In the myriad of “coincidences” scattered across merely one lone day of my blessed existence, I know that Hashem cares for His daughter, just as He knows the location of every lowly grain of sand
I faded out as he continued to add, subtract, multiply, and divide. I can’t argue with numbers, since I don’t understand them, nor bother to try. I have no head for them, even though my father is an accountant and my mother possesses a math mind.
But as I mindlessly sipped my ginger ale and stirred the straw in the effervescent bubbles, it niggled at me that despite the fact that this boy is five years older than me and single, I’m the one in a “shidduch crisis.” Not him. Because of “the numbers.”
I thought of how many sheva brachos speeches I had heard over the years. The orator triumphantly concocts a gematria tying in the chassan’s and kallah’s names to “bayis ne’eman b’Yisrael,” or some such; speaker after speaker beams at the blushing couple and testify how it is obvious, so obvious, that even the unbiased numbers attest to the bashertkeit of this shidduch.
And let’s not forget that Gemara in Sotah, 2a: “Rav Yehudah has said in the name of Rav: Forty days before the creation of a child, a bas kol issues forth and proclaims, ‘The daughter of Ploni is for Ploni.’ ”
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