Thanksgiving in Jerusalem

Twenty-eight years ago David and I had our first Thanksgiving together.  In Jerusalem.  With our friends Miriam, Peretz, Bobbie and David.  

Miriam, Bobbie and I lived together in college.  They still live here in Jerusalem with their families.  Miriam & Peretz were the hosts for Thanksgiving that year.  At the time, they had a one-year-old son, who was the only child of their extended group of friends, most of whom weren’t married.  That sweet little boy had many adopted aunts and uncles.  Bobbie and David were engaged to be married.  And David B. was a cute guy in my Hebrew class who I invited, at the last minute, to come to Peretz and Miriam’s for Thanksgiving dinner. 

David was happy to attend and ate enough turkey to please the hosts.  I joke that it was our first date, but he didn’t realize it at the time.  I had to ask him out again, more officially, before he figured out that I was interested in more than making sure another lone American didn’t eat hummus, pita and stir-fried vegetables for dinner on Thanksgiving. 

The story of our first Thanksgiving has been told every Thanksgiving since that fateful dinner in 1983.  It is part of the ritual at our family Thanksgiving table.  Our children can repeat the story on command. 

This week, we returned to the original Thanksgiving group.  Except that the one-year-old is now almost 30 and in Los Angeles.  And there are lots of other children, most of whom have finished the army.  And one of whom is married.  And other friends including some who, if I remember correctly, were at that historic original dinner.  Each year the Thanksgiving meal rotates to a different house in this group.  The adopted family is always together.

Bobbie at the table with Akiva, preparing to serve soup

This year Bobbie and David served dinner for 23.  With all the trimmings.  And extra helpings of love and kindness.  Our old friends are known for their hospitality.  Their table was laden with food.  Everybody contributed.  It wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without Rita’s sweet potato dish with pecans.  And Miriam’s cranberry muffins.  I’m not sure if the cauliflower dish made by Peretz is a Thanksgiving staple, but it should be.  I made the carrot ring in a rectangular pan.  I don’t have a ring pan in my Jerusalem kitchen.  But nobody complained. 

David carving the turkey

And there were two turkeys.  David S. made one.  And Naphtali made one.  They were both perfect.   

Later in the evening the guys watched football on the TV next to this table.

And then most of the guys turned to the cable TV and watched football (the Packers against the Lions).  We almost forgot we were in Israel.

After dinner we returned to our apartment and skyped with friends and family. 

Things have changed since 1983 when there was no cable TV and no skype.   And phone calls were rare and expensive.  In those days we’d return from a meal like that and write an aerogram to our families.  And they would get it a couple of weeks later while we were waiting to get a letter from them telling us about their Thanksgiving.

The Thanksgiving Table

But what hasn’t changed are the warmth and good feelings around the table.  Friendships that last this long are one of the reasons we love to return to Israel regularly.  We have a long list of blessings in our lives for which we are grateful.  And friends like these are high on the list.

Toiveling New Dishes for the Table

 

I met Myrna when we were in our first year of college at University of Washington.  I was far from my family.  She would invite me to her home in the South End for Shabbat where she and her parents enveloped me with love and acceptance.  It was the first time I experienced a shomer Shabbat (Shabbat observant) community.  I have fond memories of those Shabbatot.

Myrna and I transferred to Brandeis our sophomore year.  We roomed together that year and have remained close friends ever since.

One of the sad truths about life in America is that we tend to interact mostly with people who think like us. My experience in American Jewish life is no different.  Jews tend to hang out with other Jews whose religious practices and beliefs are quite similar.  We tend to think that anyone to our right is a fanatic and anyone to our left is a heretic.  We rarely talk honestly with anyone thinks or observes differently than us.  We tend to judge other Jews with broad strokes, often in very unflattering ways.  And we’re offended when other Jews make assumptions about us.  So, in turn, we make even more unflattering assumptions about them.  And the cycle just keeps growing.

One of the things I most value about my friendship with Myrna is that while we share many basic values, we practice Judaism very differently.  And we can talk about it.  And ask questions of each other.  And push each other beyond our normal thought boundaries.  And we can do it with love and respect and deep appreciation for the religious, spiritual and theological struggles we each face.

A couple of days after we arrived in Jerusalem, Myrna and her husband, Ron, arrived to do the Alyn Bike Ride to raise money for Alyn hospital.  The Alyn website reports that the hospital “serves infants, children and adolescents who are afflicted with a broad range of physical disabilities i.e. children who have been injured in road accidents and terror attacks, children suffering from congenital conditions and children suffering from physical limitations due to various illnesses. Children from all over Israel and the world are treated at ALYN regardless of religion or ethnic origin.”  Learn more:  www.alyn.org  

The bike ride was 230 miles beginning in the Galil (Northern Israel) and ending in Jerusalem.  Myrna and Ron are my age.  I’m not old, but I’m not a spring chicken either.   I can’t even begin to imagine doing a 230 mile bike ride, even for a cause as wonderful as Alyn.  Myrna and Ron are the grandparents of 10 and yet here they were, half-way around the world, ready for the ride.  David and I were impressed.

We were thrilled to have them as our first overnight guests in Jerusalem.  They spent a night with us, then went to spend Shabbat with friends in Beit Shemesh, and then returned Saturday night in order to get up at 4:30 Sunday morning and begin their journey.

When they returned Thursday night they were exhausted, but exhilarated and energized.  They loved meeting people dedicated to helping the children of Alyn.  A wide variety of people.  Jews and non-Jews from around the world.  All concerned only with the children.  Their spirits were soaring, even if their bodies were sore.  They looked forward to a restful Shabbat in our home.

During the course of the week when they were gone (our first week in the apartment) we had complained to the apartment agent that we didn’t have sufficient kitchen supplies.  Believe it or not, the agent responded by providing all of the basic necessities that we had requested.  (It should have all been here when we arrived, but I won’t get picky…  We just said thank you.)

When Myrna and Ron returned to Jerusalem and we showed them the new dishes, we realized that in order for them to feel comfortable eating off of these new dishes we needed to take the dishes to the mikveh (ritual bath) to be toiveled.  (Ritually immersed in the mikveh water.)

I will admit that I have never toiveled new dishes, but I wanted to avoid having to buy throw-away dishes for Shabbat.  The garbage in this town is already overflowing.  No need to add to it unnecessarily.  And, even more, I wanted Ron and Myrna to feel at home in our apartment over Shabbat.  Toiveling the dishes seemed like a small thing to do to honor Myrna and Ron’s needs. 

But, as I just told you, I’ve never done this and I had no idea how or where to do it.

No problem.  I put Myrna in charge.  It seemed like a good table mitzvah to learn.  And Myrna is a non-threatening teacher.

So, when walking to Machane Yehudah Friday morning she stopped someone on the street and asked her where one could find a mikveh for toiveling dishes. “Just go up Betzalel Street, turn left on HaNetziv, and, when you get to a rocky area, you’ll see it.  Just ask when you get onto HaNetziv.  Everyone can show you.”

No problem.  Three blocks from my apt.  Had I walked right by it and not noticed?

When we got home, we put the dishes in two large bags and started walking up Betzalel, turned left on HaNetziv, and then we asked.  It was easy to find.

Yes, I had walked right past it and not noticed.  I wonder what else I don’t notice.  I also wonder who else I don’t notice.  This experience was teaching me more than how to toivel dishes.

Toiveling dishes three blocks from my apartment

 A couple other people were toiveling in preparation for Shabbat.  We waited our turn.  Myrna told me the blessing.  We dipped the dishes.  And that was that.  No big deal.  The dishes were now ready for the table.  (We washed them with soap and water too, not to worry.  The water at the mikveh was ritually clean, but the dishes still needed to be washed.)

At our table with Myrna and Ron

David and I spent a delightful Shabbat with Myrna and Ron.  During their visit we talked about religion, about God, about children, about prayer, about the future of the Jewish people, about the State of Israel, about Haredim and secular Jews and everything in-between.  We were honest.  They were honest.  We learned to respect each other even more as we talked.  We were reminded that we have more in common than most people would think.

And we were sad when they left.

Old friends are precious.  And preserving friendships with people who don’t think or practice Judaism exactly like us provides an important opportunity for growth.  I learned a lot from Ron and Myrna. And not just about toiveling dishes.

David and I are thrilled that they plan to return for a cousin’s wedding in February.  By then I’ll have more questions for Myrna.  And I imagine she’ll have more for me as well. 

I’m so grateful for her friendship.

And that they chose to spend Shabbat at our table.

By the way, if you want to support Ron and Myrna’s Alyn Ride, even after the fact, I think it is still possible.  Check out their ride website:  www.wolusa.org/MitnickTeam

Sanctifying our Tables: In Memory of Joyce Shane, z”l

1.   “The generous people who had fed the poor at their table should be buried in a coffin made of the boards of that table, as it is said in Isaiah 58:8: : v’halach l’fanecha tzidkecha  ‘And your righteousness shall go before you.’”  (kitzur shulchan aruch 199:1)

2.   “It has been the custom in some places for some people to be buried in coffins which were made from the tables upon which they studied, or upon which they fed the poor, or upon which they worked faithfully at their trade.” (Kav HaYashar, chapter 46)

Joyce Shane, z”l, had many tables.  She was my boss, but, even more, she was my friend and mentor.  And her presence at any table always brought out the best in me. 

Though we never talked specifically about these table texts, it was clear that she understood that her table would be her witness in this world and the next.  This belief accompanied her wherever she went, whether she was at her desk, or leading children in t’fillot, or walking down the hall, or shopping in the grocery store or acting as the sh’licha tzibur (prayer leader) for Kol Nidrei.  She understood that every interaction mattered, be it with a teacher, a student, a parent or a community member. 

She reminded the staff often that we must greet every person with a sever panim yafot (cheerfully.)  We must never be too busy or self-absorbed to greet each other warmly.  She didn’t just say this.  She led through example. 

Joyce was a remarkable listener.  When I think now about the conversations that her table witnessed, I am in awe.  As head of school, her work table was open, with love, to all.  Her table witnessed her ability to truly hear the pain, the concern, the burden of the person sitting opposite of her.  It wasn’t that she had all the answers.  But she was able to listen.  When you left Joyce’s table, you most certainly felt heard.  And sometimes being heard was all that was needed in order to be reassured or comforted. 

Joyce didn’t need to have all the answers.   People loved her because she could listen to all the questions.  And she could listen with compassion and without judgment.  Which, of course, made it easier to talk to her.  And, in the end, to accept her decisions.   In this way, her circle of devoted disciples grew.

Why am I writing about Joyce now?  If you knew Joyce, you know that she loved the land of Israel and the people of Israel.  Here in Jerusalem I can’t help but think of Joyce’s tables.  And being here, with time to reflect, I am more deeply aware of how much I miss her quiet presence.  I miss being at her table.

And I miss having her at my table.  When she was at my table, her presence elevated the level of conversation and interactions.  The light in her face brought Torah to the table. 

And then there was her music.  The years that we had Joyce at our seder table were indeed special.  Her voice and her melodies carried us far beyond the confines of our crowded living room. 

This past year we had five of her former students at our seder table.  They helped us sing her melodies.  Those at the table who hadn’t met her were encircled by both music and stories told by the young people.  Songs of joy.  And stories of love.  Of acceptance.  Of kindness and compassion.  It was the first Pesah without Joyce in this world.  She hadn’t attended our seders for the past couple of years because of her illness, but each year we had been hopeful for the next year.  This year we understood that the torch had been passed.  That we needed to bring her spirit to the table via her students.  I was overflowing with pride on her behalf as her students brought great honor to her memory. 

I didn’t have the opportunity to spend time in Israel with Joyce, but Israel was often at the center of our conversations.  In Jerusalem, I feel her presence everywhere.  When I speak Hebrew, I think of her and of how much she loved to speak Hebrew.  When I walk the streets, I think of her stories of spending time here.  When I am immersed in Torah, I think of how much she loved to learn Torah.  Of the precious times we spent together studying.  Of the questions we would ask each other about a particular matter of Jewish law or tradition or Torah or Hebrew grammar.  And I miss her.

The other night, she came to visit in a dream.  It was a vivid dream.  I couldn’t see her face from the front.  Only from the side.  She was healthy.  She walked with confidence.  She told me that since her yarzheit  (anniversary of her death) this summer she has found her place “on the other side.”  She visited in dreams last year because she needed us.  Now, she is visiting because she understands that we still need her.  She visits for our sake.  But she assured me that we have no need to worry about her.  She’s doing fine.  And she is certain that we can do fine as well.

I awoke and was comforted.  I miss her.  But I am more aware than ever that the righteousness she performed at her tables and at ours is still here.  Her righteousness may have gone before her as witness to the next world, but it remains here as well.  It is everywhere.  In this world as well as in the next.  And we can access it without her physical presence when we remember her with love and are able to emulate her teachings.

And so, I am remembering that the strength of her table was not in the answers she provided alone, but in the answers we came to together through her power of truly hearing the questions that stood behind the questions.  We can still sit quietly and patiently, listening to each other in order to come to conclusions through consensus and cooperation, as she taught us. 

I am remembering that her presence at my table was an opportunity to speak Torah in the broadest sense of the word.  One never gossiped with Joyce at the table.  What prevents us from avoiding gossip?  What keeps us from talking Torah at our tables on a regular basis?

I am remembering that whenever we were together she brought out the good in me.  Can’t we all strive to bring out the best in each other? 

When Joyce visited in the dream, she explained that the reason I can’t see her from the front is because she is weaning herself from us.  Though she didn’t exactly say it, I understood that it is time for her to move on.  And for us to let her go.

Joyce will always be here because her table righteousness remains.  Those memories are strong.  Stronger than ever.  

Go in peace, dear Joyce.  We will sanctify our tables with the memory of your righteous tables.  You showed us the way.  Now it is our turn.

“I haven’t eaten alone….Not once.”

Rabbi Pesah Schindler was my Talmud teacher back in 1977-78 when I was at Hebrew University.  I remember him fondly.  When I saw that he was teaching a weekly Talmud shiur (class) at the Center for Conservative Judaism, I went.  He’s now in his 80s. 

This particular class has been together since the late 1970s.  I was by far the youngest person in the room.  And that was fine with me.  Lately I’ve been the “elder” more often than not.  (When did that start happening?  Perhaps this is a digression I will save for a different blog entry…) 

I entered the room a few minutes early and I was greeted by numerous students.  I introduced myself privately to Rabbi Schindler and when class began, he introduced me publicly to everyone.  There were also brief up-dates on family news and especially on the health of class members.  This group doesn’t just come together for the Talmud.  The friendships here are sincere and Rabbi Schindler’s warmth and caring are evident.  Before he began the lesson he announced that we should all stay afterwards for a kiddush in honor of the 60th wedding anniversary of two members of the class.

Celebration of 60 years of marriage: Rabbi Schindler is the man facing us on the left. The man facing us on the right and the woman with her back to us were celebrating their 60th wedding anniversary.

The class was lively and engaging.  Rabbi Schindler knows his Talmud and he remains a masterful teacher.  I was moved by the discussions around the study table.  Discussions that sought out and valued the wisdom of people living long and productive lives.

After class, as I prepared to leave, I was told by a number of the students that I must join the group for the kiddush.  I tried to protest, but I saw that you shouldn’t argue with people 20-30 years older than you.  Rabbi Schindler gave a loving toast to the couple, speaking about the beauty of their 60 years together.  About how they each bring out the best in the other.

After the toast, I was approached by Charlotte.   She  welcomed me and wanted to learn what had brought me to class that day.  Charlotte, it turns out, made aliyah 18 years ago from NY.  Her husband passed away 8 years ago.  She told me that in this country,”unlike in NY,” people talk to each other and take care of each other.  “In the 8 years since my husband died,” she told me in gratitude,  “I haven’t eaten one meal alone.  Not one Friday night, not one Shabbat lunch, not one m’laveh malke (3rd Shabbat meal).  Someone always calls me and invites me.  I haven’t eaten alone.  In 8 years.  Not once.”

I told her that I thought her social life may have something to do with her as well.  Obviously, she is the kind of person who people want to have around. She wouldn’t take any of the credit, of course.  She believes that the kindness of others is why she is never alone.

But even if I am right about Charlotte’s role in her social life, it is true that people think about her.  She reported that her building is full of neighbors with young families.  I am struck by the fact that though apartments in Israel are small, it seems that their tables always have room for one more.  Even with the full schedule of work and raising families, the neighbors are never too busy to call her and invite her to their tables. 

And she knows how to say yes and accept their invitations.  I am certain that the tables she joins are more joyous with her presence.  And clearly she thrives on this rich social life. 

Given her personality, I would bet that Charlotte’s table was always full when she was younger.  I’m sure she also always had room for one more.  Though she may now consider herself a recipient of hesed (kindness), I can see in her eyes that she is also the giver of hesed.  I am certain that her presence enriches the tables of her hosts.

Who are the Charlottes in our community?  Have we invited them to our tables? How much richer our own lives could be if our tables included Charlotte.  If not now, when?  There is always time for a phone call.  And there is always room for one more.

Game tables in Jerusalem

Here are a couple game tables I’ve run into in my first few days here.

In the Jerusalem Rose Garden

A short walk from our house, between the Supreme Court and the Knesset, we took a walk in the Rose Garden and stumbled upon these tables with chess/checkers boards built into the tables.  Nobody was playing today.

In the Iraqi Shuk section of Machane Yehudah

But in Machane Yehudah (the open market) near our home we stumbled upon what is known as the Iraqi shuk, where men sit around tables playing shesh-besh (backgammon) and drinking coffee.  I doubt if these tables are ever empty.  It is quite a scene.  I wish there was a way to bring the smells of the market to you via pictures.  You need all your senses to experience these tables.

Our Jerusalem Table

We’ve been here almost two weeks and having our own table makes a big difference. 

Our Jerusalem Table

This picture is taken at our apt. shortly before our first Shabbat in Jerusalem.  David’s sister, Jeanne, and our nephew, Samuel, came from Mercaz Shapira (near Ashkelon) to spend Shabbat with us.  We ran into Rafi and Chelsey at Machane Yehuda (open-air market 5 minutes from our home) on Friday afternoon when we were doing some last-minute shopping.  Rafi was in Anna’s class at SJCS and was my student “back in the day.”   His mom and I teach together.  Of course, we invited them for dinner. That’s the way it works in Jerusalem.  In spite of the lack of fleishig dishes, we managed to put together dinner.  We only had 4 forks, so David and I ate our chicken with spoons.  And we discovered that we had no knives.  Hey – a table is not judged by the quality of the utensils, but, rather, by the quality of the company and the conversation. 

Finally, after two months on the road, we were able to host others at our table.  In spite of electrical shorts and the discovery of insufficient kitchen supplies, we had a joyous Shabbat.  As my grandma Rose used to say:  “The company makes the food taste better.”  I agree.  And I would add that the company makes the sparse conditions seem unimportant and even irrelevant.

Reflections on our 2 Months on the Road

As I write this, we are already in Israel.  In Israel, there are always adventures, and we’ve already had a few.  We’ve begun to see old friends and we’ve even attended a live jazz concert, just to alive the keep the spirit of our time in the American south. Check out David’s blog for up-dates on our first few days in Jerusalem. Certainly there will be table stories to come, but now I want to take a little time to reflect on part I of our Sabbatical. 

Our 2-month road trip reminded me how important it is to have great teachers, mentors and friends.  And to stay in touch with them.  And to continue to learn from them.   Seeing them reminded me once again that any successes I have had in my life are due to the fact that I have had these people and others in my life.  I’ve been fortunate to have people help me along the way, be honest with me, and be available at the right moments to give me perspective and focus.   Sometimes they have given me the gift of encouraging me to change my focus.  True friends and mentors do that for us.

This trip has been about many things.  While the Whitwell, Paper Clips experience was, to the outside eye, the most remarkable experience from the perspective of being an unexpected and moving story, there were other new faces that also opened our souls in profound ways.  And, I have to note that reconnecting with old friends, mentors and teachers has been equally important in unexpected ways for us.  Those experiences are just harder to write about.  The detailed stories of those meetings with old friends are  more private but no less powerful. 

The combination of learning from new people, together with reconnecting with people who have known at least one us for years, have provided deeply moving and humbling experiences.  

On the road, we have been dependent on the tables of strangers and friends alike.  Before we left Seattle, I was anxious about that necessary dependence on others.  I’m an independent and private person.  I worried:  Could I be truly open to the tables of others?  Could I make my own table “portable?”

During these two months, we did in fact learn how to be open to hospitality and righteousness at the tables of others.  And we “discovered” something I think we already knew but had to experience: The more we were open, the more righteousness we found.  Our capacity to let others into our lives grew and transformed us.

For years I worked on trying to expand my ability to give hesed (kindness/love) to others.  On this trip, I had to focus on opening myself to the possibility of being on the receiving end of the hesed of others.  And on the ability to receive that hesed when it was offered. And to acknowledge the connection between the giving and receiving of hesed.  The more a person does of one, the more a person is able to do of the other.  If done right, it is a circle. 

We discovered that when truly giving, one receives.  When truly receiving, one gives.   I knew this intellectually.  And I had experienced it often from the giving end. But during the past two months, I experienced both giving and receiving in new ways.  What an extraordinary gift. 

We had very few expectations during the first part of this Sabbatical.  Israel, in a way, is much more complicated for us.  We met here.  We spent significant time here.  We speak the language and have family and friends here.   We both seriously considered living here permanently.    Our complex relationship with this place is both an advantage and a disadvantage. 

Can we maintain the same openness here that we experienced in the States?  We will be more settled.  Can we find ways to create a table of righteousness even in a noisy Jerusalem neighborhood with a poorly stocked kitchen?  We have a table of our own once again, temporary though it may be.  We’ll see what happens.

Here comes part II.

Durham, NH to Boston – Sunshine to Snow

David wrote about our visit with my teacher and mentor, Alvin M., in Durham NH and our visits with many friends and relatives in the Boston area.  I hadn’t seen some of these people in many years.  What a treat to sit with them at their tables. David’s blog beautifully summarizes our visits from Durham to Boston.  I won’t try to repeat it all here.

Below are a few  pictures of tables in the Boston area.  For more details, check out David’s blog.

With Alvin M.

Alvin M. was my teacher at the University of Judaism, and the director of Camp Ramah, Ojai when I worked there during graduate school.  I turned to him for advice during my short stint as director of Camp Solomon Schechter.  I was only 28 years old when I was the camp director, and though I was filled with the self-confidence of youth, I still knew that I needed help in order to be successful.  Alvin was always available to answer questions and give encouragement.  I called him often.

Sitting at his table, we recounted stories of days past.  He caught me up on his amazing career.  It sounds like he needs to retire from his retirement!

The table we sat at is the table where his local grandchildren, daughter and son-in-law have dinner on Friday nights.  The next generation spends Shabbat from him and his wife, Marilyn.  I remember being invited to their table in Los Angeles, when the mother of his grandchildren was just a small child herself.  Again, I was grateful for having such a special mentor and friend in my life.  I hadn’t seen him in close to 30 years.  It was good to reconnect.

David’s Boston Family

Once again, David’s family welcomed us around a table.  This table was filled with all of the Boston cousins and spouses.  Lisa (far left) is an amazing cook and remarkable hostess.  The stories of our trip led, of course, to the Paperclips story.  And, as often happens, a table story leads to other stories.  After hearing about the paperclips, Nancy told us about her father, Col. Pierre Augustine Kleff, of the U.S. Army, who was in charge of the DP camps in Austria after WWII.  Like many of that generation, he told her very little about that painful time, but when she married Jerry, David’s cousin, her dad began to tell Jerry some of the stories.  He told both Nancy and Jerry about a Rabbi named Abraham, also of the US Army, who helped the army take care of the special needs of the Jewish Holocaust survivors.  Recently, at a privately funded Holocaust museum in Richmond, VA, they saw a picture of this Rabbi named Abraham.  The curator knew of him.  Nancy felt as if she had touched a piece of her father.  If anybody reading this knows anything more about Col. Kleff or this Rabbi named Abraham, please let me know and I’ll pass it on to Nancy.

The Power of Love – Rabbi Al

Rabbi Al A. is a affectionate bear of a man who enfolded us with unconditional and endless love.  He was the Rabbi at Brandeis Hillel and a profoundly influential mentor of mine and many others during formative college years.  When Helen, our oldest, graduated high school in 2005, I thought a great deal about his gentle and powerful mentorship.  I hadn’t been in touch for years, so I wrote him a letter then telling him how much he had meant to me.  I wrote that I hoped and prayed that our children would run into mentors like him when they leave our home.  Parents have one role.  Mentors have another.  If you are fortunate to have someone like Al A.in your life, you are indeed lucky and blessed.

We met Rabbi Al, as he is called on his nametag, at the cafeteria of the Massachusetts Eye and Ear Institute.  He knew just about everyone in the room and greeted them by name, asking after them and after the health and well-being of family members.   He is the chaplain there, supporting patients who are in extremely difficult and life-threatening medical situations.

As we sat at the table over lunch, I asked him about being a chaplain.  How does he do such emotionally challenging work?  He looked at me.  “Do you really want to know?”  I told him I did.  He told us about how honored he feels to be in a position to try to bring comfort to people when they are extremely vulnerable and frightened.  He described the listening, the blessings (if desired), the love and compassion and care that he always tries to bring to those he visits.  As we sat in the crowded cafeteria, he sang us some of the blessings and nigunim (melodies) he chants at the bedside of those patients who ask him to say prayers on their behalf.
Al has always been a deeply knowledgeable and deeply spiritual person.  When you sit with him, you are the only person in the room.  He has counseled thousands of students and patients over the years.  Being in his presence transported me to another time and place beyond the confines of the cafeteria where we ate.  That’s Al.  I had forgotten the power of his love.

With Rabbi Al

Helen joined us for this lunch and it was special for me to share this mentor with her.  Helen sometimes davens in the shul near Al’s home, so they exchanged information and made a promise to meet again.  Al knows a very special haftorah trope that he offered to teach her.   Morah Joyce would be delighted.

Al’s many tables have known great righteousness.  He is, for me, a tzaddik.  I have been blessed with numerous great teachers and mentors.  I have stayed in touch with many of them.  I hadn’t stayed in close enough touch with Al.  This trip I was happy to start to remedy that.  I am so grateful for him and for his presence in my life.