From Kansas to the Kotel

 

At the Kotel 

Recently, as I sat at the Kotel plaza, I marveled for the umpteenth time how I made it all the way from Wichita, Kansas, the heart of the Bible Belt, to live in Shilo, Israel, the heart of the Biblical nation. Many factors contributed to my transition and one of them was Temple Emanu-el, the Reform temple that I grew up in.

That temple is now leaving its home of almost fifty years and relocating to another structure. In light of this, a farewell zoom tour of the building was posted on Facebook.  I had the privilege of viewing it the day before I was at the Kotel.

What memories! There was the sanctuary with its movie-theatre style chairs which, more than once, popped up on me when my childhood weight wasn’t heavy enough to hold them down. The Holy Ark with the Torah scroll from Germany my uncle had rescued following the Kristallnacht. The lectern where I stood for my Bat Mitzvah. The organ that played the songs I loved to sing.

Then there was the rounded social hall that held the Oneg Shabbat with its fabulous spread every Friday night. Its large, tiled floor was an excellent “ice skating” rink for Hebrew school recess when we would take off our shoes and whiz from one side of the room to the other.  So many assemblies and movies there, movies about the Holocaust, Israel, and Civil Rights. The passing out of hard, inedible dried fruit on the Sunday closest to Tu B’Shvat. The Chanukah latkes and mock Seders prepared by the selfless Sisterhood volunteers. The many Saturday night dances for the teenagers with live, amateur bands.

The tour didn’t show the kitchen but I have lots of memories of its industrial, stainless steel appliances. I remember standing next to our old caretaker, Walter Moore, chattering to him as he’d wash up the dishes Friday nights. So many wonderful aromas came from that place when the sisterhood prepared their annual Foodarama fundraiser.

I did see the library with its large, full-length window running the expanse of one wall. The others were still lined with shelves but the books were boxed up. How many authors I devoured from that library: Harry Goldin, Sholom Aleichem, Elie Wiesel, Robert Lewis, Sydney Taylor, and more. Past the library was the long hallway lined with the Confirmation class pictures and the classrooms. So many hours of my childhood were spent in those rooms learning together with children I’d know all my life. We learned Hebrew and about the holidays and Jewish history. Admittedly, it was a watered-down, condensed look at Judaism with many holes in the presentation of Jewish law but it did an excellent job strengthening the Jewish identity I’d received at home.

It was that reinforcement that gave me the temerity to change my lifestyle and move halfway around the world to the Jewish homeland I’d learned about as a child. I would never have had that Jewish pride if dedicated rabbis hadn’t left their large Jewish communities to serve in the tiny one of Wichita. Nor would it have happened without the scores of Jewish men and women, including my parents, who gave their time, money, and souls to serve the temple on boards, committees, and as plain workers. I can close my eyes and still see them in their prime building a community for the generations to come. I am forever grateful to all of them.

 My novel, Growing With My Cousin, a good winter read, is available at Jewish bookstores and on line at https://mosaicapress.com/product/growing-with-my-cousin-a-tale-of-love-life-and-land/ or  http://www.feldheim.com/growing-with-my-cousin.html or https://www.amazon.com/Growing-Cousin-Ester-Katz-Silvers/dp/194635113X/ or from my home.