I guess you're right," she said. "I just don't understand how G-d could let it happen." Drawing on the lessons my good friend Rabbi Vogel from Chabad of Delaware shared with me over the years, we talked four hours about her feelings toward the surgeon who operated on her son, her husband wh o never wanted the surgery in the first place, and her inability to do anything constructive for her son.

We discussed that it takes time to learn how to deal with a negative experience. We also agreed that it's impossible to understand why bad things happen to good people. The limited human being can't fathom G-d's plan.

As the hours rolled by she began to brighten up and literally surge with energy. When we were moments away from landing, she began to cry. She said that she NEVER speaks to strangers when she travels, but this time she felt it was okay. I asked her why, and she confided that she was born into an observant Jewish family but married out and lost her Jewish identity. But seeing my kipa, she felt comfortable speaking with me.

I smiled, and told her that I've been on a spiritual journey for several years, but this was actually the first time I wore my kipa in public.

"Why of all days did you wear your kipa today?" she asked. I told her about the guy with the beret, and she laughed. "Maybe it was meant to be," she whispered. "I guess so," I whispered back.

As we rose to leave the plane she said, "This was very enlightening. I am now going to channel my energies into positive efforts. I'll become an advocate for mentally challenged patients like my son."