Salt Lake City
I was born in Denver as an assimilated Jew, but we still knew what Chanukah was and attended the JCC day school. My father, a physician at National Jewish Hospital in Denver, loved skiing and backpacking. One of the fellows at the hospital moved to Salt Lake and told him, "You gotta move here–you drive two hours for skiing in Denver, but only a half-hour in Salt Lake."
So, in 1972, when I was four years old, my parents moved us all to Salt Lake—the bastion of millions of Jews. The Mormon population at the time was 95%, and my parents worried that we would be swallowed up by assimilation so we joined the city’s only synagogue.
I felt like my Jewish identity was much stronger than many of the kids who grew up in cities with larger, established Jewish communities. When my parents sent me to Camp Ramah in Ojai, California, I was stuck with the Valley girls from L.A. They didn’t want to talk to me because I didn’t wear the right clothes or shoes. I learned a lot though, even if the social part of camp wasn’t easy.
The Calling & Art of Healing
I was a history of science major at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, with an emphasis on the history of medicine. I learned about the War on Poverty, and that’s when I realized I was interested in community-oriented public health. It took me quite a while to figure out why I, Sarah Bronsky, wanted to be a doctor. I have a learning disability that wasn’t diagnosed until I went to medical school, so it took a tremendous amount of work to get there. I discovered that I love the deep connection that forms between doctor and patient.
"I have a learning disability that wasn't diagnosed until I went to medical school, so it took a tremendous amount of work to get there. I discovered that I love the deep connection that forms between doctor and patient."
When I started practicing, I taught my patients to advocate for themselves. At my first practice, a colleague complained, "Your patients are reading their charts." I was like, "Okay, what’s the problem?" They said, "Well, they shouldn’t be doing that.” I replied, "It’s their chart. It’s about them." They said, "But they might read it all." And I said, "Well, the doctor shouldn’t be writing anything they don't want the patient to read."
Later on, in private practice in Bozeman, I got to deliver babies, taking care of three or four generations. I was like an aunt. I cared for the mother, the daughter, and the grandchild. Then I’d watch the child go off to college, come back, and develop the same stomach issues as the grandmother. I’d say, "You inherited your grandmother’s stomach!"
My dad used to tell stories about finding tumors in very young children, which is difficult but you always look for them anyway. One day, I was telling the nurse assisting me about his stories. Not two days later, when a family came in with their new baby, I felt the belly and found a mass. I couldn’t believe it, so I checked again. I went deep and felt it move, and the baby’s whole body moved with it. I got sick. The mom was a nurse and a dear friend, and she knew something was wrong by the look on my face. Within a week, we had them in Salt Lake City, and the specialists couldn’t believe I found the mass. A week earlier, I wouldn’t have caught it; a week later, the child would have been dead. Now she’s in her first year of college. I call this my G-d moment as a doctor. I became an instrument in saving a life.
My Friends, the Bruks
At Chabad, I feel like I’m relearning the traditions of my direct ancestors because I clearly come from the same place Chabad does in Eastern Europe. My husband, Rob, and I moved to Bozeman in 1999 for the outdoors and fly-fishing. Rob wanted to live in a place where he’d like to retire, and Bozeman is the fly-fishing mecca of the United States.
When Chaim started making his rounds as a student, he saw my name, and we connected. Then, when Chavie came back with him, neither of us had many friends, so we started studying Tanya together.
Sarah helping Chavie cook for Shabbos
At the time, I was on the board at Beth Shalom, the Reform congregation in Bozeman, and I identified with them very easily. When Chabad arrived, I noticed some tension building between the communities. I tried to reassure them, "You are not in competition. What you get at Chabad is different. People who go to Chabad have different needs."
I was so isolated as a Jewish kid in Salt Lake, and the Jewish community was where I found a sense of belonging. At Chabad, you can participate or be a leader to the degree that’s comfortable for you. One of the things I love to do is help Chavie in the kitchen. How can one person do all this? It’s ridiculous. So I started helping her cook for Shabbos and the holidays. I don’t know who’s more excited—Chavie or me.
Because of Chaim and Chavie’s integrity as human beings, I’ve been able to have very real relationships with them. Chaim and Chavie do what many people in leadership positions don’t do—they’re honest about their struggles. Chaim is the first to admit when he doesn’t know something. He’ll say, "I’m in counseling" or "I struggle with exercise." Chavie will say, "Yeah, I struggle with this too," or "We struggled with infertility."
"Chaim and Chavie do what many people in leadership positions don't do - they're honest about their struggles."
I truly honor Chaim’s relationship with Chavie. They are partners in every sense of the word. Chaim admires, loves, and honors Chavie in a way I rarely see. I also find that the older I get, the more I rely on Chaim and Chavie, even though they’re younger than I am. I’ve spent a lot of time crying on the phone with them, and they’re always there when I need them. When Chaim’s mother would come visit, I helped arrange chemo for her. She once told me how honored she felt to have a doctor sitting at the foot of her bed, ministering to her—like I was a modern-day Maimonides, she said.
A Jewish Home for my Kids
Chaim and Chavie have such close, personal relationships with my children. Chaim will just call Max and say, "Hey, come to this," or he’ll show up at my daughter’s house to put up a mezuzah because I asked him to. Zoe was one of the first students when Chavie started the Hebrew school. I remember when Zoe and her classmates sang the Four Questions at the Seder! They were the youngest in the congregation to learn. Later that night I found Rabbi Chaim’s mom on the couch reading to my young son Max. That was a highlight.
The Bruk’s also created a last minute Bar Mitzvah for my son. Max’s birthday is the day after Yom Kippur, and we only had twenty-four hours to prepare. There was no year-long study and no big production. Yet, over fifty people showed up at the last minute, and Chavie made all this beautiful food.
Max is also part of the regular Bozeman Minyan. He doesn’t wrap tefillin every day, but he shows up to shul, and the men greet him warmly every time he walks in. He is part of this group of men who have embraced him. He doesn’t get that anywhere else in his life.
Setting Up the Chevra Kadisha
When Chabad started the Chevra Kadisha, they called me—because I’m a doctor—and asked if I’d be interested in helping out. I said, "Absolutely." Let me tell you, that was the most fulfilling experience. I told Chavie, "I never wanted to leave my dead patients when I was a doctor. I always stayed until someone came to pick them up." I don’t know why. The death and dying process in Judaism is really important to me. When my grandmother was dying, we spoke about the tradition of not touching the body for thirty minutes after death.
I feel a deep sense of responsibility to this community. It's really growing and developing. I love going to a shul where I have so much more to learn. Chaim and Chavie help me understand what a religious life looks like on a mundane, everyday level. I love that. It’s meditative.
Judaism teaches you to be mindful of every little piece of your life, to see the Divine spark in every person. I feel that way especially as a physician and as a person. I work hard to honor and recognize that spark in every interaction, to honor the G-dliness in others, and not to judge. I really try to move through the world that way
Sarah, Rob, and their dog Nola in a field behind their home with the Bridger Mountains in the background.
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