Monica Rozenfeld moves to Brooklyn with two roommates — a Catholic and an observant Jew — and they each seek understanding of what it means to be religious.
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Everything Happens For a Reason
Lately, I’ve been struggling to explain my religion to my roommates. With all the Jewish holidays, where does Catholicism come in? Why do I believe the things I do and how do I translate my faith to them? Often, it’s everyday situations that test your beliefs. Last week was no exception.
On Thursday, Monica and I went to my friend’s concert in Brooklyn. Since I brought my car to New York for a few weeks I decided to drive. Whenever I park in an area I’m not familiar with I always type the cross streets in my phone, but we were close enough that I didn’t bother. Big mistake.
After watching a phenomenal performance by April Smith and the Great Picture Show, we left. Our plans for the night were to venture to Brooklyn Bowl, a hip concert venue/bowling alley where The Roots’ ?uestlove was djing.
Unfortunately, we never made it.
We walked to where we thought my car was but couldn’t find it. “Maybe I parked on the next block?” I asked Monica. It still wasn’t there. Trying hard not to panic, I called 311 to see if I misread a parking sign and my car was towed. No such luck. No one had any records that my car had been entered into the system.
They transferred me to the nearest precinct where the nice woman on the other line delicately told me that my car might be stolen. “But it’s a ’98. Who would want to steal an old car?” I asked.
Obviously naïve, she could sense my bewilderment and said, “Sweetie, sometimes people steal old cars to sell their parts.”
Nothing like this had ever happened to me and I couldn’t believe such evil could exist in the world. My life motto is everything happens for a reason but I couldn’t see the silver lining behind this. It was nearing 1 a.m. and after walking around the same streets for over an hour, Monica and I decided to take a cab home and wake up early the next morning in hopes that my car would magically appear. If it didn’t, I would have to file a police report.
I couldn’t sleep all night and just kept thinking what I would tell my parents if my car was stolen. “See, you shouldn’t have moved to Brooklyn!” my mom would reply.
Monica and I woke up at 8 a.m. Friday and went back to Williamsburg. After driving around for what seemed like eternity, I finally accepted the fact that my car was stolen and braced myself to text my dad and find out what to do next.
As she slowed to a stop at the corner of N. 6th Street and Bedford I saw it. “Stop the car!” I screamed to Monica as she came to a halt in the intersection and I jumped out (maybe not the wisest thing to do in hindsight.)
Relieved and in disbelief it was there in one piece, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Monica drove around the block and parked behind me and we laughed at the fact that we must have walked passed it half a dozen times the night before. But, what was the reasoning behind this?
As we searched for parking on our street in Gowanus we soon came to a conclusion. Finding a spot was nearly impossible as a tornado swept through our area the night before. I was in awe as I drove past the avenues in Park Slope to find trees that had fallen on cars and apartment buildings creating much destruction. Car after car had branches or entire trees on them and I counted my blessings. This could have been me. I could have been parallel parking my car when the storm hit and experienced it firsthand.
While the days my car will remain in Brooklyn are numbered, I can’t help but be grateful that the car I first learned to drive in is still in one piece. After all, everything happens for a reason, right?