A Visitor from Sodom

There's a famous biblical story which encapsulates just how cruel the people of Sodom were: they had a guest bed in Sodom, and when visitors wanted to stay for the night, they'd be offered this bed. So far so good – but it came with a catch. Anyone who was shorter than the bed would be stretched, rack-like, to fit it; anyone who was longer than the bed would have parts of their limbs chopped off until they 'fit'.
 
Nice. Not.
 
At this time of history, the End of Days, all the baddies that ever lived are back again for their final go round. Right now, walking around your local supermarket, you have souls that reincarnated from the Generation of the Flood; souls from the Tower of Babel; souls from the evil people of Sodom, and souls from the infamous Erev Rav.
 
Of course, we don't know who they are – that's all part of the fun. But sometimes, something so extremely bizarre happens that it really makes me wonder.
 
This morning, I had a visit from the son of my landlord, all the way from Tel Aviv. The son studied in some trendy architecture school, and redesigned the flat we're currently living in to look some Tel Aviv beach house. It would be great – except the nearest beach is more than an hour away, and the last thing you want when you live next to a bunch of 'unfriendlies' in Jerusalem is fashionable glass walls.
 
In spite of its trendy redesign (or maybe, because of it…) our landlord can't find anyone to buy our flat. Maybe, it's because he's asking a million more than it's worth; maybe, people are put off by the fact that there's no bath, no space for a succah, and that the ceilings upstairs are so low anyone taller than 5'10" can't even stand up. Maybe, it's because the third 'bedroom' is actually a landing, which shares a fashionably see-through glass wall with the other bedroom, Who knows what the problem is? Clearly, people in Jerusalem simply lack taste.
 
So anyway, it's been on the market for years already, which is why the landlord was willing to rent it to us in the first place.
 
His son was meant to come and take (yet more) pictures of it the day after we moved in, to stick on some 'trendy' real estate site where rich anglos go to buy flats for extortionate amounts of money. Luckily for us, the war broke out that day, so the arrangements got pushed off until this morning.
 
This morning, we were told to expect a visit, and to clean up appropriately. Dear reader, I cleaned toilets, I scrubbed sinks, I swept, I tidied bedrooms, I got everything as straight as I could, given that we have no room for cupboards, no storage space, and barely room to swing a cat in the 'three' bedrooms.
 
Sadly, it wasn't enough. I opened the door to 'Ben' – and within ten seconds, he started verbally attacking me with all the fury he could muster about the mess I'd made of his house.
 
How dare I have two ovens! How dare I put a computer desk by the front door! How could I live like this?!? Maybe it was a 'cultural' thing, but this was the most disgusting mess he'd ever seen! How was he meant to photograph this?? I'd made his beautiful house into a Mea Shearim hovel. He was calling his father asap, and cancelling our rental agreement. Within a month, he wanted us out.
 
I knew it was a test from G-d, but it still hit me square in the stomach, and I felt winded and sick and violated all at the same time. If it was in the UK, I would have reported it as an anti-semitic incident.
 
'Ben' proceeded to call his father, and complain that there were boxes under the stairs! (all my stuff from Pesach) and blankets on the railings upstairs! (we put them there to block out some of the light from the lounge, so my youngest could actually get to sleep) And there was washing hanging up in the garden! It was so disgusting it was making him feel nauseous!
 
I listened to this terrible indictment of my home and housekeeping abilities, and all the secret fears that I fight so hard to ignore welled up inside of me: "I'm a terrible mother… I'm a terrible home-maker…I'm a complete failure… We're going to be out on the street in a month, with nowhere to go…G-d must hate me so much…"
 
Except, this time when my evil inclination told me 'G-d hates you', I didn't just automatically buy it. I stopped. I took a deep breath. And I told G-d: whatever you want G-d, it's fine by me. If you're kicking me out of here, after three short months, it must only be because there is something better on the horizon.
 
The thought that G-d was doing this because He loved me gave me strength; it gave me courage; it gave me hope. When Ben came downstairs, I told him: "We're leaving. I'm giving you notice'"
 
All of a sudden, the shoe was on the other foot. What?! We couldn't just leave in the middle of the year like that! It was going to cause him a big problem (not least because his father actually owns the place).
 
When he left, my husband went to ask next door when their lease is up. It's a much nicer, bigger house, with a much nicer landlord, and the rent is the same – or less – than what we're paying. Wouldn't you know it – they leave in three months, exactly when we need to be out of here.
 
It's not a done deal yet, but I still know that G-d loves me. And I also know that when the Sages taught that the people of Sodom used to chop people's legs off to fit their interior design, they really weren't kidding.