"How can you be so CALM??" she asked, with a mixture of irritation, puzzlement and relief.  I was sitting in the consultation room of the women's clinic where I work, with a woman brought to me for a psychiatric evaluation by her primary care doctor.  Like most of the women I work with, she was a veteran of the U.S. armed forces.  Her voice and her entire body shook as she recounted gruesome memories of her experiences as a gunner in Iraq. 

As a psychiatrist who has worked with hundreds of traumatized women, it's indeed important to understand the answer to her question.  How DO I feel and convey a sense of calm assurance, while still connecting emotionally to others' pain and fear?  Some of it I can attribute to inheriting my father's demeanor, and some to professional training and experience.  But I know that a great deal of that calmness comes from Shabbat.  Without that weekly spiritual refueling, without pausing in the hectic buzz of everyday life to focus on holiness and joy, I could not do what I do.

Saturday morning in Evanston.  The startling orange of sunrise over Lake Michigan - controlled fire.  Quiet, empty streets.  An el train passing.   To a veteran, ominous.  To me, full of wonder.  I breathe in the spirit of Shabbat, whisper a prayer of gratitude.

As I speak with the woman in the consultation room, her shaking lessens.  Her voice softens.  Tears long held in well up.  By the end of our talk, she is willing to risk a glimmer of hope. No, it isn't fair that I can experience the peace of Shabbat and she can't.  But it's the only way forward.  It's what keeps me going so I can help her keep going.  In this imperfect world, she and I are doing the best we can.