The Day After Gimmel Tammuz

Bsd
1.

I am ambling, meandering, walking beside my father, under the shade of spring green trees, the sun's warmth sliding over my hair and along my back. I clasp my mother's hand, squeeze it tight, and pull away. I turn to capture another shot of my sweet younger brother, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the summer blue sky, trying to preserve a lucky memory, proof of his brief presence here, at home. I hadn't davened that day, delayed by a reluctance to leave the comfort of my bed, distracted by the illusion of a world provided by my book. It's just another Sunday, like so many other Sundays, kicked off to a lazy start, drawn out into comforting conclusion, nothing startling, nothing special.
It's Gimmel Tammuz.
I lie in bed that night, thoughts drifting, sparked by what the rabbi said at the communal farbrengen. Pieces of the day spin round, like a whirly-gig mobile, first this one, then that one, and this one again, winking by in frantic flight.
It wasn't the worst day ever. I've wasted holy days in far more futile pursuits. But neither was that day what it was supposed to be for me, the day I'd planned in a surge of fervent hope, or renewed connection, or responsibility.
It was just a day.
There is a dark, sneering part of my being that sits smugly in the corner and whispers, "What more did you expect of yourself? Doesn't it figure that on this day, of all days, you would let your goals, your dreams, your true soul's desires slide away like that?"
But Rebbe, that isn't what you want to hear. That isn't going to help anything. You would want me to pull myself together, all the ragged, faded edges and declare:
I live from this moment on.
Now is the time.
Right now, I can do what G-d wants. I can reveal His presence, I can commit the final act that will tear away the barriers that stand between my people and Redemption.
I can open my heart. I can open my mind. I can commit myself, body and soul, to the next action in my life.
My Almighty Father has infinite mercy. He deems every mistake I make, every stumble on my path, worth the cost for each time I overcome all the shadows and the glories of myself to connect to my true essence, for every time I choose Him.
No matter that the former far outnumber the latter. He thinks it's worth it.
You are the one who tells me so. Who tells me to wake up every morning and try again. Who tells me that I matter. That my life is a valuable, integral part of the whole.
Today was Gimmel Tammuz, I think, and it was not the Gimmel Tammuz I wanted it to be. I was not the chossid that I wanted to be. But then there is the day after. And on that day, I can be your chossid. And that day can be the day. That's what you would want.

2.

We're supposed to feel broken from our exile. And oh, we do. Reasons abound; I don't need to enumerate them. On Gimmel Tamuz, one reason floats to the top, like a bitter oil rising in a bucket of tears.
We lost our Rebbe.
You are still here, but we lost you.
But here in this post-Gimmel Tammuz world, what have we lost?
My nephew points to your picture, and says "Rebbe! Rebbe!" In camp, we sing songs about you, and how you lead the way. I learn Chassidus, and know the knowledge I have comes from you.
There are more than 4,000 people on shlichus today. We're filling up the corners of the earth. Crown Heights is still the center of Chabad Lubavitch. I see this in my own home town. When I was growing up, there were about four or five families on shlichus in my area. Now? At least double that - if not more - the majority of them having arrived in the past five years.
It's not a perfect world. But it never was. Politics, suffering, confusion - they have always existed in our community.
But we're still here!
We haven't fractured and dissolved, reabsorbed into other communities, split into different factions (well, at least not ones with entirely different identities).
We're still here.
So how am I supposed to feel broken from my exile? With all this success, with all this fulfilling of our mission, with all of this, where is the heartbreak?
Couldn't I live the rest of my life like this? Imperfectly happy, doing what we've been doing for thousands of years, what I've been doing all my life?
I could.
But I won't.
I am a child of exile, born into an exile so deep and so dark I might not even perceive its' existence. I might be inclined to believe that this life I lead is the life I was meant to lead. That I'm not missing anything.
Thank G-d, I know better.
Because we have lost you.
And so, I'll ache for the exile. For the fact that no matter how many shluchim there are, how many people we might reach, how many songs we might sing, we're not there yet. We haven't gotten there yet. This isn't what we've been working for all these years.

We will get there. I believe.