It's All From HaShem

An Old Dog: A Short Story

2012-02-22T18:20:00.003+02:00

Vivian smiled at her reflection in the mirror. Not bad for eighty-three years, she thought. She turned her head and surveyed her bedroom in the sixty-year-old Jerusalem apartment. It was not doing too badly, either. She smiled again. Who would have thought things would have turned out so well twenty years earlier?

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Her hand shook as she tried to cut open the bag of milk and she cut her finger instead.

“Oh,” she groaned in frustration. She stanched the blood with toilet paper and returned to the kitchen.

“Vivian.” Her husband entered the tiny apartment as she broke open an egg and checked it for a blood spot.

“Good morning, Stan.” She did not turn from the kitchen counter.

“Shimon,” her husband corrected.

Stan?” she repeated.

“What?” he sighed, defeated again.

“Did you get the Jerusalem Post?”

“It’s right here.” He was full of energy having been up already for a couple of hours and had walked to the synagogue, said his morning prayers, and sat in on a class.

Vivian took the paper without comment and quickly put breakfast on the table. Eagerly she opened the Post to the New York Times excerpt. Shimon looked around the little room as he sipped his coffee. It was sparkling clean and sunny but the kitchen was not the cheerful room it should have been. That was probably due to the unhappiness of the woman sitting across for him.

“What happened to your finger?” he asked as he buttered his bread.

“Hmm?”

“Your finger. There’s blood. What happened?”

“Oh.” Vivian put the paper down and looked intently at her husband. “I cut it opening the milk. Such a crazy country! They can’t put milk in a carton or bottle? Every time I hold a bag I feel as if I am getting ready to give someone an IV.” Vivian shuddered. “And the eggs. Half of them have blood in them. And the bugs. Everywhere there’s bugs, the flour, the barley, even the rice. They never spray here in this country?”

Shimon’s face clouded with impatience. Vivian noticed and decided to let up.

“What are your plans for the day?”

“I need to straighten out a few things at the bank and then I thought I’d go to the Russian Center to help out. You’re going to ulpan, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know,” Vivian sighed. “There hardly seems to be any point to it. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks and if anyone is an old dog, it’s me.”

“Now, Vivian,” Shimon spoke gallantly. “You don’t look a day over fifty.”

“Maybe not,” she snapped back, “but I feel like I’m every one of my sixty-three years. And sixty-three is mighty late to start learning a new language, to say nothing of adjusting to a whole new life.

Before Shimon could answer she had her face buried in the paper. Sixty-three was too old for her to adjust but for Shimon, at age seventy, it was a breeze. It all seemed terribly unfair.

As frustrated and resentful as she felt now, there was a time when she would have been eager to make a home in Israel. Years ago, when she first met Stan, he had impressed her with a tale of sacrifice. He had been all set as a youth of eighteen to start a life in Palestine. However the situation in Europe continued to deteriorate and he was asked to turn over his hard-won entry certificate to a German Jew.

“I could never have lived with myself if I hadn’t,” Stan told Vivian when he described the death camp he had helped liberate as an American soldier. She had been young and pretty then, always laughing a laugh that reminded Stan of a waterfall.

They had been married only two years when the British left Palestine and Jews no longer needed entry certificates. Vivian had thought they would be among the first to move to Israel but she had reckoned without Stan’s strong sense of family responsibility. His father had just suffered a heart attack and needed more help with the business. Once he passed away Stan had his mother to worry about and then his widowed sister. Then there were the tuition, dental, and medical bills. Before they knew it there were the weddings to pay for, a son-in-law in Kollel, a son’s medical practice to help start. And then Stan had chest pains. The doctors weren’t sure if he had a mild heart attack or just a scare. Stan was sure of one thing, though. Enough was enough. He was going to move to Israel.

Vivian had been outraged. All her children and grandchildren lived within a fifty mile radius of her house, to say nothing of the life she had made for herself. Stan was adamant about moving, certain that once in Eretz Yisroel, Vivian would be happy they had come. Two months had passed since their plane had landed. If anything, Vivian was more resentful than ever.

“If you’re not going to ulpan,” Stan suggested tentatively, “maybe you’d like to come with me to the Russian Center?”

To his surprise Vivian agreed. As they walked to the center Shimon explained what he did there.

“Mainly it’s translating all sorts of forms. Most of the older Russians don’t know any Hebrew but they remember Yiddish from their childhood. They remember some Yiddishkeit, too and are eager to learn more.”

Vivian was almost enthusiastic as they entered the center. The place was rather dingy with cheerless, green walls. It was brightened by the colorfully clad social worker whose face broke into a big smile when she saw Shimon.

“Good morning,” Shimon smiled charmingly, “You look lovely today. This fine-looking woman here is my wife. She speaks a good Yiddish.”

“Wonderful!” The social worker exclaimed. “Come meet Sopha, Alex’s wife.”

Vivian immediately felt a kinship with the trim, white-haired woman. It did not take much conversation for her to discover why. Alex had pushed the move on his wife just as Shimon had done to Vivian.

“That’s him over there,” Sopha pointed.

“That’s my husband he’s talking to,” Vivian told her.

“My husband needs help with the form for the rent subsidy.”

“Stan’s a whiz with the forms. He reads Hebrew well after all his years of learning.”

“You don’t?” Sopha asked.

Vivian shook her head. “I don’t know how he expects me to learn at my age.”

“You see Alex,” Sopha declared. “Every day he listens to the easy Hebrew news on the radio. He makes a list of the words he doesn’t understand. Then he looks them up in the dictionary and memorizes them. Every day!”

Vivian did not want to complain anymore about Stan so she changed the subject. “How’s your apartment?”

“Crowded! We share it with our daughter, her husband, and their daughter, and grandson.”

“You’re lucky to have them here,” Vivian’s voice was wistful.

Sopha agreed. “But my son is still in Russia and his wife isn’t Jewish and they don’t want to come. I miss them.”

Vivian felt her eyes mist. “I left behind three children and twelve grandchildren.”

The two women exchanged looks of sympathy and the bond was formed. From the corner of her eye Vivian watched Stan help others but she did not leave Sopha until he was ready to go.

“You see,” Shimon said over lunch. “There are people who have it worse than you. Sopha would love to have an apartment for just her and Alex.”

Deliberately Vivian lowered her spoonful of soup and looked at her husband angrily. “Don’t think you can lessen my pain by showing me someone else’s,” she hissed.

“If you hate it so much here,” Shimon spoke slowly, “maybe you should go back.”

“You want me to leave you?” Vivian stared at her hands and did not see the grey tinge on her husband’s face. There was a long silence and she finally raised her eyes. She did not know if his look of pain was physical or emotional, but she was not taking any chances. She refilled his water glass and ordered him to drink. He did so and his color returned.

“I don’t want you to leave me, Vivian,” he sighed. “But I am tired of all, the whines and complaints and anger. Why can’t you support me with my dream?” Shimon did not give his wife a chance to answer. “You had a dream to be a nurse and I supported you. How I supported you! How many times did I come home from work and prepare dinner so you could study for exams? How many times did I take care of the kids so you could go to evening classes? Did I ever complain? You wanted to be a nurse and I helped you. I always wanted to live in Israel and now, I am finally able, and you, of all people, want to deny me.”

“I’m sorry,” Vivian mumbled in a choked voice.

They finished their lunch is silence. Vivian was not angry, but sorrowful. Shimon was not angry either, just drained. They went to sleep early that evening and in the morning Vivian announced she would go to ulpan. Not long after she left, Shimon received a frantic phone call from Alex. Sopha’s diabetes was acting up and they were at the hospital. He was having a terrible time communicating to the staff so Shimon told him he’s be right over. He left immediately, only taking time to leave a note for Vivian.

Ulpan had gone well that morning and when she checked the mail there were two letters from the children. Vivian entered the apartment in a positive mood and then she saw Stan’s note. Impulsively, she decided to call a cab and go to the hospital, also. Once there an American doctor helped her at the information desk and soon she was in Sopha’s room. Neither Alex nor Stan were anywhere in sight. Sopha was lying in the third bed with her face toward the window looking small and forlorn.

“Sopha,” Vivian spoke softly.

Sopha turned her head and her eyes brightened when she saw Vivian. “It was so good of you to come.”

“Where are Stan and Alex?” Vivian sat next to the bed and took Sopha’s hand in hers.

“They were here all morning but I wanted Alex to get some rest. My daughter will be coming soon.”

“I’ll stay until she comes,” Vivian squeezed Sopha’s hand. Sopha smiled in response.

“You are tired,” Vivian stated the obvious. “Try and sleep. If you need anything, I am here.”

Sopha did not need to be urged twice. Vivian took out the knitting needles and yarn she always kept in her purse. As she knit she thought about all her years of nursing. Even as a young woman her favorite floor had been geriatrics. Too bad that now, when she really understood the elderly, she was too old to get a job.

Vivian spent every afternoon with Sopha. When her friend slept Vivian found herself helping some of the other women in the room. She was adept at making beds with patients in them and her sponge baths were very gentle. Between her mornings at ulpan and her afternoons at the hospital she should have been exhausted, but she wasn’t. Shimon noticed a bounce in her step that had not been there for months. He wondered how Sopha’s release from the hospital would affect his wife’s mood and made sure to be home every day when she returned from the hospital

“Shimon!” Vivian called to her husband as she entered the apartment.

He stood to greet her and realized that she was not aware she had finally called him by his Hebrew name.

“What are you so happy about?”

“How do you know I’m happy?” It was almost as if she was flirting with him.

“Your eyes are sparkling like diamonds.”

Vivian actually laughed. “Sopha’s going home tomorrow.”

“That is good news.”

“That’s not all.” Vivian sat on the couch and motioned for her husband to join her. “I have a job.”

“A job?”

“Well,” Vivian laughed again and Shimon beamed at the sound. “Not a paying job but the head nurse spoke to me today and asked if I could volunteer. They need extra hands on the ward and I am a good nurse. I said yes,” Vivian said a little sheepishly. “I hope you don’t mind that I didn’t ask you first.”

“No, I don’t mind at all,” Shimon said adamantly. “Not at all,” he repeated and silently offered a prayer of thanksgiving.

Things got better after that. Their oldest granddaughter came for a year of seminary, met her husband, and stayed in Israel. Her parents followed not long after and eventually the whole family made Aliyah. Vivian counted her blessings daily and often thanked Shimon for making them move to Eretz Yisroel. She, and Sopha, might have been old dogs, but they did learn new tricks. Tonight they would be together at the wedding. Vivian’s great-granddaughter was marrying Sopha’s great- grandson.

Ulpan: Hebrew language class taught in Hebrew

Eretz Yisroel: The Land of israel

Yddishkeit: the heart of Judaism

Aliyah: literally going up, moving to Israel

To Tell Over That HaShem is Just

2012-02-22T18:15:00.003+02:00

It is good to thank HaShem and to sing praises to Your Exulted Name, to tell of Your kindness in the morning and Your faithfulness in the nights. So begins the ninety-second psalm, A Song for Shabbat. Tradition teaches us that it was composed by Adam HaRishon, the first man. On the first day of his life, the sixth day of creation, he received a wife, ate from the Tree of Knowledge, and was banished from the Garden of Eden. And then it was the seventh day, a day of rest. The sun went down, it grew dark, and Adam was afraid. He thought the world was ending because of his sin. Lo and behold, the sun rose again in the morning and Adam understood that HaShem is faithful in the night and with kindness makes the sun rise anew each morning.

Five years ago my third grandchild, Elkana Yedidya, was born with many medical complications. He could not have a brit milah until after a series of surgeries. He had his first surgery when he was one day old. He stayed in the intensive care unit and only his parents and grandparents were allowed to visit him. Nine days after his birth we received word that my father was going into emergency surgery in America. Cancer was discovered and he was given two months to live. My father agreed to spend them with us in Shilo and those two months stretched into eleven. His first weeks, though, were very difficult. He was recovering from surgery, the long flight to Israel, and the devastating news. I felt torn, needing to be in two places at once. One day, as we were driving home from my grandson in the hospital, my husband recited the beginning verses of the ninety-second psalm.

“It’s like your father is in the nighttime of his life and needs HaShem’s faithfulness,” he explained. “Elkana is in the morning and he needs lots of kindness.”

It was a very apt explanation and, although it brought tears to my eyes, it also gave me comfort. My father died with the love of his family surrounding him. I feel certain that HaShem was with him.

At ten weeks, Elkana was finally released from the hospital. We celebrated by my father taking all of us out for dinner. Still, there were many complications. He would need a series of operations to be able to eliminate his waste properly. Due to respiratory problem his parents had to resuscitate him more than once and he was also prone to pneumonia. I lost track of the number of hospital stays he had.

In spite of all this, he had the most charming smile and he grew into a friendly, cheerful little boy. He loved going to nursery school, wearing a big kepah, and could not wait to wear tzitzit. Finally, when he was in kindergarten the date was set for the final surgery of the long series. It was scheduled for the thirteenth of Shvat, February sixth. While in the operating room he would have his brit milah.

The days leading up to that date were tense. Elkana had fever. Would he be well enough to have surgery or would it have to be postponed? Thankfully, he was well and able to be wheeled into the operating room early that morning. He was practically dancing with excitement knowing that soon he would have his brit milah.

We left him and went to our normal corner in the waiting room. We prayed. We ate. We talked softly. We tried not to look at our watches too often. Elkana had been in surgery a little over an hour when the nurse called my daughter and son-in-law to come into the operating room for the brit milah. My daughter gave her father a gift of love and sent him in her place. She and I remained in the waiting room and cried. It was hard to believe that after five years Elkana was finally able to enter the covenant of Avraham.

Most of the time a brit milah is done with a lot of fanfare and excitement. Relatives and friends gather together in a holiday spirit. There is the suspense of learning what the baby’s name will be. Various honors are given out. A lavish meal is prepared. Five years ago we knew that when the day finally arrived for Elkana to have his brit milah there would be none of that.

Inside the operating room my husband and son-in-law stood at the side. Elkana was completely covered except for the place of the brit. There were three doctors, one of them a mohel, and several nurses. The mohel said the blessings and made the cut. The whole operating room staff answered “amen” to the three blessings, and wished my son-in-law and husband “mazel tov”. Although it was so different from a normal brit milah, it was no less meaningful. Several hours later Elkana’s ninth surgery was over.

At one time most mothers stayed in the hospital for at least a week after giving birth. Therefore hospitals in Israel have a brit room or hall. The one in Hadassah Ein Kerem is now used mostly for classes and conferences. However, when the operation was finished we were told that we could use the room at four o’clock that afternoon.

A makeshift meal was put together. Several of Elkana’s uncles and a couple of friends joined us. We were a few short for a minyan but that is not a problem in Israel. Four men came in as my son-in-law finished saying the set of blessing for a brit milah that were begun in the operating room.

Elkana is home from the hospital and we pray that he will never have to return. There are no guarantees in life, though. We do not know if he will grow out of his tendency to pneumonia. We wonder how the memory of all the surgeries will affect him when he is older. Sometimes when I start worrying I remind myself of the last verse of the ninety-second psalm.

To tell over that HaShem is just, He is my rock and He does no wrong.

May Elkana Yedidya and all those in need have a full and speedy recovery.

To read an article about Elkana's surgery in America go to http://www.aish.com/h/imd/48949966.html

brit milah: circumcision ceremony

kepah: skullcap

tzitzit: four-cornered garment with special strings which are knotted according to the Torah

mohel: the trained man who performs the brit milah according to Jewish law

mazel tov: literally good luck, figuratively congratulations

minyan: quorum of ten

Bridging the Gap

2012-02-22T18:10:00.007+02:00

One sees so many different types of people at the Kotel. The tourists are from almost everywhere speaking a whole array of languages. No less heterogenic are all the Israelis. Some are there for the first time in their life for a relative’s Bar Mitzvah celebration. Others come as part of a field trip. There are those who come like the foreign tourists and then there are the regulars.

I can count myself among the latter as I am blessed to be able to pray at the Kotel almost every Monday morning. There are as many kinds of regulars as there are tourists; the tzedakah collectors, the busybodies, the crazies, the righteous, and the simple Jew who wants to talk to HaShem at the only remaining part of the Holy Temple.

I pray I can be counted among this latter group also, for I know I am not one of the righteous and I hope I am not one of the busybodies or crazies. With time

I have come to recognize many of the women who also come to the Kotel on Monday mornings. One woman in particular captured my interest and we always smile at each other.

In some ways we are very similar and in others so different. We both cover our heads with scarves. Mine are colored and hers are always black. My mother tongue is English and hers is Yiddish. We both speak Hebrew. I live in a small, quiet village. Her home is, I believe, in the middle of bustling Mea Shearim. We both deem the Kotel an important part of our lives. We come and we pray and we never speak to each other.

Sometimes I come to the Kotel with a heart full of sorrow. Other times my heart is singing with joy. One morning last month I came with very mixed emotions. A good friend of mine had her first grandson born a few days earlier. On the same day her second son became engaged. I was so happy for her and yet there was pain mixed with the joy. Her oldest son would not be at the brit or the wedding. He had been murdered nine years earlier in a terror attack in Jerusalem.

I truly believe that whatever HaShem does is for the best. Sometimes, though, what is for the best is truly painful. And so as I prayed at the Kotel that morning I did a lot of sobbing.

My “friend” was seated next to me and she may have sent me a sympathetic glance or two but I did not notice. When she finished her prayers, however, she did something totally out of character. She spoke to me. “May you be comforted.”

I smiled through my tears and did something also out of character. I told her why I was crying. We spent the next few minutes talking about faith. She spoke about the tapestry that looks like such a mess from one side and is so beautiful from the other. Trying to understand how HaShem works in this world is like looking at the wrong side.

In turn I told her what a miracle it was that I had come from so far away and was able to come to live in Eretz Yisroel and now visit the Kotel almost every week.

“HaShem loves you very much to let you be here,” was her response. We clasped hands and said goodbye. She left the Kotel leaving me with a warm glow.

It was raining the following week but the inclement weather had not scared away my friend. She was already in the middle of her prayers when I arrived. We smiled and I opened my prayer book. I was still in the middle when she rose to go but she did not leave without saying anything.

“May we meet at the Holy Temple, already today. Nothing is too difficult for Him.”

I gave her a “thumbs up” and nodded.

If only we could bridge the gaps between the ultra-religious and the national religious, between the non-religious and the religious, between Ashkenazim and the Sephardim, between the left and the right, then we could have the Holy Temple rebuilt even today. And then we could be a light unto all the other nations as we are supposed to be.

Eretz Yisroel: The land of Israel

A Purim Miracle

2012-02-22T18:05:00.001+02:00

Dressing up for Purim is one of my favorite parts of the holiday but in 1991 costumes were really not on my mind. What was on my mind was the question of whether we would be able to hear the Megillah reading in its entirety. Or would a siren sound and set us all running to our sealed rooms to don gas masks?

Almost seven months before Purim, Iraq had invaded Kuwait. The world spent five months trying to oust the Iraqis by diplomatic means and then in the middle of the night on January 16^th- 17^th America began bombing Iraq. The next morning schools in Israel were cancelled.

What was the connection between America bombing Iraq and Israeli children going to school? It really seemed as if it belonged in the theatre of the absurd.

However there was some logic to it. America needed Saudi Arabian air fields for their Operation Desert Storm. Saudi Arabia told America they would stay allies as long as Israel would not get involved. There was no way they could join up with the “oppressive Zionist regime”. Therefore, Iraq had threatened that if America attacked them they would in turn attack Israel with nerve gas. Their goal was to indeed involve Israel and break the American-Saudi Arabian alliance. On the eve of the war then-President Bush came to Jerusalem to plead with then-Prime Minister Shamir not to get involved.

Instead, Israel set up an excellent system of civil defense. All the citizens were issued gas masks or a mamat. The mamat was a plastic tent for babies. It looked like something out of a science fiction nightmare. One wall had a glove shaped opening in it that someone could use to pat a terrorized baby. We were praying with all our might that we would not need to use it.

Shilo, on January 17^th, had a holiday atmosphere. The weather was warm and conducive for the children to play outside. The news seemed good. Most of the Iraqi air force had been destroyed. I was not the only one to think that we might be on the brink of the coming of the Moshiach. Perhaps the whole threat of war would blow over without anyone getting hurt.

It was about two in the morning when the siren woke us. Israel was being attacked. The instructions on the radio were for all of us to go into our sealed room and put on our gas masks. We behaved according to our training, woke up the children, and ushered everyone into our bedroom which served as our sealed room. The window was covered with clear plastic that was taped to the frame. We sealed the door shut with more tape and shoved a wet rag next to it on the floor. As instructed my husband and I put on our gas masks and then helped the children with theirs. Finally the baby was slipped into the mamat. Although I moved calmly and methodically I could not keep my bottom lip from trembling.

We were in the sealed room for several hours. After a while the radio informed us that we could take off our masks. The children began coloring with the special markers we had bought for the occasion. For me, the atmosphere was reminiscent of the tornado warnings we had when I was a child. It was almost morning when the all clear sounded and all the children left our bedroom and stumbled back to their beds.

Later we would learn that there was damage in Tel Aviv. Two women had suffocated because they had not taken the filter lid off their gas masks. No nerve gas had been deployed. Over the next weeks there were many raids but little damage. In the whole six weeks of the war only one person died directly from the missiles.

My father used to have a saying: You get used to anything, even hanging, if you hang long enough. It did not take us long to get used to the new reality of the Gulf War. We stayed as close to home as possible after dark. We never went anywhere without our gas masks. We prayed for a full night’s sleep. We made sure to have plenty of food in the house. And we ate.

Despite the background of fear we had our light moments. Being that Saddam Hussein did not want to waste his depleted bomb supply on sparsely populated areas we knew it was very unlikely that our little village would be bombed. Therefore many relatives, who a week earlier were afraid to visit Shilo, now came in hordes for an extended, free vacation.

As safe as we felt from the Iraqi rockets there was concern about the possibility of Arabs rioting. The local head of the civil defense asked my husband to drive him to Beit El so that our large van could be filled with weapons. It was normally a twenty minute drive. That night everyone, Arab and Israeli, was under curfew. It was eerily dark on the road and the drive was short. The van was quickly loaded and the two men were on their way back to Shilo in no time. Halfway home they encountered an army roadblock. My husband’s accent was quite thick and his Hebrew rather poor at that point in time. “Avraham,” the civil defense head instructed. “Let me do the talking.”

The schools continued to be closed for several weeks and the younger ones enjoyed themselves thoroughly. One morning I got a call from the village office. I was told that my children were bothering the soldiers stationed in the grove of almond trees. I set off to investigate and, sure enough, two of my sons were sitting at the picnic table with a half dozen of their friends and three reserve soldiers. All were cracking sunflower seeds and seemed to be having a grand time. When I told the boys they needed to leave I faced three very indignant soldiers. In no uncertain terms was I told that the boys were not bothering anyone. The soldiers enjoyed their company. I went home alone.

The attacks slowed down, the country settled into a routine, and the schools reopened. Purim was on the horizon. Would there be a miracle? Would Saddam Hussein be defeated as Haman once was? The rabbis began discussing what to do if we had to stop Megillah reading in the middle. For those more far-sighted, questions about the Pesach Seder arose.

Thankfully, we made it through the Megillah readings, both at night and in the morning, without any sirens or missiles. The weather was lovely Purim morning and it was a pleasure to see everyone out in their costumes delivering Purim food packages to each other. I do not remember how my children dressed that year. In fact, the only costume I remember is that of one of the rabbis. A rather stout man he had dressed up as a sealed room. He was wrapped in plastic and sealed with tape.

Suddenly a shout was heard. A radio was turned up high. The announcement was made. The war was over. Saddam Hussein had surrendered. We could unseal our rooms. The rabbi tore off his plastic. We had had our own Purim miracle!

Serving HaShem as a Woman

2012-01-24T17:45:00.000+02:00

Sometimes living in Shilo is like living in a bubble. Most of us are here for idealistic reasons and want to serve HaShem with our love of Torah, the Land of Israel, and the Jewish people. Leaving Shilo and meeting people who do not necessarily share our vision can be disconcerting. Recently somebody told me how she resents our religion because it is unfair to women. I laughed and told her I used to feel that way but no more. However, it was impossible in just one minute to tell her how and why I had changed.

Fifty years ago, when I was eight-years-old, I attended my cousin’s Bar Mitzvah at an Orthodox synagogue in St. Louis. The sanctuary was full of ugly wooden partitions that kept the women in the back behind the mehitza. I was horrified and complained to my mother that it wasn’t fair.

Forty-five years ago, at age thirteen, I had my Bat Mitzvah which included leading Friday night services, reading the Torah portion and Haftorah, and making a speech in our Reform Temple.

Forty-one years ago, on Simcha Torah night, I decided that there was no reason that I could not dance with one of the Torah scrolls just like the men and boys did. The rabbi also could not think of any reason to forbid me. I took the Torah that my uncle had rescued in Germany and changed the custom of our Temple.

My attitude then was more-or-less that of Annie Oakley’s in Annie Get Your Gun. “Anything you can do I can do better.” And now, forty years later, I am satisfied to sit behind the mehitza in the synagogue, to leave the Torah reading to the men, and to dance without a Torah scroll on Simcha Torah. I have done a lot of learning and had numerous, positive role-models in the past forty years.

One of the first things I learned in my exploration of Torah observance is that although there are 613 mitzvot, commandments, in the Torah, no one person can do all of them. Some are for kings, others are for Cohens, some are for men, and others are for women, while some are for everybody.

I also learned that when the Torah was given on Mt. Sinai, Moshe was instructed by HaShem in Exodus, Chapter19, verse 3, “so, you shall say to the House of Yaacov and tell to the Children of Israel.” According to the commentaries The House of Yaacov refers to the women and the Torah was explained to them first, before the men.

It is clear to me that men and women are not the same. A man cannot nurse a baby and I know that it is usually more difficult for a woman to carry heavy equipment. Therefore it makes perfect sense that I do not have all the mitzvot that my husband has. I still have plenty. Some of them are easy for me. For example, I have never been tempted to commit adultery. Others are more complicated like the laws of keeping kosher and Shabbat but I continue to learn and strengthen my observance of them. Then there are others that are quite difficult. Fasting on Tisha B’Av is always a challenge and no matter how hard I try not to speak lashon hora, I often do.

Instead of complaining about sitting on the other side of the mehitza I can work on my concentration when I pray. Instead of learning how to chant the Torah portion I can use my time to learn the laws of careful speech. Instead of dancing with the Torah I can teach my children and others love for its commandments. Instead of wearing a tallit I can enhance the mitzvah of dressing modestly. The list goes on and on.

I am blessed by the fact that I am satisfied with building a Jewish home. I enjoy having a big family and all that entails. Some of my favorite moments are those when I sit in front of my computer in my dining room and write articles in praise of HaShem.

There are other women, though, who are not content to stay at home. Just as there is no commandment that says only women can change diapers, there is no commandment that says they cannot have a career. It has been my privilege to know women who are doctors, lawyers, and accountants and follow the laws of the Torah. I also know women who cannot get a job in their fields in Israel but believe staying here is too important a mitzvah to give up. So they work as babysitters or cleaning ladies. Some of my friends are divorcees and widows and one was even an aguna. She was hit with one of the hardest commandments in the Torah but it did not affect her faith in HaShem and His Torah. If anything, she became stronger in her beliefs.

I believe that the Torah is divine, given by G-d, and therefore, perfect. Unfortunately man is not perfect and there are some who corrupt the laws of the Torah. On one extreme there are those who warp the laws to subjugate women. On the other end there are those who change the laws to make the Torah “fair”.

Forty days after Moshe said to the House of Yaacov and told the Children of Israel there was the Sin with the Golden Calf. The women did not participate in it. Nor did they participate in the Sin of the Spies. Instead, they survived the forty years in the desert to enter the Land of Israel.

As I raise my family and build a Jewish home I know that I am following in the footsteps of my ancestors in Egypt. There is a well known Midrash that teaches us that it was the women who kept the men from despair when they were enslaved in Egypt and they continued to build the Jewish people. I am proud to serve HaShem as a woman.

Mehitza: divider

Lashon hora: literally evil tongue, it refers to forbidden speech such as slander and gossip

Tallit: prayer shawl

Midrash: part of the oral Torah
aguna: abandoned wife

Driving in Jerusalem: A True Story

2012-01-24T17:40:00.003+02:00

To understand this article you really need to know that I am not one of those people who love to drive. I do it only because it is a convenient way to get from here to there. And since I grew up in Wichita, Kansas I really do not deal well with rush hour, traffic jams, parallel parking, or hilly roads. Jerusalem is full of all of those and more.

Shilo was a nice, safe spot with few cars, fewer streets, and no traffic lights. I could handle driving there. Sometimes, though, I needed to go to the city. And sometimes, the bus schedule just did not work right. And, since I did not have a private chauffeur I would end up driving in Jerusalem.

When we first moved to Israel we bought a big, nine-seat van that was often too wide for the streets I would find myself on. It was stick shift and there were many times the motor would stall just when the traffic light turned green. And it had no air-conditioning so the perspiration would roll down my face as impatient drivers honked at me.

Still, I persevered until one hot, spring day more than twenty years ago.

It all began when I dropped my husband at his yeshiva located on a little side street. Then I took the van and was off to do some shopping. My first stop was at a large, discount supermarket. I felt a little like the women on Supermarket Sweepstakes as I rolled my cart up and down the aisles grabbing food items that we did not have in Shilo. There was no line at the check-out and I was soon pushing my cart to the van, anxious to get to my next stop.

Once at the van, though, I realized I would not be going anywhere very quickly. The front right tire was as flat as a piece of matza. Twenty years ago was a long time before the advent of cell phones. So I turned around and went back into the store. My intention was to call memsi, the Israel equivalent of Triple A, but the burly, macho store manager refused to let me use the phone. I could not believe him. Just as I was beginning to beg he announced he would change the tire.

Appreciative, and someone embarrassed that I had never learned to change a tire myself, I led him and his assistant to the van.

“Okay,” he said. “Where is the spare tire?’

“Spare tire?” I echoed.

“Doesn’t matter,” he mumbled. “I’ll find it.”

He did but then he had another question. “Where is the jack?”

Again, I echoed, “The jack?”

Again he said he would find it and he did.

I watched as the two men changed my tire. I felt that I should offer to help but decided the best help I could give was to stay out of the way. That was probably a good decision because in a matter of minutes the tire was changed and I was on my way.

Things did not get much better, though. I got lost once and could not count of the number of times I had irritated drivers honking at me. Was I glad when it was time to pick up my husband and turn the keys over to him! It was with relief I found a parking place a half a block from the yeshiva. The space was on a curve, and, as I already mentioned, I do not deal well with parallel parking. I made a valiant attempt, though, and thought it was not too bad. The truck driver coming down the street did not agree with me.

“Lady,” he called as he rolled down his window, “you can’t park like that. No one can get by.”

It had been a hard day. I looked at the truck driver. He was so big that he made the store manager from the morning look like Popeye before the spinach. I looked at the van and knew there was no way I would be able to park it any better. In a split second I made a decision. I held out my keys.

“If you don’t like the way I parked do it yourself.”

I would have never dreamed of doing such a thing back in Wichita. But, I was not in Kansas anymore. Here, in Israel the drivers are reckless and the roads are bad but I can trust a Jewish truck driver.

He took the keys out of my hand and did not make off with my van. Instead he parked it beautifully and smiled as he drove off in his truck.

All’s well that ends well but it was many years before I ventured to drive in Jerusalem again.

To Be a Better Friend: A Short Story

2012-01-24T17:35:00.001+02:00

Rochel and Shula had just finished listing all the teachers who needed to be thanked when Rochel suddenly doubled over in pain.

“What’s wrong?” Shula asked full of concern.

Rochel just groaned.

“Can I get you some water?"

Rochel shook her head. Not only was she in pain, but she was also embarrassed. Shula was a sophisticated woman who ran her own bookkeeping business. She, in contrast, was a stay-at-home mother who supplemented her family’s income with babysitting.

The two had never had much in common. For some reason, though, their daughters’ teacher decided they would be the perfect ones to head the committee to plan the eighth grade graduation. Now, after she felt that Shula was getting to know and respect her, she had to have one of her attacks.

With great effort she bit her lip, raised her head, and tried to smile at Shula. “I’m sorry I scared you,” she answered ruefully. “It’s just that I get these stomach pains every so often that make me feel like I’m a sotah and my stomach is going to explode any second.”

“You’re still in pain now?” Shula seemed full of sympathy and Rochel did not feel as embarrassed.

“Not like before,” Rochel took slow, deep breaths and her color gradually returned. She smiled ironically. “It’s kind of like labor pains, it starts slowly, builds to a climax, and then it ebbs out. Only I don’t get a baby out of the ordeal.”

Shula smiled. She did respect Rochel, more than Rochel could imagine. One of the reasons was Rochel’s ability to put a cheerful face on the most trying of circumstances. “Have you been to the doctor?”

“Oh, yes,” Rochel sighed. “When the pains first started about six months ago. He sent me to the gastro specialist and she ordered all sorts of tests.” Rochel wrinkled up her nose in distaste. “Some of them were not very pleasant but they all came out okay and they could not find any reason for the pain. So, I went to a homeopathic doctor.”

“And?” Shula prodded.

“He had an excellent reputation but it cost a lot of money and he told me to stop eating anything with cooked oil, but I didn’t eat cooked oil to begin with,” Rochel sighed again.” It’s something I’ll just have to learn to live with.”

“That’s crazy!” Shula exclaimed. “Have you tried going to the emergency room?”

Rochel shook her head. “The pain lasts an hour at the most. By the time I would get to the hospital and be called in it would be all over.”

Shula mulled over what Rochel had told her. “Rochel, you’ve got to go back to your family doctor.”

Rochel shook her head again. “It’s a waste of time.”

Shula shook her head in response. “I know you don’t have a surplus of time,” she said with understanding. “But he has to know you’re still having the pains. Is there something I can do to help out so you’ll have time to go?”

Rochel’s face lit up. “That’s so nice of you!” she exclaimed.

Shula blushed. “Well, I care about you. I’m really glad the girls’ teacher put us together and I got to know you.”

“I feel the same way,” Rochel said softly.

“So, you’ll call the doctor tomorrow?” Shula insisted.

“You’re not going to let up on me until I do?”

“Probably not.”

Four days later Rochel called Shula and her voice was full of excitement.

“I went to the doctor and he sent me for an ultrasound. And I have a hernia. That was the reason for the pain.”

“So you’re going to have surgery?”

“I’m scheduled for two weeks from Thursday.”

“You sound awfully happy for someone who needs to have surgery.”

“It’s such a relief to know what the problem is and know that it’s not going to kill me,” Rochel laughed. “But Shula, don’t tell anyone I’m having an operation.”

“The more people who know the more can pray for you,” Shula responded gently.

“A hernia operation is the easiest operation there is except for having wisdom teeth out. I’ll be coming home from the hospital Friday, if all’s well, rest up over Shabbat, and be back to normal by Sunday.”

Any operation is an operation, Shula thought but did not voice her opinion. Instead she resolved to put Rochel on her prayer list and to prepare dinner to send in Monday after the surgery.

Rochel did tell a few people. The doctor told her that she could not do any lifting for at least two weeks after the operation so she had to make alternative babysitting arrangements for her charges. Of course, her husband told her mother-in-law and she told her married daughters. They sent in all the food they would need for Shabbat and then some.

Sunday morning, however, Rochel discovered that she was not back to normal. She was taking pain pills every four hours and having trouble sitting, standing, and walking. Word spread that she was not well and visitors began coming. The Sages teach that everyone who visits the sick takes away one-sixtieth of the illness. Rochel did not know if her callers made her any healthier but they sure took her mind off her pain, far more than any of her books or music could. However, there was a nagging thought in the back of her mind. What had happened to Shula?

Rochel’s pain had put a damper on her ability to put a cheerful face on the most trying of circumstances. She was annoyed that Shula did not call. Her new “friend” might have been glad that the teacher paired them up but obviously that gladness did not mean Shula was interested in a friendship. And yet, Rochel, reminded herself, Shula had really seemed sincere. Then she would shrug her shoulders. Obviously, Shula was a do-gooder who wanted to be nice to her mousy co-chairman. As Rochel’s thoughts took her down the path of self-pity, she would stop and pick up a book of psalms. Then she would be fine until the next time negative energy took over her emotions.

Despite all the visitors she had all week long, she continued to hope that Shula would come knocking at the door. Every time the phone rang she would check caller ID. Finally, Friday morning, nine days after the surgery, Shula’s number appeared.

“Rochel? How are you feeling?” Shula’s voice was definitely stressed.

“Okay.” Rochel’s voice was flat.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been over or brought you dinner or anything.” Rochel heard tears in Shula’s voice. “I, I need your help.”

“What’s wrong?” Rochel’s heartbeat quickened. Had she been spending all her time resenting Shula’s silence while Shula was having troubles of her own?

“My mother was in a car accident Erev Shabbat on her way to us. She’s been in ICU all week and they are prepping her for surgery now…”

“I’m so sorry!” Rochel felt her face flush with mortification.

“Thank you,” Shula swallowed back a sob. “Can you please pray for her?”

“Of course! Can I call anyone else for you?”

“Oh, that would be so nice,” Shula exclaimed.”Do you have time?”

“I have time,” Rochel said emphatically. “Give me all the numbers you want.”

She took the pad of paper next to her bed and began jotting down the phone numbers. The Sages may have taught us that everyone who visits the sick takes away one-sixtieth of the illness. They also taught us the commandment to judge others favorably.

Rochel felt ashamed of herself. She was able to forget about her pain while she made the calls. That done she picked up her book of psalms and prayed for Shula’s mother. She also prayed for forgiveness. It was horrible that she had judged Shula harshly. She prayed that she could be a better friend.

Sotah: A woman suspected of adultery, see Numbers, Chapter 5, verses11-13

Erev: eve

Tu B’Shvat: The New Year of the Trees

2012-01-24T17:30:00.001+02:00

When I was a child Sunday morning meant going to religious school with a handful of my Jewish friends. We would go in carpools, week after week, clutching a dime in our hand to give to the tzedakah fund. Sometime after Chanukah those dimes changed into quarters and fifty cent pieces as we began saving to buy trees in Israel in honor of Tu B’Shvat, the new year of the trees.

With only twenty-five dimes we could pay for a tree to be planted in the John F. Kennedy Peace Forest, Jerusalem Victory Forest, or Bar Kochba Forest. On the Sunday closest to Tu B’Shvat we would always receive a bag of dried, tasteless fruits supposedly from Israel. Along with that came a certificate from JNF, Jewish National Fund, stating our tree had been planted in memory or in honor of whomever we had specified when we had saved up the required amount.

I remember being taught how important those trees were to Israel to help restore the soil that had eroded over the years. Now that I am living here I see how many parks and nature reserves have beautified our land and I am thankful to all those children who brought their coins to religious school year after year. JNF did not solely rely on the religious school children, though. Many homes had the blue and white JNF tzedakah box sitting on their counters and these too helped to build the forests.

We learn in the Bible that when the children of Israel settled the land there were many trees in the mountains of Efriam where Shilo is located. (See Joshua, Chapter 17) During the rule of the Ottoman Empire most of those trees were chopped down and their wood used for train tracks. When I moved to Shilo there were still just a few trees and therefore not many birds. JNF did not start planting trees here until a few years later. It was up to us to beautify the land and several local people took the responsibility for this. One of the most interesting is Moshe Kessler.

Moshe began his life in the Jewish neighborhood of Harlem in New York. He was always a Zionist along with being a proud American and he insists there is no contradiction there. When World War II broke out he did not wait to be drafted. Wanting to be sent to fight the Nazis he enlisted. Instead of being sent to Europe he was shipped to the Pacific to fight the Japanese. While serving there he earned two Purple Hearts and a Bronze Star.

Without any false modestly Moshe bluntly describes himself as a good soldier. “I did everything I could to follow my own belief that America was a great country and we were in the right.”

Following the war he met his wife, Malka. “I liked her,” he says. “She was a very nice person.” She was and still is not only nice, but also strong, spunky, and most supportive of her husband. She followed him to Lafayette, Indiana where Moshe studied in graduate school at Purdue University and later in Brooklyn Law School. He passed the New York State Bar Exam and became a trial lawyer.

Before their seven children were born they took the time to do some travelling. Moshe loved reading about the places before they visited them and then meeting the natives. Probably his most exotic trip was not a vacation, rather a visit to Mississippi in 1964. He spent about a week there interviewing all sorts of people about the disappearance of the three civil rights workers. They were found, after bribes were paid, buried deep under a cement dam. Later, that same year, the Supreme Court of the United States changed the concept of “separate” being “Equal”.

He was a good trial lawyer and also represented many poor people as clients. At the same time, one of his favorite hobbies was raising trees. Four of his grown children had made aliyah and in 1981 he and Malka moved to Israel to grow trees.

They arrived at Beit Canada, an absorption center in Jerusalem, and began looking for a place to make their home. Travelling the length and width of the country they decided that Shilo was the best place for them to settle. However, they were in their late fifties, already, and those in charge were not interested in accepting such an “old” couple.

Moshe was not a trial lawyer for nothing. He fought to be accepted in Shilo and they finally were. Later, he fought for help in getting land for his tree farm. Now, thirty years later, he has to his credit dozens and dozens of trees which were planted in Gush Shilo. Thanks to him and others the sound of birds chirping and singing has returned to Shilo and its hills.

Hashgacha Pratit: Part Two

2011-12-25T17:30:00.006+02:00

As soon as the soldier stopped the bus the questions started from the passengers. Immediately the rumor began going up and down the aisle that there had been a terror attack. My daughter jumped up, grabbed her first aid kit, and was at the front of the bus in a few seconds.

“Let me out,” she told the driver.

“I can’t! There’s been a shooting!”

“But I’m a medic!”

Without another word the driver opened the door and Shoshana scrambled down the steps. It was nothing short of a miracle that she had been on that bus at that particular time with her first aid kit. HaShem had set the stage for this particular episode of Hashgacha Pratit more than a month earlier when my mother-in-law died on the Shabbat of our youngest son’s Bar Mitzvah.

Saturday night, after we learned of her death, there was much to do. Besides making arrangements for my husband and eldest son to fly out that evening, we needed to cancel the Bar Mitzvah party planned for the coming Monday. Being that we had not had a family celebration in over four years we had spent a lot of time planning the “perfect evening”. We reserved the sport hall in the nearby village along with tables and chairs. One of our neighbors is a caterer and together we worked out a delicious menu for the festive meal. Another neighbor plays the organ and was set to provide music for lots of dancing. Several more of our neighbors, who are rabbis, were planning to speak at the evening and our son knew his speech well. In just a few phone calls we were able to cancel all our hard work. Close friends helped us inform all the invited guest of the change in plans.

Our Bar Mitzvah boy handled his disappointment well, probably better than I did. I had a hard time while my husband was away. Although he had lost his mother I had lost my mother-in-law. He was sitting shiva a half a world away. Instead of participating and being supportive there, I was at home dealing with my loss and my children’s loss of their grandmother. In the back of my mind was the question of what we would do to celebrate for my son.

The question was put on hold until after Shloshim. And then the upcoming Israeli elections gave us an idea. Election Day in Israel used to be a holiday of sorts. Public schools and offices were closed. Businesses had to pay their workers extra. That year, for some reason, our school in Shilo was going to have a three day break. We chose one of those days to celebrate the Bar Mitzvah.

Our son invited all the boys in his class, the class above him, and the class below him, and then some more. We filled up a bus and took the boys to an amusement park outside Jerusalem. All of our older children came along to help chaperone and our oldest daughter came as the medic.

It was an original, enjoyable outing followed by a luncheon back in Shilo. Once over Shoshana boarded the bus to go back to Jerusalem. She had been riding only ten minutes when the driver stopped and let her off the bus.

There were two wounded, an adult male and a little boy. Shoshana went to the wounded man and a passing Arab who was also a medic worked on the child. Here was another “coincidence”, two medics “just happened” to be passing by at that particular time. One more coincidence, years earlier our daughter had spent a class Shabbat in the village where the wounded man lived and, of course, it was at his table she had eaten.

He and the boy were stabilized by the time the ambulances came. With her work over Shoshana hopped back on the bus. A friend of ours who had watched it all from the bus window told us she sat down quietly with a proud, half smile on her face.

We were proud of her for her willingness and ability to help save the injured. More than a month earlier I had wondered why HaShem had chosen that particular time to have my mother-in-law die. It was almost as if He was telling us he did not want us to make a big party. Now I thought I had an answer to my questions. It was not that HaShem did not want us to celebrate. Perhaps it was because He wanted to set the wheels in motion so my daughter would be able to help save the wounded. We are grateful to her and to all the other volunteers who give of their time so generously.

Shiva: the first week of mourning
Shloshim: the first thirty days after the funeral

They Murder: We Build

2011-12-25T17:25:00.006+02:00

These words were said by Prime Minister Binyomin Netanyahu to young Tamar Fogel when she was sitting shiva for her murdered parents, two brothers, and baby sister. They were recorded in an interview on Israeli TV Channel Two*. Later in the clip Tamar describes how she remonstrated with the Prime Minister and said, “But afterwards you evacuate”. She could have been describing the destruction of her home in Netzarim which was destroyed in the Expulsion of Gush Katif in 2005. I think she was probably referring to the violent destruction of houses at Gilad Farms just two weeks before her family was murdered.

“They murder, we build” is an ideal that not only sends a clear message to the murderers; it also gives comfort to the survivors.

Twenty years ago my neighbor, Rachela Druck, Hy’d, was murdered along with the bus driver, Yitzhak Rofe, Hy’d, when their bus, full of women and children, was attacked by Arab gunmen. Although Rachela had not been a close friend of mine, my world turned upside down. For the first time in my life someone I knew personally had been murdered and murdered for one reason only: Because she was a Jewess.

With her murder the cemetery in Shilo was established the following day. All morning long I heard the rumble of tractors and forklifts preparing her resting place down below my house. In the afternoon I, along with hundreds and hundreds others, made my painful way to her funeral. In the evening my daughter and I stood on our porch and watched as ten mobile homes rolled by.

At the same time the cemetery had been prepared, the site for a new village, Shvut Rachel, was cleared. With tears in my eyes and my arm around my daughter, I sang softly, Shavu Banim, The Children Will Return, as the mobile homes moved into place. It gave me a bit of comfort. The American spokesperson called the establishment of Shvut Rachel provocative and the Israeli government declared it a closed military zone. Still, it managed to persevere and now Shvut Rachel is home to a hundred families. They murder; we build.

For some of the women in Shilo beginning Shvut Rachel was not enough. Horrified by the murder of a young mother leaving seven children behind they felt they had to do more and called out to the women in the area for help. Women from Beit El and Kedumim responded and joined the women from Shilo. They made their way to the site of murder, less than five kilometers from the Tapuach Junction, and erected a tent of mourning.

I remember sitting outside that tent, watching the Arab drivers pass by, and wondering what they thought of our tent. More important, however, was what the government thought of that tent. The powers-to-be let it remain there through the week of shiva and the first thirty days of mourning.

Twenty years ago, on the first night of Chanukah, our menorah lighting was very emotional for me. I could not help wondering how the Druck family would be able to celebrate the holiday a mere thirty-four days after Rachela had been murdered. For my children’s sake I made a great effort to pull myself together and join in the singing. Later, as we were in the middle of our Chanukah supper, a neighbor knocked at the door. In a hushed voice he told my husband that there had been another shooting. Zvi Klein, from Ofra, had been shot in the head and was in critical condition.

I did not know Zvi Klein and, surprisingly, in all the years that we have lived here I am not acquainted with any of his family. Still, he was a fellow Jew and he could have been me or any of my loved ones. The ambush had taken place in Al-Bireh, the Arab town we drove through every time we travelled to Jerusalem.

Zvi Klein, Hy’d, succumbed to his injuries the following day. In the midst of the grief it was decided that we would not be satisfied with a mourning tent or memorial marker at the site of Rachela’s murder. We would start another village.

I remember leaving Shilo right after lighting the menorah the second night of Chanukah. It was dark, cold, and drizzly. Many of us were scared to be on the roads after dark. In spite of all that, we had filled our van with some of our children and neighbors. With a prayer for a safe journey we joined others on their way to Rachela’s murder site.

As we gathered there more and more carloads arrived. There must have been speeches but I do not remember any of them. What I do remember is the euphoria when three mobile homes accompanied by a convoy of cars filled with supporters arrived. In the rain the men dashed to greet them dancing and singing Shavu Banim. Again, I felt a bit of comfort.

Those three mobile homes were dropped haphazardly and the Israeli flag raised on top of one of them.

A number of people returned to their warm, dry homes. Many others, though, stayed and camped out in the mobile homes. It was decided the new village would be named Rachelim, plural for Rachel and named for three Rachels. Rachela Druck, Rachel from the Torah, and Rachel Weiss, Hy’d, another young mother who had been murdered in a fire bomb attack on the bus she was riding ten years earlier.

The whole week of Chanukah people stayed in the mobile homes. Others put Rachelim on their Chanukah vacation itinerary and stopped by to give moral support and food. It felt good. We were showing the world that we would continue to grow and stay strong.

It was not easy. In the beginning the government agreed to have an army camp at the site and only soldiers could sleep there. On Shabbat, though, there were always groups, either young families who wanted to make their home there or teenagers who had the commitment to keep Rachelim a reality. After a while wooden structures were built under the army tents but the electricity still came from the generator and there was no running water.

Slowly things began to improve, although there were lots of starting and stopping. The tents were removed and more structures were built. Electricity lines were strung and water pipes built. Now Rachelim is home to fifty families. They murder; we build.

However, Tamar Fogel is correct. Afterwards the government evacuates. Evacuate is a polite way of saying destroy. Not only were the towns and villages in Gush Katif destroyed; homes were razed in Maon Farms, Amona, Migron, and many other locations.

In 2001 Asaf Hershkowitz, Hy’d, a young father from Ofra was murdered in a terrorist shooting, just three months after his father was killed in a drive-by attack. Givat Asaf was begun at the site of the murder, a strategically valuable location. Twenty-four families live in mobile homes there. Since there is a constant threat of expulsion hanging over their heads no one has built a permanent home.

Following the Fogel murders Givat Aryeh was begun, the name chosen because it holds the initials of Udi, Rut, Elad, Yoav, and Hadas Fogel, Hy’d. Its aim was to send a powerful message to Awarta, the nearby village where the terrorists lived. Last month, ironically the day after one of the murderers of the Fogel family was found guilty, Givat Aryeh was razed by the army using Arab workers. This was done by the orders of the Israeli government. No self-respecting Israeli government should sanction such activity.

Yes, Tamar was right. They murder, we build, and then the government destroys. However, there is another factor to the equation: we rebuild. Givat Aryeh now has another house, a few tents, and they are building a new synagogue. With HaShem’s help, we will continue to build and rebuild until the time comes when new villages will not be built in memory of our murdered; rather to honor our living. And then there will be the ultimate rebuilding, The Third and Eternal Holy Temple. May we see it swiftly, in our times.

Hy’d: HaShem should revenge their blood

Shiva: the first week of mourning

* The interview with Tamar can be viewed at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mWG91wJw8pg

The Tenth of Tevet

2011-12-25T17:20:00.001+02:00

On the tenth of this month, Tevet, we observe a day of mourning in memory of the siege of Jerusalem that we learn about in the Book of Kings. That siege, led by Nebuchadnezzar, was the first in the series of events that led to the destruction of the First Holy Temple. We fast on this day and in Israel Kaddish, the prayer for the deceased, is recited for people whose date or place of death is unknown. Therefore, the Chief Rabbinate of Israel has designated it as a day of remembrance for those who died in Holocaust. Although my father’s family all came from Germany, Divine Providence, along with some helpful connections, enabled all of them to escape the Nazis before 1939.

Still, we have our family legends, the most important one being the story of the Sefer Torah my Uncle Fred rescued the morning following the Krystallnacht. I first heard the story from my father who was already in America when it happened. His version is the one I used for my Bat Mitzvah speech in the Reform temple in Wichita, Kansas where I grew up.

I told the story of how a neighbor had warned my grandparents of the upcoming attack and warned the Jews of Jesberg, the small village where my father’s family had lived for many generations. Everyone went to the forest to hide and the next day, my Uncle Fred, who was then nine, found a Torah scroll in the rubble of the synagogue. He rescued it and it was brought with him and his parents when they came to America the following month.

My speech reflected my admiration for my uncle stating, my uncle was willing to sacrifice his life to save this Torah. Young as he was he knew how important it was and what it meant to our people. All of us will have to make sacrifices at one time or another, too; not to save the scroll, but what is inside it: the basis of our Jewish religion, the Law of G-d, our way of life.

It continued with ideas of how I could keep the spirit of the Torah alive, thank you to my parents and teachers, and closed with a commitment. I want to do whatever I can to make sure that my Uncle did not save the Torah scroll in vain.

My uncle did not hear my speech. He lived on the east coast and my cousin had been born just a week earlier so he did not come to my Bat Mitzvah. I always thought of him as a hero but never asked him how he felt as a nine-year-old boy in Nazi Germany rescuing a Torah scroll. Just recently I requested his version of the story.

Not every German was a Nazi and an anti-Semite: the son of a neighbor who had the only car in the village and who drove some of the Nazis had heard what was planned and warned my parents. By this time there were only six Jewish families left in Jesberg and my parents told them. All left their homes that night to hide in the fields except us. My father still had difficulty walking [following a stroke]so we went to a house still occupied by a Jewish family who had recently sold it so we thought that we would be safe there and that turned out to be the case. We heard the mob as they ransacked our little Synagogue, destroyed the one remaining Jewish store and then went on to several homes including ours but not the one we were in. The devastation we found upon our return to our home in the morning was indeed sad. Furniture had been damaged, glasses and dishes broken, beds soaked with urine and they also left behind a cat-of-nine tails which really scared me. However, I was also angry and I decided to go by myself to the Synagogue to find my wimpel which I wanted to take with us when we left for America. The Synagogue was in terrible condition. Prayer books, shawls and Torah Scrolls had been piled on the floor and a fire had been set which only scorched some of the items before it went out. Looking through the rubble, I found a Torah Scroll which had been torn apart at a seam but was otherwise undamaged. I went home to get our hand wagon and brought both pieces home. About a month later this scroll was packed with the rest of our belongings and shipped to Stillwater, Oklahoma. It could not be used being torn apart at a seam so it remained unused until the 1950’s when my brother, Walter, brought it to his Temple in Wichita, Kansas. There it was repaired to make it kosher and usable.

No matter how many times I heard the story I find it amazing that a young boy, nine years old, who had lived under the Nazi regime already for five years, still had the strength of his beliefs to rescue a Torah scroll in broad daylight. He did not find his wimpel, the long sash that my grandmother had embroidered for him. He had been swaddled with it at his brit and later it was used as a binding for the Torah scroll. It was lost forever but he did find the Torah scroll that became a family legend. I am so thankful to my Uncle Fred for his rescue efforts so many years ago. It was that scroll that helped influence me to choose my path of life as an observant Jew living in Eretz Yisroel.

Krystallnacht: a major pogrom against the Jews in Nazi Germany on November 9^th, 1938

Birkat Cohanim

2011-12-25T17:15:00.001+02:00

When I lived in America I would hear Birkat Cohanim, the priestly blessing only on Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Pesach, Shavuot, and Sukkot. Now I am fortunate that in Israel it is recited every Shabbat and in some place even daily.

It is a beautiful prayer in which the Cohanim, those descended from the tribe of Aaron, stand in front of the congregation. With their hands spread open and their heads covered with their prayer shawls they recite, “Blessed are You, HaShem, our G-d, who made us holy with the holiness of Aaron and commanded us to bless the people of Israel with love.” Then, with the prompting of the one leading the services, the following three requests are made.

“May HaShem bless you and guard you.”

“May HaShem light up his face for you and favor you.”

“May HaShem lift up his face to you and establish peace for you.”

To each of these pleas the congregation answers, “Amen”. Traditionally children run to their fathers at the time of the Cohanim blessing and hide under their prayer shawls. In the women’s section the girls often snuggle with their mothers. The Cohanim are representing HaShem’s holiness and it is too powerful for us to look at directly. Still, I love to take a peep. Not at the Cohanim, of course, but rather at the children, the future of the Jewish people, gathered under their father’s protection and listening to the Cohanim blessing them with love.

Love is the theme of the priestly blessing. Aaron the Cohan was known for his love for the Jewish people. Traditionally we know that whenever there was strife between two friends he would work as the peacemaker. For me, the priestly blessing represents the love of my favorite uncle who was a cohan. Its words were the last words he said to me.

Uncle Max was a man full of contradictions. A gruff man he was known for his acts of kindness and gifts of tzedakah. A successful cattleman his home was a dilapidated four room farmhouse. A traditional Jew he lived in Stillwater, Oklahoma, hardly a thriving Jewish center. It was all this and more that combined to make my Uncle Max a most special person for me, my family, and scores of others.

He never married so my cousins and I felt that he was more than just an uncle. Even after my parents died I continued to make overseas trips to visit him. The last few years he began failing physically and at age eighty-nine he finally retired. Daily trips to the pasture to feed the cattle had become too much for him. Staying home was not easy, either. He had several minor strokes and one major one. He made the painful decision to move to the Jewish Retirement Home in Tulsa right before Rosh Hashanah last year. So we made plans to visit him after the holidays.

We arrived on Sunday. Monday is stockyards day in Tulsa and until he retired Uncle Max would always spend the day there bidding, buying, selling cattle, and seeing friends. We suggested that we visit there the following day. Uncle Max’s first reaction was negative. My husband told him, “Well, we’re going to the auction tomorrow. If you want to come, too, you’re welcome.” He agreed, almost as if he was doing us a favor, but by the following morning he was eager to go.

Because of his wheelchair we could not climb the steps to the auction in the normal manner. Instead we took a path around the building and entered the auction arena in the front, right next to the holding pen. As we entered there was a buzz of whispers. “Here’s Max.” “Max Katz just came in.” “Is that Max?” and so forth. We helped him out of the wheelchair and he settled in the front row with an empty chair next to him. It did not stay empty for long. First one cattleman and then another sat down next to him to visit for a spell. And then the auctioneer stopped the auction.

“I don’t know if you all noticed Max Katz walk in. He has not been here since he retired last year and we missed him. Last night my wife and I were at the theatre and the star there, she got a standing ovation. Well, Max Katz is better than she is.”

At that point everyone stood up and gave Uncle Max a standing ovation. He watched it all with a shy smile and a bashful twinkle in his eye.

Twelve weeks later we returned to Oklahoma for his funeral. The funeral home was packed with people standing in the back. The rabbi from Tulsa, my cousin, and I made eulogies expressing admiration and love for such a special man. As the service concluded, before we left for the cemetery, cattleman after cattleman filed past his coffin with their ten gallon hats in their hands and love and respect on their faces.

My Uncle Max left no children behind when he died. He did leave a number of loving relatives, friends, and a good name. As one of his heirs he left me a nice legacy. More important, he left me with the blessing of protection, favor, and peace given with love.

Guidelines on What to Say to Someone with a Cast on Their Arm

2011-11-26T18:00:00.001+02:00

After forty days my cast was finally removed. I would like to look back on those six weeks as a learning and growing period. Although I hope no one else ever breaks a bone I know that is not realistic. So perhaps it would be prudent for me to share some of my learned wisdom.

-Under no circumstances ask the cast wearer if he/she broke his/her arm. You are just setting yourself up for a sarcastic answer such as “No, but I wanted to get out of doing dishes.” or “No, this is the latest fashion statement. Why don’t you have one?”

-Almost as bad is the question, “What happened?” Few breaks have an exciting story behind them. Most happen as a result of clumsiness and most people do not want to talk about how clumsy they were.

-I do know that usually the people asking the above two questions are asking from a place of caring but there are better ways of expressing concern. “Are you in pain?” “How long do you have to have the cast?” “I’m so sorry.” “Have a speedy recovery.” With these questions and statements the cast wearer has the option of giving a simple answer or going into the story of the break in detail.

-Do not say, “If you need any help, just call me.” Many people are too proud, shy, uncomfortable, worried that you didn’t mean it, or insecure to make the call for something so open-ended. Better is to offer suggestions. “I want to come visit you and hang clothes on the line for you. Would tomorrow morning be good?” “I’m going shopping. Can I pick something up for you or would you like to come along?” “I know fixing your hair can be tricky. Would you like me to come by and help?”

-Invitations for Shabbat meals are a tremendous boon. Also sending in food can be helpful, but check it out beforehand. There are a lot of special diets, allergies, and picky eaters out there.

-The whole time I had my cast on it sported the statement, “Everything is for the good.” I truly believed that but there were moments when I had to remind myself it was true. Only I could do the reminding, though. If someone else did it was too much like preaching. No one likes to be lectured.

- Our sages teach that anyone who visits the sick cures one-sixtieth of the illness. Someone with a broken bone may not be sick but in the beginning there is a lot of pain accompanied by frustration at being able to do so little and boredom. Every phone call or visit gives a warm glow. There is a reason we have the mitzvah of bikur holiim. I hope I have learned from my experience to make that extra effort to visit the sick.

Gramps: A Short Story

2011-11-26T17:45:00.004+02:00

“Happy birthday! “ Yosef’s family cried as soon as he walked in the door.

Yosef smiled, feeling ten feet tall. He eyed the table set with his favorite dinner. “I got the best birthday present ever!” the seventeen-year-old exclaimed. “I passed the driver’s test!”

“On your first try?” one of his sisters shrieked.

“That’s wonderful,” his mother gushed.

“We’re proud of you,” his father said seriously.

“What’s the big deal?” his grandfather growled. “I got my license on my first try and I was only sixteen.”

Levi, Yosef’s father, did not even try to explain to his father how complicated the Israeli system was for new drivers. Instead he asked a quizzical question.

“Do you want to tell the kids how old you were when you started driving, Dad?”

“Fourteen.”

“Gramps was already operating the neighbor’s tractor before he was fourteen. Then came the truck. And then the license. But,” Levi looked at his children with mock sternness, “that’s not going to work here.”

Nothing works here,” Gramps growled.

“Come let’s sit down for dinner,” Levi’s mother suggested smoothly and in the clamor of seven people fitting around the table Gramps’ sour remark went unnoticed.

The second one did not, though. He took a generous portion of meatballs and also the vegetables but passed the boiled potatoes on with a face.

“I can’t eat potatoes without butter.”

“Dad,” Levi answered patiently. “They have margarine on them.”

“How someone who grew up on a dairy farm could even consider eating margarine is beyond me.” Gramps shook his head.

Levi sighed. Beit El, Israel was a long way from the farm he had grown up on outside Leavenworth, Kansas. He had always known that his grandmother was Jewish but it had never had much of an impact on his life until the summer he had been working at a gas station out on the highway. Two boys with beanies on their heads and fringes hanging out of their shirts stopped to fill up their car. Although they spoke English it was heavily accented and to each other they spoke a foreign language.

“Where are you from?” Levi, then Lewis, had asked.

“Israel.”

“That’s cool.” The only foreigners Lewis knew were the Mexican family a few miles down the road. “You know,” he paused as he washed their windshield. “My grandmother was Jewish.”

“Really?” the taller boy asked. “Your mother’s mother or your father’s?”

“My mother’s.”

“Well, buddy,” the second boy said, “that means you’re Jewish, too.”

“Really?” Lewis had asked wide-eyed.

“Really. Here’s my number, if you ever come to Israel look me up.”

Lewis had taken the number, stuffed it in his pocket, and forgot about it. And then, the following month the world was stunned by the daring Israeli rescue in Entebbe. Lewis was fascinated and, remembering that those boys told him he was Jewish, did his winter term paper on the IDF. The next year Egypt and Israel signed a peace pact. Lewis’s senior project was on Menachem Begin.

He was accepted at the University of Colorado and during his first year wandered into the Jewish Student Union. Before long he had stopped eating pork and by the time he finished his sophomore year he was keeping Shabbat. He worked two years after graduating and saved enough money to take off for a Baal T’shuva Yeshiva in Jerusalem. Several years later he met his wife and they joined a group of young couples making their homes in Samaria. Throughout it all his parents had been accepting, if not supportive.

After his wife’s death a year earlier, Levi’s father, who had always been an easy going, cheerful man, became somewhat cantankerous. His weekly phone calls became a litany of complaints. He said he was no longer strong enough to make his yearly visits to his only child and grandchildren. Instead, Levi went to him and arrived to find his father in the hospital. While Levi was somewhere over the Atlantic, his father had suffered a massive stroke. A neighbor had found him and called an ambulance. The doctor surmised that there had been several minor, undetected strokes earlier and that was the reason for the old man’s changing personality. He could not, the doctor was adamant, go back to living by himself. Either he could live in Israel with his son or check into an old age home. Gramps chose the first choice and had done nothing but complain about his decision for the last four months.

Yosef’s younger sisters were able to let Gramps’ surliness roll off their shoulders. Remembering the upbeat grandfather who used to visit they still came to him for ice cream money, homework help in English and math, and a game partner when they were bored. Yosef, as the oldest, was not so forgiving.

He hated the way his grandfather called him Joe. He hated the way Gramps spoke English loudly to Israelis as if the louder he spoke the easier it would be for them to understand. And he hated the way Gramps was always finding fault with him. Once he got his license, though, Gramps had something he needed.

Yosef received his license on the condition that he would have a licensed driver with him whenever he drove for the first three months. His mother did not have a license and his father worked long hours. Gramps, however, had a current license and time on his hands. He escorted Yosef on his forays to the grocery store, gas station, and pizza take-out criticizing almost every move Yosef made. After a month Yosef had had enough. If he could not find an older friend to go with him he would just wait until the three months were over. No more driving with Gramps!

That would have been fine except Gramps had an important doctor’s appointment in Jerusalem and everyone was counting on Yosef to take him there. Yosef agreed reluctantly. It wasn’t only that he had to have his grandfather carping at him. He was not all that comfortable with driving in Jerusalem. He had done his lessons and testing in Ariel, a small city without heavy traffic and aggressive drivers.

All went smoothly on the way to the appointment and the doctor was pleased with Gramps’ progress. On the way home, however, it began drizzling. Yosef was nervous. Concentrating on his steering, he did not pay attention to the traffic signal in front of him and went right through the red light.

“Joe!” Gramps let out a string of expletives. “What do you think you’re doing? Wasn’t that was a red light!”

“Uh,” Yosef stammered. “They don’t have those in Ariel.”

As Gramps muttered under his breath a policeman flashed his lights. Feeling about ten inches tall Yosef pulled over to the side of the street.

“Why are you stopping?” Gramps demanded. He had his answer as Yosef rolled down his window and the policeman’s head appeared.

“Why are you stopping my grandson?” Gramps demanded loudly.

There was no need for him to shout, however. The policeman answered in excellent English. “Sir, your grandson ran a red light.”

“He did no such thing!” Gramps retorted.

“Sir,” the policeman was polite. “I saw it with my own eyes.”

“Well, I saw with my own eyes the light was green.”

“I’m sorry it was red.”

“Did you get it on camera?” Gramps snapped.

The policeman shook his head.

“Well, now,” Gramps smiled sarcastically. “It’s your word against mine, isn’t it?”

Yosef thought any traffic court would accept the word of an Israeli policeman over a grumpy old man who could not speak the language, but apparently the policeman was not so sure. Perhaps he had lost in court before. Or maybe he just wanted to respect the elderly. Whatever the reason he gave Yosef a strong warning to drive carefully and did not write out a ticket.

“Gee, Gramps,” Yosef said as they watched the policeman get back into his patrol car. “Why did you do that?”

“No one is going to give my grandson a ticket, if I can help it,” the old man declared. “And I didn’t lie. The light turned red after you entered the intersection.”

“Thank you,” Yosef said sincerely.

“You’re welcome, Yosef.”

The two of them smiled at each other.

Hashgacha Pratit: Part One

2011-11-26T17:31:00.003+02:00

We have a beautiful concept in Judaism called hasgacha pratit, individual divine providence. The means that we can see the hand of HaShem in everything, even the negative.

Receiving crank calls ranks highly among the negative. Some nameless intruder violates your space. Caller ID does not help because the creep makes his assault from a private number. There is almost nothing you can do to stop the emotional assault short of changing your own telephone number to an unlisted one. That is a time-consuming, daunting task. When the crank caller is not only annoying, but also obscene, the situation is fraught with frustration.

That said, it sounds incredulous for me to state that I was thankful for my crank caller, but the truth is, I was.

He entered my life more than ten years ago. I still remember the sound of his creepy voice as he said hello. I would respond hello and he would repeat his hello. I would again say hello and this exchange would go on until I would impatiently snap, “What do you want?” The answer would be mumbled and in unintelligible Hebrew but from the tone of his voice I knew I did not want to understand what he said. I would slam the phone down probably giving him a thrill. Once I tried screaming in the phone. That probably gave him an even bigger thrill. Finally I devised a plan to deal with him. Whenever I saw private number in caller ID I would wait for the caller to say hello. If it was the creep I would stay silent. He would repeat his hello over and over again to a silent line and he would be the one slamming down the phone in frustration. The calls finally tapered off and ended. Thankfully.

Before they ended, though, we had the incident that made me thankful for the creep. At that time, the security situation in our village was serious and the Rav had decreed that should our phones ring on Shabbat we should answer them. Now, we are fortunate to have more sophisticated methods to let us know if there is an infiltrator in the village or some other form of pikuach nefesh. At that time it was only by way of the telephone that we could know it we were in danger.

Our phone did indeed ring on of all Shabbats, the Shabbat of my youngest son’s Bar Mitzvah. It was after sundown. The men had already left for shul. My daughters wanted to answer the phone according to the Rabbi’s instructions. They were correct but I would not let them touch the receiver. Somehow, I was certain it was not a security call, but rather the creep.

My girls reluctantly listened to me. We had a lovely Shabbat evening with an Oneg Shabbat in honor of our son’s Bar Mitzvah. Everyone in our village was invited. Delighted with the singing, dancing, and general spirit of joy we ended the evening happy, but exhausted. So when the phone rang again that night none of us made it out of our beds in time to answer it.

By the next morning I had forgotten about the ringing phone. Preoccupied with the Bar Mitzvah it totally slipped my mind. My husband had not forgotten, however, and once Shabbat was over he checked for messages to see if perhaps the caller had not been the creep but rather a legitimate person. There were two messages. Neither was from the creep; rather from my sister-in-law.

In the first message she informed us that my mother-in-law had been taken to the hospital since her seemingly nebulous cold had turned into pneumonia. The second message was even more chilling. They did not think my mother-in-law would make it through the night.

It is complicated to have family in America. When Shabbat is over in Israel they are still in the middle of it there. My husband could not call his brother so he dialed the hospital and found out the bitter news. His mother had died that Shabbat, the Shabbat of our son’s Bar Mitzvah.

My husband left for America that night. Of course, the Bar Mitzvah party was cancelled. The Bar Mitzvah boy handled his disappointment well. He had had a spirited Oneg Shabbat. He had recited a powerful Dvar Torah. Friends had put him on his shoulders and danced with him. The following morning he chanted his Torah portion full of confidence. My husband had made the blessing as the father of the Bar Mitzvah boy with a full heart.

Had my daughters answered the phone Friday night he would have lost his moment of glory. Even if we had not cancelled the Oneg Shabbat, our hearts would not have been in it. And if someone had reached the phone in time to talk to my sister-in-law later Friday night it would have been very difficult to concentrate on our son’s Bar Mitzvah. We would not have been able to do anything to help my mother-in-law at that point in time. Sometimes ignorance is indeed bliss. So thanks to the creep we were able to enjoy our son’s Bar Mitzvah. Once again we were witnesses to the fact that everything HaShem does is for the best.

pikuach nefesh: life threatening

Oneg Shabbat: Sabbath party

Dvar Torah: Torah lesson or speech

In-Laws

2011-11-24T08:40:00.002+02:00

When I first was engaged everyone told me I was getting a wonderful mother-in-law, one of the nicest women in the world. I knew they were lying. Mothers-in-law were not nice. They were mean and did everything they could to make their daughters-in-law’s lives miserable.

For the first few years of our marriage we lived in Phoenix while my husband’s parents were in Chicago. I assumed that during the short visits we had with each other my mother-in-law was able to keep all her evilness hidden. Then she and my father-in-law moved to Scottsdale, a suburb of Phoenix,and I discovered that what everyone had said about her was true. She was one of the nicest women in the world.

My father-in-law was somewhat more domineering and opinionated that my mother-in-law. Still, he was a very generous, giving person, especially to me. Among all the gifts he and my mother-in-law gave, the biggest was their support when we decided to move to Israel. Our dream meant taking their grandchildren halfway around the world but that did not stop them from giving us help every step of the way.

We learn in the Torah portion, Yitro, that Tzipporah, Moshe’s wife, along with their two sons and her father, came to join the Jewish people in the wilderness. In Chapter 18, verses 7, we read that Moshe went out to meet his father-in-law and bowed before him and kissed him, giving him tremendous honor. Just as it is a commandment to honor one’s parents, it is a commandment to honor one’s parents-in-law. According to some rabbis honor is not enough. One should appreciate all the time and effort one’s in-laws put into raising his or her spouse.

Some in-laws make this commandment harder than others. I was blessed with in-laws who made it easy for me. Nineteen years ago, on the first night of Chanukah, we received the bitter news that my father-in-law had died. We were comforted by the fact that my husband had visited just a couple of weeks earlier. Ten years later, on the first night of Chanukah, my mother-in-law followed her husband of over fifty years. Our memories of them are bond up with our Chanukah observances giving them a special flavor. Their memories are indeed a blessing for me, the daughter-in-law, as much as for the rest of the family.

Everything is for the Good!

2011-10-27T17:04:00.001+02:00

Every day, twice a day, I praise G-d who sustains the living with kindness, revives the dead with great mercy, supports the fallen, heals the sick, and releases the imprisoned. Sometimes I concentrate on the figurative aspect of the words. Other times, I am sorry to admit, I recite it by rote. Lately, however, I have been focusing on the prayer literally. This is because almost four weeks earlier, on the second night of Rosh Hashanah, I fell flat on my back.

Fortunately, I did not have a concussion. Nor did I injure my spine. All I did was break my right arm. And I am right-handed.

We are taught that when something bad happens we should not ask lamah, why. Rather we should ask l’mah, for what. In other words, instead of whining about my broken arm I needed to try to decide what I could learn from the experience.

I found myself leafing through a book of psalms with my left hand on the second day of Rosh Hashanah. Suddenly my eyes caught the words to psalm 137, If I forget you, Jerusalem, let my right hand forget (its skill). No, I shook my head. That could not be the reason for my broken arm. I think about Jerusalem daily and I long for the rebuilding of the Holy Temple. Anyone who reads my articles knows this is true.

My articles! Suddenly I remembered one of the articles I wrote for Elul, Repentance Without an Apology. Years ago I had raised my hand to a wild teenager who was spitting out the window of the bus I was on. I had never apologized for raising my hand to a fellow Jew. Could this be the reason for my broken arm? I took my thoughts further. After writing the said article I realized that I had a problem with giving playful slaps to my grown son. I vowed not to do it again. Could the broken arm be a reminder not to raise my hand at all?

It could be HaShem wanted me to learn an entirely different lesson, perhaps patience. Or maybe he wanted me to be less proud and be willing to rely on others for help. I can only guess at what I am supposed to learn.

I do hope, however, that when I get my cast off, hopefully soon, that I will be able to look back at the experience and know I have grown from it. After all, it’s all from HaShem. If all’s well, next month I will have an easier time writing with two hands and there will be more articles on the blog. Chodesh Tov! Have a good month.

Rochel's Tears: Even though I wrote this in 1996 it is still relevant now, especially since both Rochel and Raquela died in Cheshvan.

2011-10-27T16:34:00.002+02:00

As an 18-year-old college student, I had only begun to wade in the waters of Jewish observance, when I made my first visit to Israel in 1972. Coming with my B’nai B’rith Youth background, I was ready to see a living Israel and gave little thought to the Torah side of the country. Still, once I had visited the Western Wall and did all the hikes and museums that were part of my summer tour, I felt drawn to Rachel's Tomb.

Why Rachel's burial spot and not Leah's, I really couldn't say. Perhaps it was the lithograph of Rachel's Tomb hanging on my grandmother's wall that I had grown up with. Maybe it was the Sunday school notion of poor Rachel, Jacob's beloved, who had her happiness sacrificed by wicked Lavan. Whatever the reason, I decided I would see her Tomb, so one day a friend and I took the bus to Bethlehem.

I don't know what I had expected from the visit, but it certainly wasn't what I found. My grandmother's picture had prepared me for the small, domed building surrounded by trees where Rachel's grave stood. I expected the tall, stone tomb covered with a velvet tapestry inside the building. What I did not expect at all, though, was all the elderly women gathered around the tomb.

Looking back, I wonder how old they really were, 40, 50, 60? From my youthful viewpoint they seemed ancient and all of them seemed to have come to Rachel full of heartache. Why else did each and every one of them pour out their hearts, voices full of sobs, faces full of tears, hands clutching handkerchiefs and prayer books?

My friend and I had entered the room gingerly, tiptoeing and quiet, not sure what to do with ourselves. What did one do at the burial spot of a holy person? Reciting Psalms was certainly not for us. We looked at the women as if for guidance, and finding none, we looked at each other. Suddenly, without warning, we both simultaneously burst into giggles. Both of us tried to swallow them, and if we had been alone, we probably could have succeeded. Every time we looked at each other, the laughter bubbled to the surface and escaped out of our mouths as if it controlled us.

Now it is hard to understand just exactly what struck us as funny. Growing up with a sentimental mother and a European father, tears were not uncommon in my house. We cried, believe me, we cried. We always took handkerchiefs to Bar Mitzvahs and weddings, going away to parties and graduations, to tear-jerking movies, and the like. Our tears, for the most part, were quiet, well-mannered tears. Sobs of prayer or despair were reserved for the privacy of our own home. I never heard anyone cry out loud while praying in a synagogue.

Here, at Rachel's Tomb, these women seemed totally devoid of inhibition. They were acting at her graveside the way I would behave only in my own room, on my bed, all alone.

These women had an entirely different culture and I guess it was the contrast that did us in. We did have enough manners to feel embarrassed and finally, we managed to pull each other outside. Collapsing on the stone bench, we gave way to hysterics, and although we received sympathetic glances from a bus load of tourists, the guard looked at us as if he was scandalized. Not wanting to offend anyone, we dragged each other out of the enclosure and to the bus stop across the road.

So ended my first visit to Rachel's Tomb. I returned not long afterwards to America, dove deeper into the waters of Judaism, and married. Fourteen years later, with five children, I made aliyah and settled in Shilo, where the biblical Tabernacle had once stood. For various reasons, I never managed to return to Rachel's Tomb until Passover 1992.

It had not been an easy winter. Like every year, we had our hands full with normal family crisis. What had made this year so hard was the intensification of the Intifada. Rocks and firebombs had become passé’ and our Arab neighbors had begun using firearms against us. Five months earlier, a bus full of friends and neighbors was attacked, and Raquela Druke was murdered. Not only did I mourn her but I became terrorized. I struggled with my faith every time I or a loved one had to travel.

No longer could I casually load up my family and food into our van and enjoy a day's outing. Still, it was the middle of the Passover week and hope of springtime was in the air. All of us deserved a good time and I was determined that we would have one. Swallowing my fears, we made our way south to picnic, sightsee, and to visit the burial sites of our fathers and mothers. Rachel's Tomb was our first stop and I was eager to step inside. In spite of everything that had happened, I had much to be thankful for.

We emptied out of the car, groggy from the long, hot drive. My husband took the boys to the men's side of the Tomb, and I took the two girls. I entered Rachel's Tomb, my girls' hands in mine, and suddenly the tears started.

Just like the laughter 20 years earlier, I could not stop the tears. It was as if they controlled me.

"Why are you crying, Mommy?"

I could only shake my head at my 3-year-old's question. Had I tried to speak, the silent tears would have turned into heartrending sobs. Besides, what could I have answered? Was I crying for our biblical mother Rachel who had died in childbirth so many years ago? Were my tears for my neighbor, Raquela, who had left behind her seven children and, in my eyes, was a symbol of all Jewish women today? Or were my tears for myself as part of the Jewish people who were still waiting, after such a long time, for "the children to return to their borders"?

Unable to talk I squeezed my daughters' hands tighter. My tears continued to flow unchecked, and in my imagination I envisioned two college coeds, dressed in clothing of the 70s, staring at me and trying to control their laughter. Was I now so comfortable in a synagogue or holy site that I could let my private feelings show? How had the "me" I had been 20 years earlier changed so much?

Thankful for the metamorphosis I had undergone, I suddenly felt a sense of hope and healing that I had not felt in all the time since Raquela's murder. Surely if God had changed me from the giggling teenager I had been into the weeping mother I am, He could change the violent world that we live in to one of peace and redemption.

Shema Yisroel

2011-10-27T16:11:00.001+02:00

My father grew up in a small village in Germany. All of the twenty Jewish families living there were observant. They took turns chopping wood to heat the mikvah. They set their cholents on the fire before the onset of Shabbat. And they took their cattle to be slaughtered in the nearby village where the shochet lived.

My mother grew up in a small town in Kansas. Most of the twenty Jewish families went to the Reform temple there. Their observances varied but marrying out was not uncommon. For my mother, though, being Jewish, staying Jewish, and raising a Jewish family was important.

When he came to America, my father left many of his observances on the other side of the ocean. Still, like my mother, it was important to him to be Jewish, stay Jewish, and raise a Jewish family. Once married, they did not follow the paths of observance they had had in their childhood homes. Rather they made their own, unique path.

They would not be shomer Shabbat, but my mother would light Shabbat candles and they would drive to services at the Reform temple. They would not keep kosher, but there would be no pork in the house. They would acknowledge Jewish holidays and not celebrate the Christian ones.

Although there was no question that I would be sent to weekly religious school, my parents did not wait for me to become school age to begin my Jewish education. From the time I could talk I was taught to say Shema Yisroel, first in Hebrew and then in English, and the Vahavta only in English, as they tucked me into bed each night. It was a lot of words but I learned it by rote and probably understood little of what I was saying, even in English.

When I began religious school I was taught that Shema Yisroel was the watchword of our faith. As a six-year-old I don’t think I really understood what that meant. I did know that Shema Yisroel was important. Then, as a university student, I started becoming observant. I dropped the English part of the Shema, added Baruch Shem K’vod Malchuto Le’olom Va’ed, and began saying Vahavta in Hebrew every night. However, there was something about those first seven words, Shema Yisroel, HaShem Elokanu, HaShem Ehad that eluded me. If they were the “watchword of our faith” there must be a deeper meaning to them.

It was the first year I was married that I learned the Midrash about Yaacov Avinu on his deathbed with his sons surrounding him. Yaacov wanted to reveal to them the date of the final redemption, but the Almighty did not want it revealed. Instead, He removed the power of prophecy from Yaacov at that moment. Worried, Yaacov thought that the shechina had departed because one of his sons did not believe wholeheartedly in HaShem. All twelve of them reassured him with words of the Shema: Here Yisroel, (Yisroel being Yaakov’s second name) the Lord, our G-d, the Lord is one. With thankfulness Yaacov whispered: Blessed is the Name of His glorious kingdom forever and ever.

It was a beautiful Midrash. Yet I couldn’t help but feel there was a deeper meaning that was still eluding me. The written source for Shema Yisroel is in Deuteronomy, Parsha Va’etchanan, the portion that Moshe begs to be allowed to enter the Land of Israel. He is denied but he does repeat the Ten Commandments and teaches the Jewish people the Shema. Commentators state that this is the foundation of Torah, the belief in one G-d, not too far off from my religious school teacher’s “watchword of our faith” explanation.

Still, I kept searching for a deeper meaning. There was the stirring story of Rabbi Akiva’s death as a martyr with the words of Shema Yisroel on his lips. I knew those were the words one should say before dying. With more delving I was taught that the last letter of Shema and the last letter of Ehad combined to make the word עד, in English witness. As a Jew my life should be lived as a witness to G-d’s oneness. That spoke to me.

By this time I was living with my husband and children in Israel. My mother had died and my father was living alone when he was diagnosed with cancer. The doctor gave him two to three months to live. He agreed to come live with us and those two to three months stretched to almost a year, a very special year for all of us.

The last six days of his life were spent in the hospice unit at Hadassah Hospital. It was very early Sunday morning when I entered his room on what would be the day before he died. To my consternation, he seemed oblivious to my presence and was talking away in German. My knowledge of his first language was pathetic and I panicked. I called a neighbor who had come from a German speaking home but he was not home. I began asking the staff if anyone knew German, or even Yiddish, but no one did. The social worker tried to reassure me.

“I know my father is going to die soon,” I told her calmly, “and I’m prepared.”

At that moment my father stopped rambling in German and switched to Hebrew.

“Shema Yisroel, HaShem Elokanu, HaShem Ehad”

Tears poured down my face and I smiled sheepishly at the social worker.

“I guess I’m not as ready as I thought.”

In the course of the day my father repeated the watchword of our faith at least a half a dozen times. He was ready. With each recital of the foundation of our Torah we, his family, became more and more accepting of his coming death.

We miss him. This month is his fourth yahrzeit. My father was a kind loving man who gave much. Perhaps one of his biggest gifts to me was the ability to finally understand Shema Yisroel, HaShem Elokanu, HaShem Ehad. It is really quite simple. By reciting it I am affirming that I am part of the Jewish people and that I believe that there is one G-d who created the world. May I live my life as witnesses to that oneness.

Shema Yisroel: Hear, Israel
Mikvah: ritual bath
Cholent: Shabbat stew

Shochet: ritual butcher
Shomer Shabbat: Sabbath observant according to Jewish law
Baruch Shem K’vod Malchuto Le’olom Va’ed: Blessed is the Name of His glorious kingdom forever and ever
Vahavta: commandment to love
Shechina: divine prescence
Midrash: part of the oral Torah
Avinu: our father
Parsha: Torah portion
Va’etchanan: And I pleaded
Ehad: one
Yahrzeit: anniversary of death

A Rosh HaShanah Greeting

2011-09-25T15:20:00.002+03:00

At the tender age of fifty-seven I learned an aspect to Rosh Hashanah that I had never understood before. This past month I was privileged to attend a number of outstanding lectures, including ones given by HaRav Yehonason Alpern and Rebbetzins Yemima Mizrachi and Holly Pavlov. They taught me that personal requests have no part in the Rosh Hashanah prayers. Rather it is a time to crown the King of Kings and to make requests for the Jewish people.

A close look at the prayers of Rosh Hashanah confirms this. Even the beautiful Avinu Malkanu which is full of requests for kindness, annulment of harsh decrees, health, forgiveness, livelihood, and redemption is written in the plural form. We do not pray just for ourselves or our loved ones. We pray for the Jewish people as a whole.

As we end this year the world is focusing on the UN and the Arab request for another state to be established in the heart of Israel. I cannot help remembering Erev Rosh Hashanah eleven years ago. Arab rioting on Har Habayit instigated the Oslo War. Just weeks earlier Ehud Barak, then prime minister of Israel, and Yasser Arafat had met at Camp David to make peace. Barak had offered Arafat ninety percent of the territory of Yehudah and Shomron for a state but declined to split Jerusalem or to let Arab refugees from 1948 return to Israel. His offer was thrown in his face and a war of terror began. It was a war against women and children with suicide bombers and drive-by shootings. There was no one is Israel whose lives were not affected by the terror.

We were caught by surprise eleven years ago. Today it is different. The army is prepared. The police are ready. And the people have their prayer books in hand.

It is not coincidence that the Arab bid for statehood is coming at the time of Rosh Hashanah. This year as I listen to the shofar blasts I will refrain from my personal prayers as I have been taught. Instead I will focus on the Jewish people and pray that we won't return to those horrible days of terror, that we won't have to say to our loved ones, “Call me when you get there”, that we won't check the news or dread the ringing of the phone. I will pray that we will be able to walk the city streets without constantly looking over our shoulders. Most of all, I will pray for true peace.

May everyone be inscribed and sealed for a good year.

Avinu Malkanu: Our father, our king
Har Habayit: The Temple Mount

Praise to G-d Because He is Good, His Kindness Exists Forever

2011-09-25T14:15:00.000+03:00

One of my favorite set of prayers is Hallel which is recited on Rosh Chodesh and on holidays. My favorite time to recite Hallel is on Sukkot, my favorite holiday. Seeing the green lulav held next to the yellow etrog, smelling their special fragrances, feeling the excitement as the blessing is recited over them, and singing the songs of Hallel while they are held all combine to give me the feeling of intense joy.

It is joy that we are commanded to feel throughout the week of Sukkot. (See Deuteronomy Chapter 16, verse15) Sometimes, though, it is a challenge to feel that joy.

Several years ago I found myself going to a funeral of a good friend Erev Sukkot. This friend had been diagnosed with cancer some ten years earlier and had done a valiant job of dealing with it. Complications had sent her to the hospital in Elul but she was scheduled to be released before Rosh Hashanah. Excitedly her other friends and I organized meals to be sent in for the Yom Tov. Suddenly, though, she took a turn for the worse. Instead of preparing food we began reciting Tehillim. And then the evening before Sukkot we received the bitter news she had died.

She was a remarkable woman. As I stood in the cemetery the following day and listened to the eulogies I wondered how I was going to be able to enter the Sukkah with joy at sundown. How would I be able to recite Hallel with joy the following day? Where would I get the strength to have joy the entire week of Sukkot?

Chazal teach us that HaShem does not give us a commandment that is impossible to fulfill. Therefore I knew I had the ability, as hard as it might seem, to have a joyous Sukkot. So, although it was a trifle forced, I expressed joy at being inside the sukkah that evening.

The following morning was more of a challenge when I saw my friend’s vacant seat in the synagogue. Still, I was able to concentrate on my prayers. Then the time for Hallel arrived. The blessing was recited. Songs of praise and thanksgiving were sung. The lulav and etrog were held. Praise to G-d because He is good, His kindness exists forever was recited a total of seven times. With the first recitation the words seemed stuck in my throat. By the seventh I was able to say them wholeheartedly. Yes, G-d was good to my friend. He caused her to be born. Praise to G-d because He is good, His kindness exists forever. He saved her from Hitler and then from the Communists. Praise to G-d because He is good, His kindness exists forever. He brought her to Eretz Yisroel. Praise to G-d because He is good, His kindness exists forever. He allowed her to find her husband. Praise to G-d because He is good, His kindness exists forever. He gave her beautiful children and grandchildren. Praise to G-d because He is good, His kindness exists forever. He made sure she survived a terror attack. Praise to G-d because He is good, His kindness exists forever. Finally, he let her have an additional ten years after she was sick. Praise to G-d because He is good, His kindness exists forever.

By admitting that HaShem does not owe me anything I can then be thankful for every single thing he does give me. Then it is easy to feel joy. Praise to G-d because He is good, His kindness exists forever.

Hallel: prayers of praise to HaShem

Rosh Chodesh: first day or two of a Hebrew month

Lulav: a combination of myrtle, palm, and willow branches that are bound together to shake with a blessing on Sukkot

Etrog; A yellow fruit similar to a lemon which is held with the lulav

Erev: eve

Yom Tov: literarily good day, it implies a holy day

Tehillim: psalms

Sukkah: special temporary dwelling for the holiday of Sukkot

Chazal: learned rabbis

I’m Sorry: A short story for Yom Kippur

2011-09-25T14:10:00.012+03:00

Just as Michal opened the front door the phone began ringing. Apparently none of the children were home and she managed to grab it on the sixth ring. It was Dina, from the office, but her voice was not breezy as usual.
"I called to find out if Chaya is okay."

"What do you mean?" Michal asked guardedly.

"You didn't hear?"

"Didn't hear what?" Michal spoke sharply. For a full forty-five minutes she had been in her car listening to a tape, blissfully cut off from the rest of the world. What had happened?

"I'm sorry to be the one telling you," Dina seemed reluctant to continue. "There was a shooting on the number six bus, the one Chaya usually takes. I thought you would know since you're such good friends."

Were such good friends, Michal thought with sorrow. She was able to drag few details out of Dina who was uncomfortable being the bearer of bad news.

The phone rang again and Michal lunged for it. It was Natan making sure that she was safe. Somehow Michal could not bring herself to say a word about Chaya and cut the conversation short. Biting her fingernails she entered into her post-terror-attack mode. On went the radio and the internet. Out came the book of psalms. Only this time she was having a hard time concentrating on the words of the psalms.

"I thought you would know since you're such good friends" She repeated Dina's phrase over and over and blinked back tears.

For twenty-five years they had been best friends, ever since high school. Chaya, quiet, little, and blonde, had been considered the class beauty while Michal, redheaded and freckled, had been known for her outrageous sense of humor. Chaya's cautious nature had done a lot to calm Michal's adventurous temperament. Still, Michal had been able to get Chaya involved with harmless school pranks and the teachers were pleased to see Chaya become more outgoing.

Chaya married a few months after graduation but her change in status did not affect their friendship. In fact, it was Chaya's husband who introduced Michal to Natan five years later. Chaya's only disappointment with the match was that the couple would not be making their home in Jerusalem, but rather in a new village in the Etzion Bloc.

"When will we ever see each other?" Chaya had grumbled.

"I'm not moving to Siberia," Michal had laughed. "It's less than an hour away from Jerusalem. You'll come for a Shabbat and see how nice it is. Who knows? Maybe you'll decide to move, too."

Chaya, her husband, and two toddlers did come for a Shabbat. And the idealism, the view, and the fresh air had charmed them. They might even have decided to move out also, if the first Intifada hadn't started. Quiet Chaya was terrified of being hit by a stone and it was over two years, long after protective plastic had been put on the bus windows, that she and her family came for Shabbat again.

As their families grew, getting together for Shabbat became more complicated. Phone conversations between the two friends grew longer but they missed seeing each other. And then an opening came at the office Chaya worked at. Michal decided to apply and within a few weeks she and Chaya were working in cubicles right next to each other. They had not seen each other so much since they had been in high school. Every morning they ate their ten o'clock sandwiches together. Things were going great until the day after Chaya received the invitation to Michal's son’s Bar Mitzvah party.

It was in the elevator that Chaya had remarked how nice the invitation was. Michal had beamed and looked at her friend expectantly. Chaya had nervously cleared her throat.

"Moshe has to teach that evening. We won't be able to come."

"Oh," Michal did not bother to hide her disappointment. "What about Shabbat?"

"Michal," Chaya cried out. "I'm afraid!"

"You're afraid! The buses are bullet proof."

"But not the houses. What if there's an infiltrator?"

"And what if the bus you're on tomorrow is blown up?" Michal did not wait for an answer. She flounced into her cubicle and began slamming papers around on her desk. At ten o'clock, when Chaya cautiously poked her head in, she saw that Michal was still fuming.

"Should I come in?" she asked warily.

Michal impatiently motioned for Chaya to sit down.

"I thought you'd want me to be honest with you," Chaya said simply.

Michal did not respond to that; instead she asked a question in a biting voice. "Do you remember when you made Benny's brit on Friday morning and the weather was horrible?"

Chaya nodded not understanding what Michal was implying.

"I was afraid to come in case we got snowed in and would not be able to get home to the kids for Shabbat. But we came because our friendship is important."

Chaya bit her lip. "I'm sorry I'm not as brave as you," she said softly.

Michal just shook her head sadly.

She really did not mean to be hateful. In the beginning she was using all her break time to do errands for the Bar Mitzvah. Afterwards she took a week off work and when she came back Chaya did not come in at ten o'clock with her sandwich. Perhaps she was afraid of rejection. Maybe she was angry. Michal did not know and she had too much pride to ask. In the past three months the two women had probably not said more than ten words to each other. And now Chaya might be hurt or worse from a terror attack in downtown Jerusalem.

Michal's hand reached for the phone and automatically dialed Chaya's mobile phone number. No answer. Taking a deep breath she dialed Chaya's home. Chaya's oldest daughter answered.

"Hello, Liat, it's Auntie Michal. Is your mother there?"

Michal was hoping against hope that Chaya had gone to an appointment after work and taken a different bus. The quiver in Liat's voice assured her that had not happened.

"She's at Bikur Holim Hospital. She was in the terror attack and is in surgery now."

"Oh, Liat. I'm so sorry." The tears slid down Michal's cheeks unchecked. "Do you need anything?"

"No, just say Tehillim. My friend and her mother are here and Abba's with Ima."

"Please call me as soon as you hear from your father."

Liat promised and Michal opened up her book of psalms again. She was still reciting them when the children began trickling in. It was only when Natan came home, though, that any of them knew Auntie Chaya had been hurt.

"Go, to the hospital," Natan told his wife. "I'll take care of things here."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

With sobs and sniffles Michal told her husband the whole story of why Michal had not come to the Bar Mitzvah and how she had reacted.

"Listen," he spoke firmly when she was finished. "You two have been close friends for twenty-five years. You've been angry with each other for three months. That's nothing. Go see her."

Michal shook her head stubbornly. "Chaya doesn't want to see me."

Liat's call finally came just as Michal was putting supper on the table.

"Well?" Natan asked.

"She was 'lightly' injured in the shoulder and with prayers, therapy, and time she should have ninety percent use of it. Liat and the others are on their way to visit her now." Michal spoke mechanically.

"What about you?"

"We'll see."

Later, when the house was somewhat quiet, Michal sat alone at the table struggling with pen and paper. after more than a dozen false starts she finally wrote something she was happy with.

Dear Chaya,

I am sorry for all the bad feelings and I hope you will let me be your friend again. I miss you and I am praying for a full recovery for you.
Love, Michal

As she sealed the envelope, Michal suddenly remembered the oft-repeated story from Tishrei. The story took place right before Yom Kippur and in the story a man struggled over writing a letter, just as she had struggled. First he wrote lines like "I'm sorry, but you…" or "It wouldn't have happened if…". Each time he wrote a line he was dissatisfied and tore the paper up. Finally, surrounded by piles of torn paper, he simply wrote, "I'm sorry" and put the letter in an envelope just as she had done. Only, in the end of the story, the man did not mail the letter as she was planning to do. Instead he took a walk to the cemetery and laid it on the tombstone of his friend.

Closing her eyes, Michal offered a prayer of thanks for her second chance. After a few word to her husband she threw her letter in the trash, headed out of her house, to her car, to Jerusalem, to the hospital, to her friend.

Brit: circumcision ceremony

Tehillim: psalms

Tishrei: the month of Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Sukkot, and Simchat Torah

Chana in Shilo

2011-09-25T14:01:00.000+03:00

After moving to Israel I usually made annual visits to my parents. These visits invariably included a cleaning out of various drawers and closets since my parents were “thinking about moving into assisted living”. That move never materialized. However their insistence that I sort through my left-behind belongings granted me some very interesting journeys down memory lane.

On one of my forays I found a box of old school papers. Among them was a report I had written while in junior high for my Sunday school class. I found the subject, Samuel, the prophet, most intriguing, but the content was decidedly lacking. There was only one source, the bible. I had merely rewritten a condensed narrative of Shmuel Alef, the first book of Samuel. Not only were there no references from the oral Torah, there was barely any mention of Chana, Shmuel’s mother, one of the seven women prophets mentioned in the Gemmorah.

It has been my privilege to learn Shmuel Alef several times since then from talented teachers. Chana shares her husband, Elkana, with his second wife, Pnina. The second wife is blessed with a number of children and taunts Chana for her barrenness. This sets the stage for the family’s visit to Shilo, the capital of biblical Israel and the home of the Mishkan, the forerunner of the Holy Temple that would stand in Jerusalem. Chana approaches the Holy of Holies, weeps, and prays for a child. Eli, the Cohen, sees her, assumes she is drunk, and chastises her. She refutes his criticism and tells him she has poured out her soul before G-d. Eli blesses her that her prayers should be answered. Chana does indeed become pregnant and gives birth to Shmuel. Once he is weaned she brings him to Shilo to serve the Almighty. He becomes a prophet and one of the most important leaders of the Jewish people.

There are so many fascinating commentaries on Chana’s story. One of my favorites is why Chana named her son Shmuel. At that time, as today, the Jewish people were in dire need of a good, strong leader. A prophecy had been made that a leader would be born and his name would be Shmuel, meaning requested from HaShem. So many women of that time were naming their sons Shmuel. When Chana went to the Holy of Holies to pray for a son, she was not just praying to have a child to compete with Pnina. Rather she was praying for a child who could help the Jewish people. She was certain that she had the ability to raise such a child. And she was right.

The seven women prophets are mentioned by name in the Gemmorah because they have a message for all generations. Chana’s message is the importance of personal prayer. We read her story on the first day of Rosh Hashanah every year. I still get a thrill when I hear the third verse: And that man would go up from his city from appointed time to appointed time to prostate and sacrifice to the Lord of Hosts in Shilo and there the two sons of Eli, Hofni and Phinchas served HaShem.

I find it amazing that of all the topics I could have picked for my Sunday school research paper I picked Samuel. Who would have guessed that I would have ended up living in Shilo twenty years later? Who would have dreamed that I would, along with many others, name one of my children Shmuel? Obviously there must have something about the prophet Samuel that spoke to me then and helped guide my journey to where I am today.

Shmuel Alef: The first book of Samuel

HaShem: G-d

2011-09-25T14:00:00.004+03:00

Crying At the Kotel

2011-08-29T20:15:00.002+03:00

Once I read an article that asked the question, “If religious women have such a good life why do they cry so much at the Kotel?” The obvious implication was that Orthodox women are truly miserable. The writer, who has an ax to grind with the observant world, annoyed me with her seeming ignorance. Was she not a mother, daughter, wife, sister, or friend? Were her dear ones never sick, having spiritual problems, out of work, wanting to find their match, or in danger? Did she not care that the Jewish people were still in exile and in dire need of redemption?

Although I consider myself a happy person there have been many times I have cried at the Kotel. Sometimes they are polite, quiet tears. Other times I have sobbed my heart out.

One time in particular stands out in my memory. It was May of 2004. My father had come for a visit while one of my sons was serving in the army. With my son’s permission I called his commander.

“You can hear by my accent,” I told him, “that I was not born here. My eighty-four-year-old father is here for a visit for one week only. Could my son please come home for Shabbat?” I begged.

“If it is at all possible we will send him home,” the commander spoke kindly.

Two days later, on Tuesday, May 11^th, six soldiers were killed in Gaza. The following evening another four soldiers and one officer were killed and three were injured. I joined the country in grief and resigned myself to the fact my son would not be getting out for Shabbat.

Despite the serious atmosphere my father requested that we take an outing to Jerusalem that would include a visit to the Kotel. We set out Thursday afternoon with a few of our children. The heat of the day was over and it was already pleasant to be outside. As we approached the Kotel we noticed that there was more traffic than normal. Numbers of families were walking with us and they all seemed to be carrying bags of food. When we reached the plaza in front of the Kotel we understood why.

Gathered there was a group of soldiers in their ironed, green, dress uniforms waiting for their swearing-in ceremony to begin. The greetings between the boys and their families were warm and affectionate. Pride and love beamed on the parents’ faces and I could relate to their emotions. Suddenly I thought of the parents of the eleven dead soldiers. Not so long ago they had been excited to come to their sons’ swearing-in ceremony. No doubt they had dragged along boxes of food and schlepped all sorts of relatives. Now they were sitting shiva.

The tears began. I searched my pocket for a tissue and brought myself under control. Next to the Kotel, though, the sobs started. I prayed for the families of the fallen soldiers. I prayed for all the remaining soldiers. Most of all, though, I prayed that my son would come home safely. Caught up in my emotions I was oblivious to what others thought about me. Finally, I did pull myself together and was able to join my family and enjoy the rest of our outing.

As I made my Shabbat preparations the following day I had no expectations to see my soldier boy, but mid-afternoon I called and he told me he was on the way home. We were excited and my father was amazed that I had had the nerve to call the commanding officer. They did not do things that way in the American army.

It was good having the whole family together. Saturday night my son made a phone call to the base and was told to come back as early as possible Sunday morning. There are many wonderful things about living in Shilo, the center of the country, but having good rides to the Negev is not one of them. Our son decided he would get a ride to Elkana where a good friend lived and where there would be plenty of rides Sunday morning.

This good friend thought that his neighbor, a girl who had worked with him in the youth group, would be a perfect match for our son. For months he had had been wanting to introduce the two of them but it had not worked out. This particular Saturday night it finally did. Our son felt like he had been hit by lightening. Three months later they were engaged, and they were married in November.

Our sages teach that no prayer is ever wasted and that the Gates of Heaven are never closed to tears. However the tears need to be tears of hope, trust and faith in HaShem, not tears of despair. Could it be that those tears I cried at the Kotel on that Thursday paved the way for my son to meet his wife two days later? Looking at me did others see a miserable, Orthodox women or a sensitive, caring mother? Maybe all those weeping women at the Kotel know a lot more about life than the jaded journalist.

Shiva: seven days of mourning

Repentance Without an Apology

2011-08-29T20:10:00.003+03:00

When you look at my picture on the blog you would probably not guess that I have a real temper. With age and wisdom I no longer get angry as much as I used to, Baruch HaShem, but there were some real blow-ups through the years. One of the worst happened ages ago.

I was on the number four bus in Jerusalem with two of my sons. One was five-years-old and the other was age eleven. It was early afternoon and the bus was crowded with junior-high-school students who had just gotten out of school.

My reminiscences of riding my school bus during my junior-high-school days are anything but pleasant. They are a mush of memories of crowding, pushing for seats, spitballs, name-calling, and mean laughter. So I should have been prepared for the behavior of three boys in the back of the bus, but I was not.

It was almost as if three boys from my school bus had been transported in a time machine from 1968 Kansas to a public bus in 1989 Israel. They were loud with raucous laughter, they shoved each other and those who had the misfortunate to be in their way, and they glared at all the other passengers. I did not pick up on their worst behavior, though, until we were travelling down Strauss Street in the heart of Guela. From my window I noticed teenage girls, modestly dressed, with their hair in braids surreptitiously wiping their cheeks. The light bulb went on.

“Did they,” I motioned to the boys, “spit at the girls?” I asked my older son.

With his eyes downcast he nodded his head. And I lost it!

Perhaps it was the uncomfortable memories of my junior high school days or maybe I resented the idea that those innocent girls had been violated by these juvenile delinquents.

Whatever the reason, I stood up, approached one of the boys, and, I am embarrassed to say, hit him over the head with my purse while exclaiming an explicative. The boy was shocked. My older son was embarrassed. And my younger son watched the whole scene with his eyes as big as saucers.

Quickly the boy recovered from his surprise and was up, out of his seat, and ready, I was sure, to attack me. A university coed jumped up to separate us and we both sat down, he seething with resentment, no doubt, and me shaking with embarrassment and fear. The girl had separated us but what would happen when I got off the bus?

Feeling sheepish, to say the least, and sure that every passenger on the bus was staring at me, I made my way to front of the bus to ask help from the driver. Perhaps he could let just me and my sons off before the scheduled stop. To say he was unsympathetic was an understatement. Full of dread and feeling like a fool, I ushered my boys off the bus from the front door by the driver. It was the middle of downtown Jerusalem, I reasoned. There were scores of people around. What could the boys do to me? Maybe they would just stay on the bus.

But no, I saw them exit out the back door. “Please,” I prayed, “don’t let them do anything to my sons.”

With quick strides we purposely drew near the big bank but to my dismay I found the doors locked. The three boys surrounded me. My heart was thumping wildly. Before I could tell my sons to run away I was attacked…with spit. All three of them spit in my face at once. And then they were off running in three different directions as fast as they could.

It was not pleasant but it could have been much worse. I found a bathroom and was able to clean myself up. Then came the more important tasks, apologizing to my sons and explaining how I could have handled myself better. It was too bad, I told them, that I had not complained to the driver about the spitting boys. If he had not handled his responsibility to make them stop then I should have noted his identity number and complained to the bus company. Not only was hitting and swearing not an acceptable way to solve a problem, I was afraid I had done a tremendous Chilul HaShem. By acting as I did as an obviously observant woman I caused the other people on the bus to think badly of religious Jews.

Although it is always a good time for repentance, Elul is the time when it is emphasized. The Rambam teaches us that there are several steps of teshuva. The first is to feel bad about what was done. The second is to admit to the wrongdoing and vow not to repeat the action. Final repentance is done when one is in the same situation and refrains from repeating the sin. This all applies when the sin is against HaShem. If it was an action against a fellowman then apology is definitely part of the order.

I have done the first parts of repentance many times over. I have felt bad and admitted my wrongdoing. There have been so many times I have been on the bus with obnoxious passengers and I have never again sworn and hit anyone, Baruch HaShem. As far as my sin of Chilul HaShem I am okay. For the sin of raising my hand against a fellow Jew I am not. I was never able to apologize to the spitting boy because I have no idea who he is. I can give tzedakah as a sort of penance. And I can pray that when my purse hit his head I managed to knock some sense into him and he straightened up. Hopefully he is now a responsible adult and he long ago forgave that crazy woman on the number four bus.

Baruch HaShem: bless G-d

Chilul HaShem: desecration of G-d’s honor

Teshuva: repentance

Tzedakah: donation

The Essence of My Being reprinted from Horizons Magazine

2011-08-29T20:05:00.003+03:00

I was sitting by myself in the opulent wedding hall when the woman made her way to the table. Smiling, she sat down next to me. I began to feel insecure. When I had left my home in the Golan three hours earlier the babysitter had oohed and aahed over the dress I had sewn and I had felt fantastic. Now I suddenly felt dowdy. This woman’s dress was made of cream-colored silk, and the bodice had fine embroidery on it. Both hands, as well as her neck, were full of jewelry, a contrast to my plain wedding band and simple chain.

“Hi, I’m Linda Sterngart,” she drawled, “from Boston. And who are you?’

“Boston?” I repeated stupidly.

“Well, I was born in Atlanta, but I moved to Boston after I got married.”

“Oh,” I laughed somewhat nervously. “I guess that’s how you know Gittel.”

“That’s right, honey. We go to the same shul, and I was just thrilled that her son’s wedding coincided with our trip to Israel.”

“That’s really nice. My name is Sima Bryman.”

“How do you know Gittel?”

“We were neighbors in Los Angeles.”

“That must have been over ten years ago! You’ve kept in touch all this time?”

I nodded. “We were really good friends.”

“So you planned your trip around the wedding?”

“What?” At first I didn’t understand what the woman meant. It always irritates me when someone thinks I’m a tourist. “Oh, no, we live in Israel now.”

“Well, isn’t that nice,” the woman gushed, twirling the ringlets of her wig. “Do you like it here?”

Again I nodded. Of course I liked it.

“So tell me, do you do anything?”

I stared at her. In my mind I reviewed all the things I had done that day. None of it was too exciting. I managed to get five children up and out to school on time. The baby stayed home with me and she was a handful. There were two loads of laundry to my credit, as well as a pot of soup, a casserole, and a cake for a neighbor’s Kiddush. While I gave the baby a bottle, I read part of the parsha; and while she ate her carrots, I talked to a friend on the telephone. We took a walk to the nearby store, and I stocked up on groceries. All in all, I felt that I had accomplished a lot, but as I contemplated the woman’s question, I decided she would probably not consider it “anything”.

Now, normally I’m a nice person and I try to make everyone feel as comfortable as possible, but this woman brought out a contrary streak in me. Maybe it was because I was exhausted from the three-hour bus ride, or perhaps because I felt let down that Gittel was too busy with the bride to spend much time with me. Whatever the reason, I answered with sarcasm in my voice.

“No, I don’t do anything. I just sit around all day.”

Was it my imagination, or did the woman blush? Should I ask her if she did anything? From the looks of her she probably ran some “yuppie” business. Before I could ask, I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to find one of my former students smiling down at me. An excited conversation in Hebrew followed, in which she told me that she was the kallah’s cousin and that she was engaged and would be getting married in two months’ time. As I hugged her, I felt the woman’s eyes on me and remembered some manners.

“Uh, Linda, this is Sigi, a cousin of the bride.”

“I’m pleased to meet you.” Sigi’s English was a bit stilted.

Linda gave a charming smile. “I’m pleased to meet you, too. I told my husband, when we planned our trip, that I wanted to meet some real Israelis, and now I’ve met two. How do you two know each other?”

“She be my teacher many years ago. Oh, my mother, she want me.” Sigi smiled and was gone.

“I thought you said you didn’t do anything.” Linda’s voice was puzzled, not accusing. “You’re a teacher?”

“Well,” it was my turn to blush, “not really. I teach some pottery classes at the community center in Katzrin. It’s only a couple of hours a week.” My voice trailed off.

“You’re still a teacher,” the woman insisted.

“I guess so,” I had to agree. “But it isn’t the essence of my being.”

“The essence of your being?”

“Pottery is just a small part of my life. I guess if I’d put six or eight hours a day into it I’d say I was a potter, but I don’t and I’m not.”

I sipped my drink as the woman thought over what I had said.

“So what do you consider the essence of your being?”

Before I could respond, two women came to the table, obviously mother and daughter. There was something quite familiar about the older woman but I couldn’t place her. Linda immediately took charge, introduced herself, and pointed to me.

“This is Simi. She knew Gittel from Los Angeles, and now she lives in Israel.

“Yes,” the older woman smiled warmly. “I remember when Sima made aliyah.

I stared harder at the woman, and she laughed. “You don’t remember me?”

“Mrs. Kramer! I cried. Then I turned to her daughter. “This can’t be Ruthie!”

Both Ruth and her mother nodded their heads, their eyes aglow.

I turned to Linda. “These people lived down the street from me. I used to bayysit Ruthie and her brothers. I want to hear about everyone!”

Suddenly I was no longer tired. Someone I knew had come to the wedding. Mrs. Kramer was full of news about people I used to know, and she enjoyed telling it as much as I enjoyed hearing it. Still feeling sheepish about embarrassing Linda, I made a point to include her in the conversation.

“Mommy,” Ruthie interrupted. “There’s Mrs. Cohen I was telling you about. Can you come meet her, please?”

“We’ll be back soon.” Her mother rose, and Linda and I were left alone again.

“Is this your first visit to Israel?” I asked.

Linda nodded and began to describe the various tours they had already been on. She spoke like a typical tourist, until she mentioned Rachel’s tomb. Then her face glowed, and I believe there were tears in her eyes as she spoke.

“I remember learning that Rachel was buried in Bethlehem so she could plead for the children of Israel when they were forced out of the land. Ever since I was a little girl I’ve wanted to visit her tomb, but the tour guide told us it was too dangerous. But I was determined, and we did go yesterday. I’m so glad we did. I was so touched to see the women there pouring out their hearts to their Maker.”

In spite of myself I was touched by her description and told her so. “Friends of ours had a baby girl and they had the naming party there.”

“That’s lovely,” Linda sighed and changed the subject. “Could you tell me about where you live?”

Like most people I enjoy talking about myself and my community. I did my best to describe the moshav and the beautiful area surrounding it. I told her how my husband loved working with the goats, and I tolerated doing the office bookkeeping. For the children, I explained, the rural environment was the best place to grow up.

“Do you have a large family?”

“Six children, bli ayin hara. And you?” I asked automatically.

Linda bit her lip and smiled. “That’s a hard question for me to answer.” She lowered her eyes and spoke softly. “Our only son died of leukemia five and a half months ago.”

Linda kept her eyes lowered and she did not see the tears in mine. “How horrible for you.”

Linda raised her eyes and gave me a tight smile. “Yes, it is horrible.”

“Your days must seem so long.”

“I try to keep busy, and I volunteer a lot of hours for the Cancer Society, as well as for the synagogue and the school where my son learned.”

Linda gave a deep sigh. “We really thought he was going to make it until the very end.” Now that she had brought up the subject, Linda seemed eager to speak of her son’s illness. She spoke at length of the first diagnosis, the second and third opinions, the various trips to specialists, homeopathic doctors, even quacks. There were the countless prayers sent with anyone visiting Israel, with instructions to slip the envelope between the cracks of the Kotel. Her son’s classmates organized Tehillim sessions for his recovery and visiting schedules, and through it all, her son had kept their spirits up with his unfailing optimism.

“The nurses couldn’t believe all the pain he endured with a smile.” Linda sighed again. She described all the different treatments he received, the horror of his death, the comfort they had been given while sitting shiva.

But then we had to get up and start our lives all over again. That’s the reason for our trip here.”

I gave her a questioning look.

“Throughout his illness our lives were on hold. I stopped teaching, and my husband neglected his practice. We related to our friends only in terms of our son’s illness. Once he died no one really knew how to act with us; they treated us with kid gloves, and that wasn’t healthy. Plus we’re concerned about ourselves. Statistics say that many couples who lose a child get divorced, and we don’t want that to happen.”

“Of course not,” I agreed, feeling inadequate, not knowing what to say.

“I don’t know why I’m rambling on like this.” Linda smiled, embarrassed. “You’re the first person I’ve met since we left home that I’ve told any of this to.”

“It’s okay. Really.”

“We needed to get away from everything and take a good look at our lives.” Linda pulled at her wig self-consciously. “We’ve made some changes. I just started covering my hair, and my husband has committed himself to finding time to learn daily. We’re thinking of moving to Israel.”

“That’s wonderful.” I spoke warmly. Maybe they’ll have another child, a sabra.

As if she had read my thoughts, Linda spoke quietly. “There’s no chance for any more children. I’ve had a number of miscarriages and stillborns.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said in a small voice. And not just for all Linda had been through but for misjudging her so.

“I know you are,” she said in her quiet voice, and I wondered if she had read my mind.

“Maybe,” I offered tentatively, “you’d like to visit the moshav while you’re here.”

“That would be lovely.”

Suddenly the music changed, and we realized it was time for the chupah. As we stood and made our way outside, Linda turned to me.

“By the way,” she asked. “What do you consider the ‘essence of your being’?”

“That I’m a Jewish woman, of course.”

“A Jewish woman.” Linda nodded. “I like that.”

As the two of us stood side by side, the ceremony started, and the young kallah began her journey into the world of the Jewish woman.

Shul: synagogue

Kiddush: literally the blessing over wine, here it refer to a social gathering after morning services on Shabbat

Parsha: weekly Torah portion

Kallah: bride

bli ayin hara: phrase to ward off the evil eye

Tehillim: psalms

shiva: seven days of mourning

sabra: native-born Israeli

moshav: collective settlement

chupah: marriage canopy/service

Akeidat Yitzhak

2011-08-29T20:00:00.004+03:00

Although Elul is the month of repentance, for me it is also a month of cooking, baking, and freezing in preparation for all the Yom Tov meals of Tishrei. Still, I don’t want to ignore my spiritual preparation so every year I try to attend at least one pre-Rosh Hashanah lecture. These lectures cover a number of topics: repentance, the shofar, prayer, and on. My favorite topic, though, is the Akeidat Yitzhak, the story of how G-d tells Avraham to sacrifice his son, his only son, the one he loves, Yitzhak, and then just as Avraham raises his knife to slay his son on the altar, G-d commands him to stop.

My affinity to this subject began years ago when I was in grammar school. The rabbi at our Reform Temple did not just lead the congregation; he was a close family friend and had a strong influence on me. He was captivated by the Akeidat Yitzhak and spoke about it in religious school sermons, passing that fascination on to me.

As I approached my thirteenth birthday I began my Bat Mitzvah lessons with the new rabbi who had replaced our family friend. I was thrilled to learn that my Torah portion was Vayera, the one which begins with three angels visiting Avraham after his Brit Milah and ends with the Akeidat Yitzhak.

The custom in our Temple at that time was to read just a small section of the entire Torah portion on Friday night. There was no doubt in my mind which section I would read. The new rabbi did not share my enthusiasm, however. He thought the verses dealing with Avraham’s bargaining with G-d over Sodom and Amorrah would be far more appropriate. I was a stubborn twelve-year-old, though, and in the end I read the Akeidat Yitzhak. My speech was about making sacrifices for my faith.

The Bat Mitzvah experience probably had a lot to do with my forage into traditional Judaism and my commitment to keeping the commandments of the Torah. Seven years later I married and made a kosher, Shabbat-observant home. Twelve years after that my husband and I moved our family to Israel.

Once in Israel, it was easy to find profound, pre-Rosh Hashanah classes on my level. At one of lectures on Akeidat Yitzhak the rabbi made a statement that I have never forgotten. He said that parents should be as ready to sacrifice their children for Torah as Avraham was ready to sacrifice Yitzhak. Not that we should, G-d forbid, put our children on an altar and slit their throats. Rather we should do all we can to ensure our children will be able to live a Torah-true life. He brought down as an example how families in Europe would send their young sons far away to good yeshivas and often see them only once a year at Pesach.

It was his words that gave me the emotional strength to deal with the fact that my third son had chosen, at the age of fourteen, to go to a yeshiva high school three hours away from home. There were many other yeshivas closer to us but this was the place where he felt he had the best opportunity to grow into a Torah-true Jew.

And it was those words I recalled several years later during the Torah reading on the second day of Rosh Hashanah. In our synagogue the chanting of the portion is done by a group of volunteers. One of our favorite readers had lost his son in a terror attack the previous spring. That loss did not keep him from reading, though.

He was chanting in his calm, melodious voice and then, all of a sudden, he paused. For a fraction of a second I thought that there was a problem with the Torah scroll and it would need to be replaced by another one from inside the ark.

Immediately afterwards I understood when I heard the next verse read aloud, “Avraham, Avraham, and he said, I am here and He said Do not harm the boy, nor do anything to him.”

There was a silence in the synagogue that could be felt. From above, in the women’s section, I kept my eyes downcast, afraid to look at my neighbor, unwilling to see the pain in my eyes reflected in hers.

The silence lasted several more minutes. The congregation was patient, sharing our friend’s pain. And then with a slightly quavering voice the bereaved father began reading. He paused again. Again we waited patiently, our hearts aching. And then he continued his reading with tears in his voice.

“I know now that you are one who fears G-d and have not withheld your son from me.”

Several years have passed since he chanted those awesome words. In those few emotional moments, though, I received a powerful lesson about faith and love of G-d, a lesson stronger than any of the lectures I have ever attended.

May we all learn the lesson and may no more of our children be sacrificed.

Tishrei: the Jewish month in which Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and Sukkot occur

Brit Milah: circumcision ceremony

How Do I Mourn on Tisha B’Av?

2011-07-31T20:20:00.003+03:00

Although there were many advantages to making Aliyah there was one big disadvantage for me. That was leaving my children’s grandparents behind. Aliyah meant that our children had no extended family to attend the many nursery school and school parties, graduations, and other festivities. So when my children invite me to attend any of their children’s celebrations I make every effort to attend.

For example, this past winter my husband drove me to my grandson’s Chanukah party a few days before the holiday. The nursery school was decorated with dredyls and menorahs, the girls and boys were dressed in their Shabbat best with crowns upon their heads, and the mothers were beaming with smiles. One woman, Elad’s mother, caught my attention. She held a new-born baby in her arms and her friends ooh-ed and aah-ed over the infant. Not only was she just home from the hospital a few days but the baby was a girl. Everyone was delighted for Elad’s oldest sister, a mature fourteen-year-old, who had four younger brothers and had wanted a sister.

I could relate. When my second daughter was born, after a boy, girl, and two more boys, my first words were, “Shoshana will be so happy!” She was. Even though there are seven years between the two of them, the sisters have a close relationship.

When the second daughter was three-years-old I gave birth to her little brother a few days before Chanukah. I came home from the hospital on the same day as her Chanukah party. No one had told me about the party, though, and unlike Elad, her mother was not at the party. While the other children danced with their mothers, she danced with the teacher’s aide. Over twenty years have passed since that party but I still feel sorry I wasn’t there. I was glad that Elad’s mother had made the effort to come.

Three months after the party Elad, his mother, baby sister, another brother, and father were dead. Two Arab terrorists had broken into their home in the middle of the night on Shabbat and murdered them. Like a canker sore that one cannot help irritating I cannot stop thinking about the Fogel murders. From experience I know that with time the horror will recede and I will be able to look at pictures of my grandson’s Chanukah party without a lump in my throat. That time has not come yet, though.

Today, on the first of Av, we intensify the mourning that we began thirteen days earlier. It is mourning for the destruction of the first and second Holy Temples and numerous other tragedies that befell the Jewish people throughout our history. On the ninth of Av, Tisha B’Av, we will remove our shoes, sit on the floor, read Eicha, the book of mourning written by Jeremiah, fast, and observe intense mourning. The question has been asked how one can really mourn the destruction that took place more than nineteen centuries earlier. How can we grieve for the loss of something we never experienced?

It is a challenge and it is often suggested that we concentrate on more recent tragedies. For years I read Holocaust literature on Tisha B’Av. More recently I focused on the many brutal terror attacks and their innocent victims. Other years I was obsessed with the senseless eviction of the thousands of Gush Katif and northern Shomron Jews from their homes. This year I will undoubtedly think about Rut, Udi, Yoav, Elad, and baby Hadas Fogel, murdered in cold blood because they were Jews. May HaShem avenge their blood.

Looking at Eicha we read of youngsters taken into captivity, children starving and begging for bread, mothers eating their own offspring, and more horrors. These were not isolated incidents but, in the time of the Destruction, daily occurrences. So I can take the pain, anger, terror, and grief I feel about the Fogel murders and multiply that by thousands and perhaps I can then understand the level of mourning that we need to have on Tisha B’Av.

Mourning is important but I must not become so caught up with my grieving that I forget tradition teaches us that the Moshiach will be born on Tisha B’Av. Rabbi Leff, shlita, taught me that Tisha B’Av is the time to recognize what is missing. I need to look at myself to see how I can change. This is the time to examine my deeds and work on my observances both in relationship to HaShem and my fellow man. Tisha B’Av is very long day. There is plenty of time to try to improve myself and, with HaShem’s help, contribute to bringing the final redemption. And then maybe, we will never know any more of the horror we experienced with the Destruction of the first and second Holy Temples, the Spanish Inquisition, the pogroms, the Cossacks, the Holocaust, and the Arab terror.

Tisha B'Av in Eilat

2011-07-31T20:15:00.002+03:00

Tisha B’Av had never been commemorated in my house when I was growing up. In fact I first heard of the day of mourning for the first and second Holy Temples when I was in Israel on a summer tour. That was almost forty years ago. My group was in Eilat, after having spent time in Jerusalem, the Galil, and a kibbutz. The others in my group, college students like myself, were from all over the United States. Few of us had known each other when we first met at JFK airport a month earlier. Now, though, we were familiar with each other, our backgrounds, and what we were looking forward to when we returned to the States in another three weeks

One of the New York girls, who I will call Tammy, was from an observant home. Looking back I think her parents must have been very naive or they would have not sent their daughter on a tour that only guaranteed kosher food but promised nothing about Shabbat observance.

It was quite ironic that her first Shabbat in Israel was the first Shabbat that she broke her observance. We had a free afternoon that Shabbat in Jerusalem and one of the group leaders arranged for us to buy pre-Shabbat passes for the Israel Museum and ordered Arab taxis to transport us there. I was not yet observant and joined in the outing without any twinge of conscience. The same could not be said for Tammy. Her self-recriminations accompanied us on the drive through the almost traffic-free streets of the Holy City.

Tammy and I did not really become friends so I have no idea how she spent the ensuing Shabbats. It was just by chance that I was sitting next to her in the dining room in Eilat on Tisha B’Av morning. Tammy was not eating breakfast. Among teenage girls that was not so uncommon, but she was not even drinking. Not coffee, not juice, not even water! Moving me slightly, two of the group leaders sat down, one on either side of her

“Tammy,” they told her. “You have to eat. With this heat you can easily get dehydrated. The head rabbi of the army tells the religious soldiers they should not fast if they are stationed in the Negev.

Listening to the conversation I could not help wondering how they could compare a soldier who had orders to be in the Negev to a civilian girl who was there for fun. I kept my mouth shut, though. Apparently they had convinced Tammy. With a self-deprecating face she picked up a glass. “I can’t believe I’m eating on Tisha B’Av,” she mumbled

I remembered the expression on her face the following year when I, now observant, was sitting on the floor, fasting and mourning the destruction of the Holy Temples. The next twelve years were spent in Phoenix, Arizona which was just as hot, if not hotter, than Eilat. No one ever refrained from fasting because of the heat

We made Aliyah and time flew by. Before we knew it we were sending our oldest son to the army. He was stationed in the Negev for basic training and I was concerned what would happen on Tisha B’Av. I did not need to worry

Years later he still describes that Tisha B’Av with shining eyes. First of all, his unit was excused from guard duty Tisha B’Av night. They spent the evening in the air-conditioned synagogue on the base and got to sleep through the night without wearing uniforms. In the morning they were put on air-conditioned buses and taken to the Yerucham Yeshiva. They sat on the ground in the air-conditioned study hall saying kinot until the afternoon when they found beds in the dormitory and slept until time for afternoon services. It was a soldier’s dream; air-conditioning and uninterrupted sleep

My son’s experience did not jive with what the group leaders had told Tammy so many years ago. Had the Israeli army changed so much? From talking to those who had been in the army back when I was vacationing in Eilat I don’t think so. Simply put, I think the group leaders had fed Tammy a line so she would eat and they would not have to worry about her, making things easier for themselves

I did not stay in touch with Tammy so I have no idea what happened to her. She could have regretted her religious lapses while in Israel and done complete Teshuva as soon as she returned home. Perhaps she is a beloved teacher in a seminary that works with newly religious girls. Or the trip could have been just the beginning of a downward spiral that let her to intermarry and live the life of a goya. I will never know.

What I do know is that I learned from Tammy’s experience. Just as I would not ask the cashier in the local drugstore to diagnose heart palpitations I would not look to a non-religious layman to advise me on spiritual matters.

There was one time I did drink on Tisha B’Av. I was nine months pregnant and having contractions. The monitor at the hospital showed that my contractions were doing nothing. I was ordered by the religious mid-wife to drink warm Kool-aid. I was reluctant, not just because of the fast, but because it tasted awful. Still, it did what it was supposed to do. The contractions stopped and a week later I gave birth to a beautiful, healthy baby girl.

The mitzvot were given to us to live by. There are times they must be pushed aside for health reasons. That is why there are rabbis to answer questions. Had the mid-wife not been religious I would have probably had my husband call the rabbi or ask one of the kepah-clad doctors. Here in Israel, as often as not, our health care workers are observant. How fortunate we are!

Kinot: verses of lamentations
Teshuva: repentance
Goya: non-Jewish woman
mitzvot: commandments

Praying for a Chupah: A Short Story

2011-07-31T20:10:00.000+03:00

On Tirza’s seventh birthday she finally received the present she had been hoping and praying for, a baby sister. She did not mind losing her place as the only child. She was thrilled to join the ranks of the other big sisters in her class.

Dina was everything a big sister could want in a baby. She had curly dark hair, dimples, and a charming smile that she smiled first thing every morning when she woke up and saw her big sister through the bars of her crib. Waking up to Dina’s smile was a wonderful way for Tirza to start her day and she would go off to school happily.

When she was two Dina came down with the mumps a week before Pesach. Tirza cheerfully spent hours pushing her sister in her stroller while she rollerbladed behind her with friends. It was Tirza’s job to bring Dina home from nursery school and she did so proudly. Before Dina began school Tirza told her mother that she wanted to take Dina to pick out her backpack. Since their parents worked long hours it was usually Tirza who helped Dina with her homework. However, the relationship was not all one-sided.

Once Dina began getting an allowance she would put part of her money aside to buy Tirza’s favorite ice cream bars. When Tirza needed a sample student for school projects Dina was a willing volunteer. Showing an aptitude for handwork Dina took a sewing class when she was in seventh grade. Her first project was a pleated skirt for Tirza. Tirza wore that skirt on her first date with Avner. She came home from that date starry-eyed and eager to tell Dina all about it.

Three months later she was married and living an hour bus ride away in a small village that held the yeshiva where Avner learned. Often Dina would take that bus ride on Thursday afternoon so she could help Tirza with her Shabbat preparations and stay over for Shabbat. In the beginning it was just to have Tirza’s company. As time went on it was so she could help with her nephew, Meir, and niece, Bracha. Dina was nineteen when Tirza was pregnant with her third child and Avner, who was now a rabbi in the yeshiva, decided to introduce Chaim, one of the top boys, to his sister-in-law.

It was a successful match. Dina and Chaim moved into the yeshiva housing just two blocks away from Tirza and Avner’s home. Dina’s first child, Chava, was born when Shira, Tirza’s third, was a half a year old. Tirza had three more children and Dina another six. Chaim became the principal at the local boys’ school. Time passed and, all of a sudden, Meir and Bracha, turned twenty and nineteen. Their friends began getting engaged and Tirza’s friends’ children began getting engaged. She knew it would not be long before she began making a wedding, but she was wrong. A year passed and then two and then a third. Tirza began to worry and, although he did not want to admit it, so did Avner.

Bracha had caused them all sorts of concern right in the beginning when she announced that she did not want to marry anyone who learned full-time. For Tirza, who had loved the years Avner had learned in Kollel, that had been a hard hit.

“Don’t you want a ben Torah?” she demanded from her daughter.

“Sure,” Bracha answered coolly. “I just want one who works, also. I have no intention of raising a family and supporting a family, also.”

Suggestions were made of older boys who had finished the army and yeshiva and were now learning a profession. Bracha turned her nose up at most of them. By the time she turned twenty-three, she had only gone out more than once with a half dozen boys.

Meir was somewhat easier. He gamely went out month after month, but nothing came of any of his dates. Was he being too particular, Tirza worried. At twenty-four perhaps he had let the perfect match slip through his fingers.

This was one subject she could not discuss with Dina and she did not want to worry her mother. It was her friend, Yaffa, whom she turned to. They were standing together at the wedding of their neighbor’s daughter. The floor of the wedding hall was literally vibrating as the groom, accompanied by dancing rabbis and friends, approached the bride, seated like a princess on her throne. Yaffa was clapping her hands in rhythm to the music and her lips were moving silently as the groom lowered the veil over the bride’s face. As the group of dancing men receded and the music became softer Tirza leaned close to her friend.

“How do you deal with this?” she whispered.

Yaffa knew exactly what her friend was referring to. She also had three children over twenty who were not married. Taking a deep breath she answered carefully.

“At the time of the bedeken when the joy is so strong that you can practically feel it, I use those emotions to talk to HaShem. I beg him that in the merit of the happiness I feel for my friend who is marrying off her child I will be worthy of that same happiness.”

Tirza took the advice. For the next few months she prayed fervently at every wedding she attended. Yaffa caught her eye several times and gave her a thumbs up. They were at a wedding after Chanukah when Tirza asked Yaffa if she could put two students in Yaffa’s guest room for the coming Shabbat.

“I’m sorry,” Yaffa answered uncomfortably. “My nephew is coming for Shabbat.”

“No problem,” Tirza answered. “I’ll find another place.” Before she could wonder what made Yaffa uncomfortable the bride and groom entered the hall and the dancing began. She did not think about it again until Friday night, after the meal when she and Avner were taking a walk and she saw Chava walking with Yaffa’s nephew.

I wonder if Dina knows Chava is out walking with a boy was her first thought. As Chava greeted them Tirza saw the shine in her niece’s eyes and, with a sinking feeling, realized that Dina knew very well that her daughter was out walking with Yaffa’s nephew. It was clear that the couple had not just happened to run into each other. There was obviously a courtship going on.

All Shabbat Tirza struggled with her emotions. Yaffa’s nephew was a fine boy and she was happy for her niece. However she could not believe her little sister, the one who had always looked up to her, was going to be a mother-in-law before her. And when, oh when, would she start marrying off her children? Was there something wrong with her and Avner?

Saturday night, after all the Shabbat clean-up was finished and Tirza had already begun working on lesson plans, the phone rang.

“It’s Aunt Dina,” her ten-year-old yelled.

“I’m coming.” Tirza’s calm voice revealed none of the emotional turmoil she felt.

“Shavua Tov.” Her sister’s voice was lilting. “We have a mazel tov!”

“Mazel Tov!” Tirza hoped she sounded enthusiastic.

“Chava’s engaged!”

Tirza heard the pure joy in her sister’s voice and her heart swelled with love. “I’m so happy for you!” she said sincerely.

“It’s been so hard not to say anything to you but Chava wouldn’t let me tell anyone, not even Mom, until we met his parents. We just had the vort. Can you come over?”

“Of course.”

In the weeks that followed Dina’s conversations focused on caterers, halls, wedding dresses, and the like. Time and again Tirza found herself stifling her envy and trying to be supportive.

“I’m happy for my sister” she told HaShem over and over. “In the merit of that happiness can I begin marrying off my kids, too?”

She and Yaffa were making sheva brachot together and she lost count of how many times she said her mantra. As they set the table she suddenly noticed that Yaffa’s oldest son was being most solicitous about helping her Shira with the plastic chairs. They both had a look in their eyes that made Tirza wonder if they had all overlooked something. Could this be a match in the making?

As the guests began arriving one friend pulled Tirza to the side.

“I have a suggestion for Meir. Are you interested?’

“I’m always interested,” Tirza answered beginning to feel hopeful. “Tell me all about it.”

It wasn’t until the speeches started that she really began to feel optimistic. A young man with dark eyes behind thick glasses, curly hair, and a beautiful smile stood up to give a Dvar Torah. Bracha sat forward in her chair and leaned over to her aunt.

“Who is that?” Tirza heard her daughter ask.

“One of Moshe’s cousins. He’s a lawyer. Would you like to meet him?”

Instead of demurring or hesitating Bracha gave a definitive yes.

Tirza realized she was being rather silly. She knew that it was too early to count on anything. For the first time, though, Tirza began to think that perhaps her constant prayer just might be answered in the near future.

ben Torah: someone who cares about Torah learning

bedeken: the point at the wedding when the groom covers the bride’s face with the veil

shavua tov: have a good week

mazel tov: congratulations

vort: meeting when the engagement becomes official

sheva brachot: party for the bride and groom the first week of their marriage

Dvar Torah: speech with a Torah lesson

Tu B'Av

2011-07-31T20:00:00.006+03:00

Like the branches of grape vines lives become very intertwined when living in a small community. Sorrows and tragedies are shared, but on the flip side so are joys and happiness. One of the joys of living in Shilo, a village of over two hundred families located in the heart of Israel, has been watching the community and the children grow and mature.

There were many reasons we chose to make Shilo our home. Among them was the agricultural connection that the community had. When we first came twenty-four years ago there were several herds of sheep, a number of fruit orchards had just been planted, and it was not unusual to hear chickens clucking in neighbors' gardens. A few years later the planting of the grapes began.

Now about a half a dozen Shilo families own and are responsible for their vineyards. Even an American family, who wants to have a share in the Torah laws applicable to working the Land of Israel, owns a grove. They have a manager here in Shilo, and fifteen years ago he hired a foreman and an assistant to clear the land and set up the irrigation system. After the two had worked for two weeks, ten teenagers were hired to do the planting. My oldest daughter was among those teenagers. She remembers getting up early in the morning, something she usually tried not to do, dressing in old clothing, and spending three hours, before it became unbearably hot, planting the 5,000 seedlings in holes the boys had dug. It was hard work and the pay was minimum. Still, those kids, who are now adults, have fond memories of their experience.

They also have memories of how that vineyard was almost destroyed shortly after the planting. One Friday morning in August, carloads of Arabs came to the fields to burn the plants and cut the pipes. Arab reporters and cameramen came with. Evidently they wanted a story on Arab land being stolen by Jewish settlers. That land belonged to Shilo, though, and before the grapes were planted it had been barren of anything save rocks and thorns.

It was not only the manager, the foreman, and his assistant who came to protect the grapes, but most of the men from Shilo. They received the alarm while at a circumcision ceremony. Without a second thought they rushed to their cars and raced down to the vineyards where they engaged in hand-to-hand combat to save the grapes.

As the men struggled to defend the land, thirteen-year-old Yitzhak gathered a group of younger boys. Together they recited Psalms as they overlooked the site of the struggle. Apparently those prayers helped because the confrontation did not escalate into a full riot and all of our men returned without any serious injuries.

For the first three years after the planting, the vineyards were carefully tended and none of the fruit was eaten, according to the laws of orla. In the time of the Holy Temple, the grapes would be taken to Jerusalem in the fourth year. Now that we no longer have our Beit HaMikdash, there is a special ceremony called Chilul HaKerem, changing the vineyard from holy to mundane, so that the grapes can be used. I remember well one of those ceremonies that was held on Tu B’Av twelve years ago.

Tu B’Av is the fifteenth day of the summer month of Av. It is six days after Tisha B’Av, the day we mourn the destruction of our first and second Holy Temples. Less than a week apart on the calendar, they are eons apart in spirit, as Tu B’Av is a joyous day.

There is a special connection between Shilo and Tu B’Av. In Judges, Chapter 21, verses 19 through 21, we read, "And they said Behold there is a sacrifice before the Lord in Shilo from time to time, which is to the north of Beit El, on the east side of the highway that goes up from Beit El to Shechem, and to the south of Levonah. And they instructed the children of Binyamin saying, Go and lie in wait in the vineyards. And you will see, and behold, if the daughters of Shilo come out to dance, then you shall come out of the vineyards and you shall grab for yourselves each man his wife of the daughters of Shilo, and go to the land of Binyamin."

Earlier, following the famous sin with the concubine in Give'ah, a decree had been made for all of Israel not to intermarry with the tribe of Binyamin. However, at the time of our verses in Judges, the sages ruled that the oath against the tribe of Binyamin applied for the generation of the sin in Give'ah only. Now it was null and void.

According to the Talmud, this decision was made on Tu B’Av. It was on Tu B’Av, as well, that the "sacrifice before the Lord" was held. Since its founding in 1978, Shilo usually has a special commemoration on this special date. Sometimes it is a concert, sometimes a fair, other times a festival, and sometimes even a wedding. Twelve years ago there were plans for all four and more.

Things do not always go as planned. That year, the day before Tu B’Av, we awoke to the horrible news that Arabs had murdered the Shilo rabbi’s son and his friend while they were doing guard duty at Yitzhar, a nearby village. With their deaths, the cemetery at Yitzhar was begun. Busloads of mourners from all over Israel came. Once at Yitzhar we made our way through a rocky, mountain terrain full of thorns, to accompany Harel and Shlomo, hy’d, to their rest. Since that day we have buried more sons of Shilo who have fallen to Arab terror. Still, I have not forgotten the pain of hearing our rabbi say the Mourner's Prayer for his son.

He and his family returned to Shilo following the funeral and began observing their week of mourning. A Tu B’Av festival was definitely not appropriate, but not everything could be cancelled. The wedding planned in Shilo for the following evening would be held. So would the Chilul HaKerem that was to serve as a backdrop for the introduction to the wedding ceremony.

Many of us gathered in the vineyard to honour the bride and groom. Men and boys escorted the young man around one side of the vineyard. I joined the women to escort the bride on the other side. The little girls wore garlands in their hair and danced in front of the bride who was enthroned on the cart pulled by a tractor. The women followed, but we were not able to move as merrily. The rocky, mountain terrain full of thorns made dancing difficult. I was not the only one to make the connection between the walk we were taking then and the one we had made the day before. First to a funeral and then to a wedding. It might be trite, but it is true that life goes on.

And the grapes continue to grow, as do the children. Five years passed and it was time to harvest the grapes. One of the owners had advertised for help. Several of my children went to make some money. My husband and I went to help out for a bit.

It felt good to cut the clusters and put them into basket full of grapes. David, who had been a little boy of seven when we first moved to Shilo, drove the tractor through the rows to gather the baskets. They would be going to the winery, and I was proud to be part of the process. Next year I would be able to buy the wine and serve it at my table.

The rows were full of all kinds of workers. I saw a schoolboy with the dark skin of Yemenite background give his clippers to his Ashkenazi friend. An American tourist helped his little Israeli-born cousin. There were some Russian immigrants who needed the extra money. A number of the college students, whom I had watched grow up in Shilo, had spare time since they were still on summer break.

My favourite workers were the high school girls who had come to earn money for a class project. Some of them had been those little girls with garlands in their hair who had danced before the bride. Now, dressed in long, modest skirts and laughing and chattering away, I thought they were the most beautiful girls I had ever seen.

In the Talmud, Rabbi Yochanan says that there was no joy like the joy of Tu B’Av. Why? Because it was a time of unity for the Jewish people.

I looked at these workers, young and old, religious and not, immigrants and native born. This was unity and I felt joy.

Before we know it, it will be Rosh HaShanah. In the synagogue, on the second day, we will read from the haftorah that is taken from Jeremiah. The promise will be read, "I shall yet rebuild you and you will be rebuilt as the maiden of Israel; you will yet adorn yourself with drums and go forth in the dance of the celebrants. You will yet plant vineyards in the mountains of the Shomron; the planters will plant and redeem. For there will be a day when the watchman will call out on Mt. Ephraim, 'Arise, let us ascend to Zion, to HaShem, our G-d'."

We have rebuilt homes. We have had our dancing and celebrations. Vineyards have been planted and redeemed. May the watchman come and herald the coming of the time of our redemption and true peace.

Orla: the first three years after a tree is planted and its fruit is forbidden

hy’d: May HaShem avenge their murders

In the Talmud, Rabbi Yochanan says that there was no joy like the joy of Tu B’Av. Why? Because it was a time of unity for the Jewish people.

I looked at these workers, young and old, religious and not, immigrants and native born. This was unity and I felt joy.

Before we know it, it will be Rosh HaShanah. In the synagogue, on the second day, we will read from the haftorah that is taken from Jeremiah. The promise is read, "I shall yet rebuild you and you will be rebuilt as the maiden of Israel; you will yet adorn yourself with drums and go forth in the dance of the celebrants. You will yet plant vineyards in the mountains of the Shomron; the planters will plant and redeem. For there will be a day when the watchman will call out on Mt. Ephraim, 'Arise, let us ascend to Zion, to HaShem, our G-d'."

We have rebuilt homes. We have had our dancing and celebrations. Vineyards have been planted and redeemed. May the watchman come and herald the coming of the time of our redemption and true peace.

Orla: the first three years after a tree is planted and its fruit is forbidden

hy’d: May HaShem avenge their murders

Like the branches of grape vines lives become very intertwined when living in a small community. Sorrows and tragedies are shared, but on the flip side so are joys and happiness. One of the joys of living in Shilo, a village of almost three hundred families located in the heart of Israel, has been watching the community and the children grow and mature.

In the Talmud, Rabbi Yochanan says that there was no joy like the joy of Tu B’Av. Why? Because it was a time of unity for the Jewish people.

I looked at these workers, young and old, religious and not, immigrants and native born. This was unity and I felt joy.

We have rebuilt homes. We have had our dancing and celebrations. Vineyards have been planted and redeemed. May the watchman come and herald the coming of the time of our redemption and true peace.

Orla: the first three years after a tree is planted and its fruit is forbidden

hy’d: May HaShem avenge their murder

Kabbalat Shabbat

2011-07-01T19:20:00.004+03:00

When I lived in America I never went to Kabbalat Shabbat services. Perhaps there were communities where women did go to synagogue on Friday night but I was not acquainted with any of them. Once we moved to Israel it was different. After I would light Shabbat candles my older daughters would leave the house with their brothers to go to the synagogue. It took me a long time to join their ranks, however, and I did so for a very non-spiritual reason.

My son had become engaged and I wanted to hear the announcement made and be there to receive the mazel tovs.

It was wonderful to hear all the good wishes but what was really special was the Kabbalat Shabbat service itself. Tears came to my eyes at the beauty of the prayers. I swayed to the music of the canter’s tunes. As we sang Lecho Dodi and bowed to the Shabbat Queen, I felt connected to Jews all over the world. I was hooked. No longer would I wait at home for the others to return from the synagogue. Gone were the days when I would take a nap or read a book. All week long I found myself eagerly anticipating the coming Kabbalat Shabbat.

One Friday night I entered the women’s section and saw a guest sitting next to my seat. I wished her a Shabbat Shalom and opened my prayer book. Suddenly, with no apparent reason, she burst into tears. I was nonplussed and handed her a box of tissues. She grabbed several gratefully. The crying did not subside, though. Finally, I felt compelled to ask her if she was okay.

“I’m only here for a week,” she sobbed. “I’m going back to America Sunday. I have to go back, but I don’t want to.”

It was not appropriate for me to ask her why she had to go back. There could have been any number of reasons: elderly parents, health problems, financial issues, marital discord.

Instead, I smiled sympathetically and remembered the time years ago I had been riding in the car with my family and listening to an Uncle Moishy tape. Suddenly, after listening to the line, “when we hear that shofar blow to Jerusalem we will go” I burst into tears. At that point in my life we had decided to make aliyah but it took us two very long years to get everything in order. Thankfully, we did get here. Why were we able to make the move and stay here when so many others cannot?

I am not the only one to ask that question. Recently my husband and I were together with three other couples. Out of the eight of us only two were sabras, Israeli-born. The others came as children in ages ranging from three to fifteen. All had fled communist or Arab regimes. We were the only ones who had come as adults, leaving a free democracy behind. They wanted to know what made us decide to move to Israel.

My answer was rather complicated. I spoke of the desire to stop walking the tightrope between assimilation and acceptance, the longing to live in the Jewish homeland, and the need to be in a strong Torah community. My husband’s answer was far more simplistic.

“When we are in the synagogue sometimes the gabbai gives us an aliyah and we go up to the bimah to bless the Torah. Back in America G-d gave me an aliyah to go up to the Land of Israel. So I came.”

One of the sabras shook his head in disbelief and mumbled good-naturedly, “crazy settlers”.

We probably are “crazy settlers”. We certainly are idealistic ones. Every day I pray: Blow the great shofar of our freedom and raise a banner to gather our exiles and bring us together from the four corners of the earth. Blessed are you, HaShem, who gathers in the dispersed of the Jewish people. As I recite these two verses I am almost always overcome with gratitude for being able to live here. At the same time, I pray that my crying neighbor, and all the others who long to be here, be granted the same privilege.

Aliyah: literally to go up. It can mean a move to Israel or making a blessing on the Torah reading.

Gabbai: The one who insures the services run smoothly.

Bimah: The platform in the synagogue where the Torah is read.