Tending Her Garden

Rachel sat in the morning sun, sorting through a large tray of rice. “If I start this now,” she thought as she tossed out a small, black pebble, “I can have it ready by the time Akiva comes home.”

She imagined her husband off at school, forming the alphabet carefully on his slate for the first time: aleph, beit, gimmel.... Today the block letters; tomorrow the script, a little army of letters marching before him day after day, waving their flags and crowns. And soon he would see them forming words, spelling out secret codes, relaying vital information.

Rachel sighed as she thought of all the years Akiva had not known how to read. Whatever Torah he'd managed to learn had been gathered in bits and pieces, glimpsed through a haze.

She scattered another handful of rice and then heard the clang of the gate swinging open.

Rachel looked up in surprise.

“Akiva! You're back so early. Didn't you go to learn?”

“I went,” answered Akiva wearily. “And I got as far as the schoolyard. Then I heard the children singing and I saw them through the window. They all looked so young....”

Rachel nodded. Of course he was reluctant to go inside. Why had she expected it to be easy for a grown man, probably older than the teacher himself, to join a classroom full of youngsters?

As she followed her husband into the house, she pictured him squeezing his broad frame behind a tiny desk; his legs sprawling into the aisle; his graying head towering over the others; their young voices reciting the lesson and Akiva's baritone booming above them all....

She looked at him as he hung his jacket on a peg. Even if he could ignore the children's taunting, what about the humiliation he would feel when their parents and the rest of the townspeople found out?

Akiva swung around as if her silence were accusing him.

“You're disappointed. And you have a right to be. I haven't kept my promise....”

He lowered his eyes to avoid her gaze. “You only agreed to marry me if I would study Torah. And now you've been deceived.”

“Nonsense, Akiva,” said Rachel firmly. “You promised to learn, and I know you will.”

That night Rachel lay awake on her straw mat. Even in the soft glow of moonlight, their small room looked spartan: an earthen floor, a rough board for a table, old rags stuffed into a broken window - there was little to remind her of the home she had so recently, and so completely, left behind. The home of her wealthy father....

She shivered and pulled her thin blanket closer. For the first time in her life, she felt unsure about the future. For the first time, she wondered if her father had been right. He had been appalled at the idea of her marrying such an ignorant man. But she had believed in the potential of Akiva, her father's laborer, whose hands were work-hardened but whose eyes held wisdom.

“Perhaps one day I will have the chance to study,” he had often said to her as he watched the young men absorbed in discussions around her father's table. “There is so much I wish to know.”

Rachel loved him. And she knew in her heart that he loved her, too. But he was an illiterate shepherd, and she was the wealthiest girl in the province. It was unthinkable that she should marry him.

Unthinkable to everyone but Rachel.

“There is no one I care for as much as you, Akiva,” she confessed to him one day. “I would even be your wife....”

Akiva heard her hesitation.

“If only I had some money?” he broke in defensively.

“No,” said Rachel quickly. “That would mean nothing to me. If only you would begin to learn Torah.”

Akiva looked at her in astonishment. “Torah?” he repeated. “I don't even know the alphabet.”

“Neither does a child,” said Rachel gently. “You can start at the beginning like everybody else.”

“But they don't have schools for men like me.”

“No, they don't,” observed Rachel. “You would have to start out with the children.”

Akiva sighed and looked out at the surrounding fields as if trying to see the future.

“Promise me you'll study Torah, Akiva, and I will marry you.”

Akiva promised.

Rachel and Akiva were engaged in secret, but it was not long before her father found out.

And now, disowned by her family, she lived in a wooden shack, spending much of her day searching for kindling to provide some relief from the chill that blew across the floor.

Rachel closed her eyes and leaned back heavily on her bed. Until now her hopes and dreams had worked magic on her dingy surroundings. But what if Akiva's embarrassment kept him from taking that first step? What if her future would be no different from her life today? What of her dreams of a husband great in Torah learning? Would she remain a shepherd's wife forever? Was it for this that she had forsaken not only her wealth but her father's love?

Rachel knew she had to do something. But what? Argue? Threaten?

She fell asleep still wondering, but in the morning she awoke with an answer.

The sun had just begun to rise when she tiptoed out of the house. Bringing their donkey to the front of the shack, she tied it to a post, packed moist earth all over its back, and sprinkled seeds on the dirt.

By now Akiva had come outside, where he stood watching his wife in amazement.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Be patient,” she answered mysteriously. “You will see.”

Rachel watered the donkey several times a day, turning it this way and that so the sun shone evenly on her unusual garden. She even shielded it from the evening wind. She worked with all the care of a farmer tending his choicest piece of land.

Finally the seeds sprouted and grew tall. It looked as if a bed of wild weeds were growing right out of the donkey's back.

“Akiva,” called Rachel one day, “we have run out of flour. Would you please take our donkey to the marketplace and buy some?”

Akiva looked at the beast and then back at Rachel.

“Take our donkey to the market?”

“Of course,” Rachel replied matter-of-factly as she unhitched the donkey from the post. “How else will you carry the flour?”

“But everyone will laugh at me,” Akiva protested.

“Don't worry,” answered Rachel, handing him the reins.

“Every soul was given its portion of Torah wisdom,” she thought as she watched Akiva and the donkey disappear in the distance. “My husband is as obligated as anyone else to become a scholar and share his portion with the world. Can he allow people's laughter to stand in his way?”

“Now here is a sight!” someone called out as Akiva entered the marketplace. “This poor fellow can't afford to buy land so he's planted his crops on the back of his donkey!”

The shopkeepers craned their necks to see the object of derision. “What'll you do next,” one of them yelled, “shave your head and put down carrots?”

“At least he'd be using his head for something useful!”

All the merchants burst out laughing.

Akiva quickly bought the flour and hurried home, thankful that his thick beard hid the shame that burned on his cheeks.

“A clown. A joke. A laughingstock. So this is what I've become instead of a scholar,” he thought bitterly.

Akiva hitched the donkey to its post and hoisted the sack of flour onto his back. He did not speak a word when he entered the house, but his eyes told Rachel all she had to know. Her donkey had not passed through the marketplace unnoticed. Today her husband had become the village idiot.

“We need lentils,” Rachel noted the next morning.

Akiva met her steady gaze. Didn't she know what grief this ridiculous beast had caused him?

“No,” he said firmly. “I will not return to the marketplace. I will not be laughed at again.”

“But we have no lentils,” she pressed. “Does a man cease to eat because of laughter?”

Pulling the donkey behind him, Akiva grudgingly made his way back to the market.

Every morning Rachel found a new reason to send Akiva out with the donkey. And every morning children followed him through the streets, women poked their heads out of windows, and dogs barked loudly as he passed by.

But soon winter came to the marketplace. There were leaky roofs to fix, awnings to roll out, windows to board up. The shoemakers took in their sandals and set out fur-lined boots. The rug sellers stored their straw mats and spread out carpets. The cloth merchants packed away bolts of cotton and rolled out the wools. And everyone grew indifferent to the spectacle of Akiva and his peculiar companion.

“Hmm,” thought Akiva, “no one even notices anymore.”

The next morning Akiva got up early and took his slate in his hand.

“I'm going to study now,” he declared. “And I don't care what people will say.”

“That's good,” said Rachel. “If you are embarrassed, you will never learn.”

Akiva squeezed himself behind a tiny desk. The teacher looked up for just a moment, then lowered his eyes. But the young pupils had no such tact. Twisting in their seats, they all tried to get a better look at this giant of a man who had come to learn among them.

Akiva gamely repeated along with the children, “Aleph, beit, gimmel, dalet...” but the students could not continue. Their laughter filled the classroom.

Every day Akiva climbed to the schoolhouse on the hill. As he neared the door he felt as though he were still leading the overgrown beast behind him. But when he remembered how the laughter in the marketplace had died down as surely as it had started, his courage returned.

Yes, he did look funny at his little desk. And his deep voice did sound strange among the others. He made silly mistakes. He asked simple questions. But he was never ashamed to speak, for Rachel's words echoed in his mind: “Does a man cease to eat because of laughter?”

“And just as I feed my body, I must nourish my soul,” he reminded himself.

After a few weeks, the children began to look for new amusements. After all, it seemed as if the strange man was there to stay. He was learning Torah just as they were. Was it really so funny?

“Rachel could have forced me into the classroom,” thought Akiva as he entered the school one morning. “She could have demanded that I keep my promise. She could have complained that her life of poverty was all for nothing. She could have called me a coward and made me feel even worse about myself than I already did.

“And even if she had assured me that I would eventually overcome the humiliation of starting out like a child, that the laughter would not last long, I would not have listened. I had to learn to endure the pain of laughter myself.”

As the days went by, the letters Akiva learned did indeed begin to form words. And these words began to fill his mind with wisdom. After twenty-four years of study, he became the teacher of twenty-four thousand students. One of the greatest sages in Jewish history, his words are studied by scholars all over the world to this very day.

But few realize that Akiva's greatness is really due to the wisdom and love of his wife, Rachel, who nurtured it and watched it grow, like her donkey's garden.

Midrash HaGadol, Shemot 4:68

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