Repost: And Let Us Say Amen

Today is my step-sister's yahrtzeit. I don't really have anything I want to write, but thought I would repost what I wrote last year.


Originally posted July 9, 2008:

My Friday began late as I relished the opportunity to sleep in, staying in bed until well past noon. I had no specific plans for my day off, I just knew that I didn’t want to take part in any 4th of July celebrations. Seven years ago the holiday was tarnished for me as I stood on the back deck at my sister and brother-in-law’s house in Lexington and silently watched the fireworks on neighboring hills, all the while knowing that the next day we were burying my sister. The only thing I wanted this year was a quiet Shabbat celebration as I marked my sister’s yahrzeit, fully aware that the guilt I carry surrounding her last months will not fade just because I say Kaddish.

I was a 21-year old college student, living 4 hours away from home, working hard at a very demanding higher educational institution, and trying desperately to figure out who I am. My dad had remarried when I was 14 and I had gained a stepsister 13 years my senior. We never lived in the same house, or even the same town. And as a young adult who did not see or hear from her father much while away at college, I was sometimes quite jealous of her. She had gone back to school to get a degree in nursing and all I could think about was that she was supposed to graduate the same year as me and I wanted my dad at my graduation. And then my junior year none of that mattered anymore.

I knew that attendance would be sparse on the 4th of July at my temple; even our rabbi was still out of town at camp. I was right. When I walked in there were 3 people plus the intern, soloist, and pianist. Eventually we gained 3 more, but we never quite got to a minyan, which is rare on a Friday. I waited for the couple, friends of mine, to choose their seats, and then I chose a seat far from them. It’s not that I don’t like them; on any other Friday I would have chosen to sit with them. But that night I wanted to be by myself, to truly delve into the emotion of the coming Shabbat and my feelings surrounding the anniversary of my sister’s death.

She got sick when I was a sophomore. Breast cancer, which had recently claimed the life of her grandmother. 30-years old, too young to need to fight this horrible disease, but she did it gracefully. I was there during her final chemo treatments the first time. We all went out afterwards and celebrated at a restaurant in Lexington. Unfortunately she wouldn’t stay well for long.

We began services singing Shalom Aleichem. Even though the sun had not yet set the sanctuary had a dimness to it; it had been raining that day, thunderstorms as if the sky was as emotional as I would be that night. There is a coziness, a warmth, that I find in the darkness of a thunderstorm, though it hasn’t always been that way. I used to be frightened of the thunder, the lightning, the wind. That night, however, I was far from that fear. I sat quietly, singing along with the melody that always seems to be bittersweet to me. Here we are welcoming guests, helping to bring in the wonder of Shabbat, but there always seems to be that edge of sadness to it, a knowledge that this too will be over, this wonderful respite in time, and we will move back into the ordinary hours of our lives.

Christmas break during my junior year brought the news that my sister would be marrying her longtime boyfriend in March. Everyone was happy; no one commented on the short timeline. She asked me to be a bridesmaid, but having grown uncomfortable years ago at even the thought of wearing a dress, I begged off, saying I’d read a prayer instead, design the program. I made the trip down for the weekend, celebrating with my family. She had a special wig for the ceremony, dyed the red that she had always liked her own hair to be. On Sunday I drove back to school, back to my life away from my family, away from her and the cancer.

As we moved into the Sh’ma and its blessings I began to feel a tightness in the back of my throat. Barechu et Adonai hamvorach. Praised be Adonai to who our praise is due. Baruch Adonai hamvorach l’olam vaed. Praised is Adonai to whom our praise is due now and forever. And then the Ma’ariv Aravim. Blessed are you Adonai our God, Ruler of the universe, whose word brings on the evening, whose wisdom opens the gates and with understandings changes the seasons... I could barely say the words, much less see them through the tears that had welled up in my eyes. I felt overwhelmed with the sense of God’s presence and with the sadness I felt at the absence of my sister’s. God creates day and night, rolls light away from darkness and darkness from light.

I chose to stay up at school again that summer, working in one of the offices as I had done the previous year. Mid June I went home for the weekend and went down to visit my sister. By this point the cancer had spread to her abdomen and her brain. She had been having frequent seizures and hospice would soon be called in. But that weekend she was alert and joking and joyous. My dad later told me that she hadn’t been doing well up until that point and afterwards she declined rapidly. I felt lucky to know that the last time I really saw her she was at her best. Two weeks later on a Sunday night I got a call that I should come home, that she wasn’t expected to make it through the next couple of days. I wanted to leave right then, but it was late in the evening already. So, I waited and left in the morning. That afternoon I watched my sister take her last breath, surrounded by her family, her mom, her husband, my dad and my other sister. I said goodbye. The next few days were a blur; arrangements to be made, a funeral in Lexington, burial in Northern Kentucky, reception at my dad’s in Cincinnati. It was hot and humid and I have 4 distinct memories while the rest is hazy at best. The clearest memory I have is standing in the cemetary and listening to my dad, a reserved man most of the time, talk about losing the woman who thought of him as her dad, who called him “papa.”

Saying the Sh’ma that night I felt as if I were truly offering up my heart, my soul. Hear O Israel! Adonai is our God, Adonai is One. The God who made the heavens, who brought on the evening, who gave us life, is our God and God is echad. One. Unique. Ineffable, as Heschel would say. My voice was reaching out, using these words as a path to God, not up or down, but who enveloped me that night. With my eyes closed I could feel the stillness around me and feel the reverberation of my own voice in my chest, something I have grown to love as I say the Sh’ma over the years, as if God is rumbling, answering back my call.

It was through the death of my sister that I began my exploration into Judaism. Not right away. First I railed at God, a God who I had been convinced I didn’t believe in, that is until I was angry enough to acknowledge Him. But it was that acknowledgement, that anger, that wholly emotional response, that gave me that push, that need, to find my spiritual home, which I did in Judaism. And in Judaism I finally found my way to mourn my sister properly.

The rest of the service passed in much the same emotional way. I was worn out, exhausted, as if my soul had run laps around the sanctuary the entire time, pounding the walls with its fists and crying out in fury, while finally collapsing into the waiting embrace of its Maker. All of this felt like it had happened inside and when we reached Kaddish Yatom I knew that I was ready to say the words that praise God.

Blessed, praised, glorified, exalted, extolled, mighty, upraised, and lauded be the Name of the Holy One. Beyond any blessing and song, praised and consolation that are uttered in the world. May there be abundant peace from Heaven and life upon us and upon all Israel.

I still feel sorrow at the loss of my sister. I still feel sadness when I think of my dad and step mom and her husband who all must live their lives with her palpable absence. I still feel the guilt that only a survivor can feel for not having done enough while she was still alive. And so I will continue to mark her yarhzeit, year after year. I will continue to say the words that praise God and all that God has made. Time may make the ache less pronounced, but as we concluded our prayers on Friday I realized that the mourning will go on and should go on and that it is okay because God is still there at the end of it all.

In a New York Minute (Everything Can Change)

I spent last Tuesday through Friday in New York City, my first ever visit. One of my very good friends went along for with me, and I couldn’t have asked for a better traveling companion. You see, this was our first time spending multiple full days together, 24/7. And I will readily admit to being an occasionally difficult traveler. I get cranky when my blood sugar drops in the afternoon and right now my moods can turn on a dime. This trip was no different, and I think everything was even more pronounced than usual because I was completely overstimulated with the sights, sounds, and smells of Manhattan. Our second day in the city was spent almost entirely at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. If you know me, you know that I love art. I’ve recently rediscovered my own love of painting (in a big way, actually—that is for another post), but I’ve never stopped loving art in general. The Met was like a pilgrimage experience for me. If you’ll excuse the Christian reference, it was like stepping into a grand cathedral to worship at the altar of paint, and marble, and beauty, and design, and form, and light. It was incredibly overwhelming, so much so that I believe I was literally on some kind of seratonin high. And anyone who knows anything about highs, whether they are artificially induced or not, knows that what comes up must come down. And down I came. I dropped fast and furious and that evening before dinner and the show I had what I can only describe as a meltdown. I had no control over my emotions and all I could do was cry and try to breathe. It was a stark contrast to how I felt going through the Met, and how I felt in general during the trip. It was frustrating to say the least. And at this point a lesser person, a lesser friend, probably would have written off the rest of the trip right then, figured that I was just a big emotional baby. But, my friend remained her patient and loving self as the tide passed and I began to feel better again.

I have to say that this was one of the best trips I have ever taken. Despite the aforementioned emotional issues, I had so much fun exploring New York, especially with my friend. I’m not sure I would have had as much fun with anyone else. Usually at the end of a trip like this it is all I can do to get away from the person I have been with for a little while; I need space, a lot of it. But, at the end of this trip all I wanted was for it to keep going. My mom asked me when I picked up my dog if we were still friends and I answered “of course!” Not once during the trip did I think “man, I could just use some time to myself.” I loved spending so much time with my friend and was sad when I had to get into the cab alone at the end of the trip to head home by myself.

One of the best parts of the trip was getting to see my uncle who lives in New York and who I don't get to see more than once a year usually. I don’t think I have smiled that much in a long time. It was so much fun and I felt so much love for him and was so happy that I got to share that with my friend as well. There is something special about getting to share the family you love with the other people in your life who you love. It was a great night.

I wasn’t back in town on Friday in time for services, but I was able to go Saturday morning, which was a nice way to end such a great week. I had gone through such a range of emotions while I was in New York and I was so tired, but I think it helped to inject my prayer with something more, a little raw, and I felt very connected.

To reference the title of this post, I don't believe that everything changed. I don't think any trip has that kind of power, no matter how amazing it is. But, I do believe I was able to discover some important information about myself, and that is a souvenir I will gladly walk away with.

Patching a Hole

The World I Know, June 2009

This post is not about Judaism, or spirituality, or even God, per se. But, it kinda is at the same time.

After a nearly 5 year absence, painting has made a resurgence in my life.

I used to paint all the time. I fell in love with it in high school, and while I dated other art forms in college, I always came back to painting at the end of the day. And then I graduated from college and entered the real world and lost all confidence in my abilities as an artist. I told myself that I stopped painting because it was too expensive, or I didn't have the space, or I didn't have the time. But, those were all excuses and in reality I didn't want to paint because I didn't think I could anymore. I kept myself surrounded by the last paintings I had completed and been proud of, and some days it would make me happy to see them. And other days it would make me incredibly sad to think that this was a part of my life that was over. I doubted whether I would ever pick up a paintbrush again.

Last spring I picked up some watercolors and painted a couple of times, mostly because I wanted to do something for friends who were moving out of state. But I was never a water colorist and I wasn't very happy and so I put down the paintbrush again.

A year later and nothing much had changed in my thinking about my art. What had changed was this incredible friend who has encouraged me to be creative again. So, using a coupon that she had sent, I picked up some oil paints and paintbrushes and dug out a blank canvas that had sat in my apartment for 5 years. And one day I began to paint.

And then I painted again. And again. And again. I bought an easel and more paint and the brushes I had always loved using and more canvas. I even finished a painting I had begun 5 years ago. Then one day I realized I had run out of space to prop up the drying paintings around my apartment. I had to use my laundry drying rack, and thus neglected doing laundry in favor of protecting the drying oils.

What I discovered, almost instantly, was just how much I had missed painting. I missed the smell of the paint, the feel of the brush, the way I could block out everything around me and just concentrate on the canvas. I had missed being creative because somewhere along the way I had convinced myself that it was something I no longer was capable of.

I realized something that only now can I truly appreciate: before I discovered Judaism, painting was how I prayed.

I feel a freedom with my painting now that I never could have in college. I always had an assignment or a project to work on, and even though I did paint for my own pleasure those times were few and far between and I was so locked into what I was doing in class that I didn't break away from it. Now, however... now I am allowing myself to just follow where the process will take me. I have played with color, with form, with light and dark. I have painted hands -- a challenge to myself to master something that I never could in college. This past weekend I turned my attention to what is around me and took my time with the paintings, something I never really did before. I was always anxious to finish something, to see what it would look like. But this weekend I slowed myself down and concentrated on making the paint work and respecting it when I needed to step away.

At this point painting has become a source of hope, a way to cope (and sometimes avoid), a way to express how I feel, and a way to reconnect. I don't think I would have picked up a paintbrush again were it not for the encouragement of my friend. It isn't every day that someone gives you back a piece of yourself that you thought was lost.

Random Thoughts

Look at this. Two days in a row of posts. Excellent.

So, where have I been since January you may (or may not) be asking yourself? Well, I've been around. I went through a few more bad months, but after some discoveries about my allergy medicine (don't take Zyrtec if you have a tendency towards depression or are currently being treated for it, and if you do, talk to your doctor!) I am beginning to feel on track.

Over the past 4 months or so I spent a lot of time at temple. A lot. Many weeks I was there 5 out of 7 days (Friday-Saturday for Shabbat services, Sunday for Religious School, Monday for a beginning Hebrew class I taught to newly arrived students, and Tuesday for Hebrew School and/or Board Meetings). For the most part it was a good thing to be there so much; I was around people I cared about, I had the support of my community, and it kept me busy and occupied, which was a key thing for me.

But, a couple of weeks before Passover I got a cold. Which turned into a sinus infection. And lingered for a month (though the infection cleared up w/ antibiotics within a week of finally going to the doctor). I was drained. I had no energy. And one weekend, for the first time in ages when I have been in town, I didn't go to temple for services Friday or Saturday. Friday night I went to a friend's house for a lively pot luck and outdoor service. And the next day I decided to take a long drive out into the country. I can't explain it, but those couple of days away from temple were needed. I needed to recharge. I needed to not feel like this was just an obligation, that it was a job to be there. I love my temple, and I needed a little bit of distance to renew that love.

Now the school year is over. My fourth graders ended their first year of Hebrew on a high note and my Monday night class was reading, if haltingly, and learning grammar by our last evening together. It was a good school year, and I am incredibly proud of all of my students. Last year I felt a bit over my head when teaching Hebrew; this year I think I was beginning to hit my stride and I am excited for next year.

Over the last few months I have also read Torah a few times (once for the anniversary of my bat mitzvah, once to fill in for our ailing intern, and once on Passover - the Song of the Sea). I rocked my bat mitzvah portion, did decently with the next one, and after only preparing for 2 days I muddled through reasonably well for the Song of the Sea, which happens to be the hardest portion, or so says my rabbi. I don't know when I will read next, but I am hoping it will be this summer.

Oh, and last, but not least, I passed my 5 year mark since my conversion. It isn't like when your car turns over from 99,000 to 100,000 miles. Maybe it should have been, but it was more like "Hmmm. I've been a Jew for 5 years. That's pretty cool." Somewhere along the way since my conversion I began to truly think of myself as a Jew and not a convert. So, while it was momentous in a way, it is also something I don't feel the need to make a big deal over.

d'var Torah - במדבר

I realize it has been a number of months since I posted. I'm going to try and get better about that.

So, as a step back into things, this is the d'var Torah I gave last night at my temple board meeting. It was my 2nd month in a row doing it because last month I'd forgotten that it was my turn and hadn't prepared; I did pull something out of the air, but I was embarrassed and so volunteered for this month.

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This week we begin a new book of the Torah: Bamidbar, which means “in the wilderness,” referred to in English as Numbers because of the counting of the Israelites. The portion begins with a lengthy listing of the tribes of Israel and the number of males over the age of twenty whose duty it is to serve as the army and surround the Mishkan on all sides. However, the Levites are not included in this number as they are not considered a part of the army. Instead, their count begins at the age of one month and their duty is to guard the Mishkan itself and to assist the kohanim, the priests.

What interested me most doesn’t come until 3:1

“These are the descendants of Aaron and Moses on the day that Adonai spoke to Moses on Mount Sinai. These are the names of Aaron’s sons; the firstborn Nadav, and Avihu, Eleazar and Ithamar.”

Why doesn’t the Torah list the descendants of Moses? Rashi says: “[Scripture] mentions only the sons of Aaron, yet they are called the descendants of Moses – because he taught them Torah. This teaches us that one who teaches another’s son Torah is considered as having procreated them.”

The religious school teachers at Valley are charged with the Jewish education of our congregation’s children, but this is a task that should not be limited to those who teach on Sunday or Tuesday. Each member of this board, each member of the congregation, is in some way a teacher of our children. Whether you are guiding the third graders through learning about Shabbat or showing up on a Saturday morning for services and Torah study, you are a teacher and what you do is important. We can all take pride in our students – when they learn to say the Sh’ma in kindergarten and when they stand in front of us at their bar or bat mitzvah. Whether we had them in class in a formal setting or not, they are still our students.

Speaking personally, I know that when I enter the classroom each week to teach Hebrew to the 4th graders I do so with the knowledge that the groundwork that we lay in Alef is one that they will continue to build on, through Bet and Gimmel and on through their b’nei mitzvah training. And at the end of the year when they have gone from sounding out words letter by letter to reading the V’ahavta it is an absolute joy to see their pride in their own progress. But teaching our students how to read Hebrew, or about the holidays, or about Jewish history, is not enough. It is our duty to instill a love of Judaism that they will be able to carry with them throughout their lives. We teach them Torah, in the sense that Torah encompasses all that we are to learn and do Jewishly. As Rashi stated, one who teaches Torah to a child is considered to be like a parent, and as parents it is essential that we share our Jewish values, our history, and our customs—and not just as casual observers or distracted volunteers. When our students are with us in Religious school they are our children and it is a sacred duty to assist in raising them Jewishly during those few hours we have each week. At the end of the year we are able to look back and see how our children have grown in their Judaism and we have the pride of a parent. And when our students see us rejoicing in Shabbat, studying Torah, and doing Jewishly we are able to continue to teach them with our actions.

The beginning of this Torah portion counts the Israelites whose sacred duty it was to surround the Mishkan and guard it for safe keeping. We must step up and be counted now, as Jews who love our Judaism, who take pride in our temple, support our community, and teach our children, because it is our sacred duty to guard the future of Judaism.

The Heart of Reading Torah

I ascend the 2 steps to stand on the understated bimah, trying to carry the tune for the song I have chosen to begin the Torah service. I am horribly off-key, but sing loudly anyway, knowing that I need to lead the few who have shown up for services this morning in prayer, and that includes prayer in song.

Al shlo-sha d’varim...

Open up the doors to the ark, first the right, then the left. One more step to reach the Torah, lifting it carefully so as to not bend the crowns, thinking don’tdropitdon’tdropitdon’tdropit. Turn. Fumble with siddur, say the Sh’ma, sing some more and undress the Torah with some help. Close the doors to the ark.

Deep breath. I remember I need to ask someone to do the aliyah, announce the page numbers for the blessing and for the reading. At this point my heart is beating quickly and my voice is unsteady. Another deep breath. I need to help the congregant chanting the Torah blessing to begin and flash back to the first time my rabbi had to start me off.

Another deep breath and I am ready to begin.

And suddenly my voice is a little clearer, my heart seems to not be racing so much as soaring. The words come clearly for the most part and I can practically taste them as they tumble off my tongue. There is an energy, an electricity, that is running through me as I trace the sacred Hebrew words with the yad. Before I know it I am coming to the end of the twelve verses I had prepared.

Vayomer al-tikrav halom shal-ne'aleycha me'al ragleycha ki hamakom
asher atah omed alav admat-kodesh hu.

I pick up the translation to read. I go too quickly through the English, the words rushing and pushing together.

And suddenly I am done and I need to remember to begin the after blessing for the congregant doing the chanting. I can feel myself shaking a bit as we dress the Torah and I set it gently aside but keep the crowns off because I know that I am likely to bend them when putting the Torah away later.

I chant the Haftarah blessing and read from Isaiah. The words are a blur to me, but I read loudly, and clearly, and try to calm my heart, slow my breathing. But I am unsuccessful and my voice is shaking as I chant the after blessing.

My mouth is dry as I turn to pick up the Torah again, to return it to the ark, fumbling with my siddur again, trying to sing.

Eitz chayim hi...

And then the Torah is back in the ark and the doors are closed, but I am still shaking, still unable to calm myself down. I grab the yahrzeit list off the lectern and descend the bimah steps to finish the service. Aleinu. Kaddish. Closing song. My voice is weak now. It shakes and I stumble over words that have become second nature for me.

Shabbat Shaloms are exchanged and I turn off the lights in the sanctuary and throughout the building, put away the commentaries from Torah study, get ready to close up and head home. But I cannot leave just yet. For 15 minutes I stand in my rabbi’s office, looking at the books on his shelf, feeling my heart rate finally slow to normal, feeling the adrenaline drain from my body and I know that I will sleep hard later.

Back Up On The Horse

This weekend my rabbi and our rabbinic intern are taking the middle school students up to Detroit for a retreat, which means we will be rabbi-less for Friday and Saturday services. Friday night a rabbinic student will be handling things, but Saturday morning I get to lead Torah study and services, which I haven’t done since the summer. I also haven’t read Torah since July, so between using a prayerbook that I’ve never lead from (Mishkan T’filah) and being a bit rusty with my Torah skills, it should be an interesting morning. I met briefly with my rabbi last night to roll the Torah to its spot and to chat briefly about Saturday. He said that if I want to do a Gates of Gray service that would be perfectly okay. Which is tempting, mostly because it is a prayerbook I know like the back of my hand and service prep would be minimal. But, we’ve been using MT for a few months now and I have really begun to appreciate the different choices and different translations/interpretations (see my last post for a specific example). I don’t really want to step back into Gates of Gray just for ease of use. So, I have a lot of work to do to get ready for Saturday morning. Here is my list:

• Practice Torah reading! I’ve been working with the voweled side of my Tikkun; tonight I need to take stab at no vowels.
• Read the Torah portion and go through the commentaries I have at home (Etz Hayim and Rashi) and check for some online/modern commentaries. I wish I had thought to bring home the Rabbi’s Sforno or Ramban last night. Oh, well. I can borrow them on Friday night after services.
• Take a tour through MT with a stack of Post-Its to lay out the service. Maybe practice a few melodies (I am not a fan of leading any of the singing, but I’ll do it; I’m okay with the chanting of the blessings, the Barechu, and the chatzi kaddish; I’ll probably choose some of the shorter versions).
• Prepare a sheet for Saturday morning of items to discuss. I’m not sure if I am going to prepare any kind of a hand-out. What I will most likely do is have everyone take a different Torah commentary and just get through what we get through. I’m a fan of the multiple-commentary-route because I think it helps people feel more participatory. I’m less a fan of “this is what I found interesting and I am now going to teach you for the next hour and we’re not going to really deviate from that.” Sometimes that is okay, but I think it takes a lot away from Torah study if you aren’t encouraging others to direct the course of the discussion.

It’s a pretty big list for 3 nights; I wish I had gotten started a little earlier, but no use fretting over that now. I need to be a busy little bee and resist the temptations of my Battlestar Galactica DVDs...

On another note, Hebrew class went pretty well last night. I'd been quite frustrated after the last couple of classes, feeling like a fairly ineffectual teacher. The differences in behavior and learning styles of the class I had last year and the class I have this year are enormous and I need to keep re-inventing how I approach these lessons. Last week was a necessarily dry class to go over the special rules and exceptions to what they had been learning so that on Sunday we could begin in our new book which introduces actual prayers. I realized this going in, but I didn't want to spend more than one class period on the rules, so it WAS a lot to get through. But last night one of the parents came up to me afterwards and told me that their child thought that "Hebrew would be boring tonight." Now, I can understand wanting to bring this to my attention if it is a concern. What really got me is that they said it within earshot of a number of other parents, students, and other temple members who had been there for adult Hebrew. I was a little annoyed about that, but whatever. I think last night's class was fun; we moved forward in the lesson, we played a game, and we reinforced some reading and listening skills.

To Stand Upright

This past Friday was our monthly Family Shabbat at my temple, preceded by a Religious School dinner and a Tot Shabbat. A full evening to be sure. I normally don’t show up for Tot Shabbat unless it is between Torah Study and services on a Saturday morning, but a friend of mine who has a 7-month-old son was planning on attending and since she is a fairly new member I said I would come for Tot Shabbat so she knew someone. And then I stuck around for the dinner. By the time services rolled around at 7:30 I had already been at temple since 6 and I was not only tired and had a headache, but I was beginning to feel a bit down. As a single person who would like to be in a relationship and as a Jew-by-Choice who does not have a Jewish family, it is sometimes difficult to be around so many families celebrating Shabbat. I have friends at temple who are like family to me, that is something I am incredibly grateful for, but sometimes it makes my own situation that much more lonely.

Thus with all of that on my mind and informing my thoughts and mood, I sat next to my wonderful and patient friend during services last Friday and when we reached the G’vurot in Mishkan T’filah I was struck by the profound nature of the interpretation by Rabbi Richard Levy that appears in the linear service (Shabbat Evening II) instead of the literal translation. This wasn’t the first time that the words of this prayer have resonated with me beyond the moment they are said, but that night they were especially powerful. After a long week of deadlines at work and a mood that swung high and low, sometimes multiple times a day, I was exhausted and more emotional than I was prepared for. I’ve included the text of the prayer below:

We pray that we might know before whom we stand,
the Power whose gift is life,
who quickens those who have forgotten how to live,
having implanted within us eternal spirit.

We pray for winds to disperse the air of sadness,
for rains to make parched hopes rise again.

We pray for love to encompass us
for no reason save that we are human,
that we may blossom into persons
who have gained power over our own lives.

We pray to stand upright, we fallen; to be healed, we sufferers.
We pray to break the bonds that keep us from the world of beauty.
We pray to be open to our own true selves.
We pray that we may walk in a garden of purpose,
in touch with the power of the world.

Praised be the God whose gift is life,
whose cleansing rains let parched men and women rise again.

Rabbi Richard Levy
(From Mishkan T’filah, G’vurot, Shabbat Evening II)

I recall a previous Shabbat, sitting next to the same friend, coming to the passage that states “...that we may blossom into person who have gained power over our own lives” and feeling the slightest of nudges and seeing the briefest of smiles, and I felt not only the support of my friend, but almost as if God had reached down and given me that nudge. It may sound hokey or even crazy, but that’s what I felt. So, when we came to this passage again last week I felt overwhelmed with emotion, knowing that the previous weeks had been a great mixture of happiness, frustration, sadness, joy, energy, and exhaustion.

“We pray to stand upright, we fallen.” This line, more than any other, is so full of meaning for me at this moment in my life. It does not say “We pray that God makes us stand upright,” or “We pray that someone will come along and prop us up” or even “We pray that we may prop our own selves up.” It simple says “We pray to stand upright.” As anyone who has suffered through bouts of depression and anxiety can tell you, this isn’t something that you can get through alone, but it also isn’t something that you can just ask someone else, even God, to fix. Whatever you need to do to stand upright again... well, you do it. You may do it grudgingly, you may fight it stubbornly every step, but in the end all you want is to stand upright again.

Brief Thoughts on Israel

A co-worker's husband asked me last night what I thought about the situation in Israel and Gaza. I asked him if he wanted to know my opinion because I was a Jew, and he gave an honest answer of "Yes."

So, what do I think about the situation in Israel? I don't know. I can honestly say that I am conflicted about what is happening. It upsets me that civilians – children – on both sides have lost their lives or are being hurt, whether emotionally or physically, by the violence. At the same time I don't see how Israel should have to sit back and take Hamas slinging rockets at them over and over and over again. The situation is more complex than a simple "I support Israel" or "I don't support Israel" stance, and I'm having trouble coming up with a nuanced opinion about it. I know that as an American the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan anger me, but I also realize that we have to finish them in a responsible way, even if we got into them in an irresponsible manner. But as an American, as a Jew, I can't seem to come get to that same level with the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. The Oberlin student in me shouts that no violence is good, even if you think it is justified, and especially if it hurts children. The Israel-supporter in me shouts that sometimes you need to respond with violence if that is the only thing that terrorists understand. And then the regular old Jew in me wishes that things could just be peaceful.

Happy 2009

I don’t make New Year Resolutions, but I have used the turning over of both the Hebrew calendar and the secular calendar in the past to begin new points in my own Jewish journey. After Rosh Hashanah in 2006 (5767) I began to wear my kippah at all times. At the beginning of 2008 I stopped eating pork and shellfish and began to wear tzitzit all the time. This year I’m not sure what I am going to add into my Jewish observances. I would like to get into the habit of lighting Shabbat candles at home before going to temple. I tried to do this a few times in December when I got home from work with enough time to actually be able to sit and enjoy the light before heading out to services. The problem is that I won’t leave the candles burning while I am gone, even sitting in the kitchen sink or the bathtub, because I am completely paranoid about fire. I guess I could always blow them out and re-light them, but even as someone who doesn’t hold by Shabbat in the traditional sense it just feels wrong to re-light the candles. A few weeks ago I had to leave for services and blew out the candles; they were about half-way down at the time so I used them the next time I was able to light candles before services (during Chanukah). Perhaps not the best solution, but it keeps me from wasting candles. So, I guess that is going to be my new stop along this journey.

There are other goals I have for 2009, but those will stay private for the moment. Along with a good friend, I am trying to devise some strategies to achieve these goals while she works towards hers, and we will support each other along the way. I have to admit that I wasn’t going to make any goals for myself for 2009, feeling as if I wasn’t going to be able to get them done anyway. But I find the positive attitude and support of this friend to be the kick-in-the-ass that I need.