On the surface I'm a saint. However hard I try to look hot, sexy, rebellious, I always end up giving off the same good–Bais-Yaacov-girl vibes. Frum, sweet, innocent, that's me.
Yet underneath lie all the needs, the wants. The guys I'd flirt with if I could work up the nerve. The times I've done more than that, and let's not go there. The mini skirts and tight jeans I'd love to wear. The Brachos I usually forget to say, the Davening I often miss. The times I've thought "Oh,what the hell!", and rifled through my Muktzah purse on Shabbos, to fish out earrings, or a key. The god I get angry with, sometimes. The god I forget about, or try to, when there are things I want more.
A hypocrite, I was scared of being. Bad under good, wants under wishes.
But I don't think I am. A hypocrite, that is. Because underneath it burns that flame. That holy-light-inside-every-Jew thing, of Carlebach songs and Chasidic tales. The me looking for truth, the me who stocks a shelf with Rav Hirsh's and Rav Dessler, between the Grishams and the Archers. The me who on rare occasions actually manages to pray, for real. The me that cares, that loves.
We hear about two forces, good and evil, having their little battles inside us. But I think there are three. Good, then bad, then good.
1 week ago