Crossing the Sea

I have a little bit of an optimism problem...specifically, the problem is that I am not an optimist. I wouldn't go so far as to say I'm a pessimist, but I'm definitely pragmatic. I do not believe that things will always work out for the best. Risk-taking, for me, usually involves imagining every possible negative outcome I can think of and deciding whether or not I could tolerate it. In short, I'm not big on "leaps of faith." I absolutely do believe in Hashem, and I do trust in His protection...but, at the same time, I am not about to leap into the unknown without at least some sense of confidence that I will not regret it.

It seems the ancient Israelites also experienced this sense of trepidation when faced with the challenge of crossing the Red Sea. Their choice was either to return to slavery in Egypt, or to attempt to cross a vast, cold, unfamiliar body of water. All of a sudden, slavery wasn't looking so terrible...after all, they'd been slaves for so long that the lifestyle offered them a comforting sense of security. Sure, it was miserable...but it was also predictable and familiar. Is it any wonder that when they were staring down that expanse of the Red Sea, they may have started to waver a bit on their determination to escape?

According to one midrash, an Israelite named Nachshon was the first one to set foot into the water. As he waded in, inch by inch, the sea did not part...but he kept going, because he knew that returning to slavery really was not an option. Only when Nachshon was in the water up to his nose, did Hashem finally part the sea, enabling Nachshon and the rest of the Israelites to cross on dry land. Apparently, Hashem was not ready to part the sea until He knew that the Israelites had enough faith to enter the water.

To me, the message of this midrash is beautifully applicable to the risk involved in pursuing recovery. When I reflect on the source of my early ambivalence toward recovery, the word that comes to mind most often is fear. Abandoning the familiarity and security of the confines of anorexia was completely petrifying...even if, objectively, it seemed obvious that recovery offered me a much greater chance at happiness. I think this fear of the unknowns of recovery is often hard for patients' loved ones to understand, because it does seem counter-intuitive: to the witness, the eating disorder is so clearly a source of misery, and recovery is the path to freedom. But, to the person with an eating disorder, entering recovery is like wading into the Red Sea--it requires acceptance of risk and tremendous courage and faith.

In my own process, I've found that once I showed that I truly was willing to do the work of recovery, the path seemed considerably more clear than it did when I was staring at it from the camp of anorexia. It hasn't been a total breeze, but I do feel that once I demonstrated my commitment, Hashem provided me the sources of strength and guidance I needed to make the journey. To those who are still in the place of hesitation: I understand your fear, because I felt it myself. But, maybe if you take the first few steps in faith, you will find the reassurance you need to continue.

עזי וזמרת יה ויהי–לי לישועה

Hashem is my strength and might; He is become my deliverance.