Bless These Hands: Creating a Reform Chevra Kadisha in NYC

In 2010, our family spent 11 days in hospice, accompanying our mother and wife to the end of her life as the body that had held her soul for more than seven decades succumbed to disease after an excruciating seven weeks of illness. After she died, our rabbi asked if we wanted to arrange for shmirah—individuals to watch over her body until burial. Without missing a beat, my father, my sister, and I said “yes.” We knew, deep in our own souls, that our beloved “The Mums” would have appreciated the presence of shomrim during this liminal time. 

What we did not know, was how comforting it would be for us. As we completed the necessary arrangements at the funeral home, we could hear, in a nearby room, the familiar voice of a longtime family friend reading Psalms as she sat with the body of our beloved. With the details handled, we returned home to wait out the time until the funeral. Throughout those long hours of disbelief and breath-stopping grief, we were consoled, knowing that shomrim were with The Mums. 

Recently, when the rabbis of two New York City congregations—Temple Shaaray Tefila in Manhattan and Congregation Beth Elohim in Brooklyn—joined forces with students from the Reform Movement’s seminary, Hebrew Union College-Jewish Institute of Religion (HUC-JIR), and Plaza Jewish Community Chapel to create a chevra kadisha to serve Reform congregations in the five boroughs, I signed on. Intrigued and open to the possibilities, I welcomed the opportunity to be in on the ground-floor formation and launch of the first sacred community that will not only prepare and guard bodies of the deceased before burial according to Jewish tradition but also will have the freedom and expertise to do this work in ways that extend beyond the customs of Orthodox chevrot kadisha (plural of chevra kadisha), which currently are the only option in New York City. 

After an introductory meeting at Plaza in late October, I thought often about what we had seen and heard that evening, finding renewed appreciation for the Jewish rituals around death and burial and the ways they so intentionally honor the deceased and offer compassion to the living. Earlier this week, our fledgling group participated in hands-on training at HUC-JIR led by staff and volunteers from Kavod v’Nichum. Hebrew for “honor and comfort,” this non-profit organization provides education, support, and training around end-of-life rituals and practices in our tradition. For more than three hours, we learned about and then practiced the rituals to prepare a body for burial. We did so without water or the necessary equipment but with help from gracious volunteers who served as—meit (masculine), meitah (feminine), and meiteh (non-binary)—the deceased. 

We began with the physical washing of the body, reciting passages from Song of Songs to remind us that we are created b’tzelem Elohim, in the Divine image, beautiful in body and spirit. Physical washing was followed by ritual washing. Known as taharah, purification, this spiritual cleansing restores the soul of the deceased to the state of purity it was in when the person entered this world. A prayer that highlights the power of water to purify and sanctify, Amar Rabbi Akiva, is recited as part of taharah. In addition, when the purifying waters washed over the body, we repeatedly recited, depending on the gender identity of the deceased, t’hora hi (female), tahor hu (male), or t’horeh heh (non-binary) to mark the moment of transformation to a state of ritual purity. 

Finally, we dressed the body for burial in tachrichim, loose-fitting, white linen or cotton garments, including a kittel or burial shroud, a ceremonial, collared, knee-length jacket without pockets that some observant Ashkenazi Jews, mostly men, wear on Yom Kippur, when leading a Passover seder, or under the chuppah on their wedding day. The tachrichim are designed to replicate the clothing of the Kohen Gadol, the High Priest during Temple times, and to show that all are equal in death. 

Although the how-tos of caring for the body and performing taharah are certainly important, the most valuable lesson in our training concerned our intention or kavanah in carrying out this holy work. Because none of the rituals performed by a chevra kadisha is rooted in halacha or Jewish law, it is not possible to do anything the “wrong way.” Twice during the process, once before the group begins its work and once after it has finished, the members recite the mechilah prayer, speaking directly to the deceased, to ask forgiveness for anything they might do or might have done that falls short of bringing honor and respect to body and soul. For these reasons, those who were present from Kavod v’Nichum assured us that we are ready to begin. (Initially, the Reform chevra kadisha will focus on preparing bodies for burial and will add shmirah later.) 

In the coming weeks, as we move toward February 15, the projected launch date, our chevra kadisha will continue to solidify itself by compiling a manual of readings and prayers to codify our own customs; organizing a notification system for members; and training individuals as leaders (rosh, rosha, rosheh) to ensure the physical and emotional safety of the entire team and that its members show honor and respect to the deceased; follow Jewish customs; and adhere to the desires and practices of the funeral home. 

Our training session closed with this blessing of the hands: “Bless these hands for the kindness they show, for the holiness they embody, for the mitzvot they enact.” I am honored to participate in this sacred undertaking but am not without trepidation. My heart is fully in, and with time, experience, and the camaraderie of others, I believe my hands, too, will faithfully enact the mitzvah of taharah.

Laughing Uncontrollably in the Cemetery

Dear Nathan,

We owe you an apology. We didn’t mean to laugh with such abandon at your grave yesterday, so please let me explain.

It was my mom’s birthday and we were visiting her grave, just a row over from yours, when my sister noticed the back of the tall, sawed off tree trunk that is your gravestone. (To be honest, I don’t know why we never noticed it before, since we’ve been visiting at the site since the mid-1980s, when my grandfather was buried directly opposite where my mom’s grave is now. Of course, my sister says we have better Visual Intelligence these days, and she may be right.)

In any case, when we were finished visiting my mom and her parents, we wandered over to the front of your tree trunk, which my dad told us often symbolizes a life cut off before its time. In fact, you were a mere 28 years old when you died in 1943. We studied the stone which holds a black and white image of you, wearing a large fedora-style hat. Indeed, you were a handsome guy. My father told us in his experience, it’s often Russians who place photos on gravestones such as is on yours. Perhaps you were Russian…perhaps not.

In any event, I also noticed the pitcher and bowl engraved on your tombstone, which is when I said out loud, “I wonder what the pitcher means.”

My dad, despite his new hearing aids, thought I was asking about the picture and replied, “It’s Russian.”

“No, the pitcher,” my sister said, giggling, “not the picture! Jane’s the last person who would mispronounce in that way.”

With that, we all exploded into peals of laughter. It was the kind of laughter that makes tears run down your face and the more we laughed, the less we could stop. It’s a good thing it was Shabbat and there was no one around.

We truly meant no disrespect.

Back in the car, once the giggles finally subsided, I texted this to a rabbi friend: “What does it mean when there’s a pitcher on a gravestone? Today’s my mom’s b’day, so we were at the cemetery.”

The answer came in bits and pieces: “Levite.”

“They were the carriers of water in the ancient Temple and thus were symbolized by the pitcher. It was the pitcher of water used to wash the hands of the Cohanim.”

“Thus the bowl...”

“Here's a great reference doc... https://www.jewishgen.org/InfoFiles/tombstones.html.”

So, you see, that’s how we came to laugh so uncontrollably at your grave. In addition to our apology, though, I think we owe you our thanks, too, for bringing us a bit of joy on a gray, sullen Saturday.

I suspect we’ll visit your gravestone again whenever we’re in the cemetery and that it always will bring us a sweet memory. In the meantime, rest in peace Nathan Finkelstein.

~ JanetheWriter

7 Random Reminders from a Funeral During Elul

1. Late summer sunshine on the Hudson is spectacular. When you look, you can find the beauty in creation. It’s out there.
2. Karma, for lack of a better word, exists. What you put out into the universe comes back to you.
3. Get behind a cause you believe in to help repair our broken world.
4. The people in your orbit matter. Surround yourself with an ever-widening circle of those who bring you joy and help you laugh, cope, and get the most from this life.
5. A long, loving relationship is a holy thing. Those who have one truly are blessed.
6. Kudos to whomever developed Jewish mourning rituals. The thud of dirt on a casket stings, but laughter, hugs, and sweet memories salve the wound a little bit each day. Don't pick at the scab.
7. Healthy eating is a noble goal, but when grilled cheese is (the only thing) on the menu, eat up. Sometimes you have to feed your body and your soul. The hell with the carbs.

Honor Thy Father and Mother

We are a people in whom the past endures,
in whom the present in inconceivable without moments gone by.
The Exodus lasted a moment, a moment enduring forever.
What happened once upon a time happens all the time.
-- Mishkan T’filah

At tonight’s Shavuot learning program at Temple Shaaray Tefila, the 10 Commandments were taught by 10 different teachers, each of whom had 10 minutes to make a presentation about one of the commandments. Cantor Todd Kipnis, in teaching about the fourth commandment – Honor thy father and mother – shared an essay his mother wrote about honoring her mother at a time in their lives when their roles largely were reversed. The daughter became the mother; the mother became the daughter.

His mother’s essay provoked in me a flood of tears, not only because of what she wrote and how she wrote it, but also because of the memories it evoked of how our family honored my mother eight years ago on this exact date, May 19, 2010.

It was on that date that I wrote two entries on my mother’s CaringBridge site. First, this one:

As many of you already know, the last few weeks have been difficult for my mother. During this last week in particular, her condition has deteriorated significantly, and she has, despite medication, been in considerable pain. Yesterday, acting upon recommendations from both her oncologist and her long-time internist, my father, my sister, and I agreed that it is now time to follow her wishes and make arrangements for her to enter a hospice facility. Accordingly, we met at length with a hospice nurse, and within the next few days, we expect that my mom will be moved to Haven Hospice at JFK Hospital in Edison (right across the street from her beloved Temple Emanu-El). In the meantime, she is resting comfortably in the hospital, and we, too, are comfortable knowing that we are abiding by my mother’s wishes.

Many of you know, too, that the Festival of Shavuot, which began last night, is my mom’s favorite Jewish holiday. As Rabbi Bravo wrote to a few of her own colleagues yesterday, “Diana would have wanted us to celebrate this holiday, just as she loved Torah and let it be her guide through life. Ironically, she went into the hospital on Pesach, and here we are on Shavuot. Her family and I decided that just as she lived her life by the Jewish calendar, so is she planning her end of days in a similar way.”

Later that same day, having accompanied her (thanks to two kind, young women paramedics) on the ride from the hospital in New Brunswick to the hospice facility in Edison, I wrote this penultimate journal entry:

This afternoon my mother was transferred from Robert Wood Johnson to the hospice facility at JFK Hospital in Edison. When we left her, she was (as she has been for the last few days) unresponsive, but resting comfortably and in no pain. The speed of her deterioration on all fronts during the last several days has been notable and somewhat startling, even to a longtime family friend who has been together with us frequently during the last seven weeks. Having said that, we have reassessed our earlier thoughts regarding visitors, and would prefer that only family, clergy, and close friends visit. We want your memories of my mother to be filled with laughter, happy times, and much goodness. We are, of course, grateful for your outpouring of care and love on this site and invite you to continue to share your thoughts with us.

I know that we honored my mother well on that day. I like to think, too, that excepting for a few teenage temper tantrums, I honored her well throughout all her days, and that for the rest of my own days, I will continue to honor her memory and her well-lived life.

Happy Mother's Day, The Mums

Dear The Mums,

A belated happy Mother’s Day.

I didn’t get to finish this letter on Sunday because I spent the early part of the day cleaning my apartment. I know…I can hear your emphatic “Feh” loud and clear, but the windows were filthy and, as Amy would have said in her younger days, the garbage cans were “overfloating.”

In the midst of cleaning the windows, though, I received the sweetest text from Debbie Bravo, who, eight years ago at this season, was with us night and day. She wrote: “Good morning. Thinking of you on this day. I know it is always a hard day. I always think of your mom at this time of year because I know how much she loved that climb to Sinai.”

Here’s what I wrote back to her: “You are so sweet. Thank you. It was such a hard week for other reasons that the lead up to Mother’s Day sort of took a back seat. It did occur to me, though, that I can imagine my mom now taking up “Talmud Study for Beginners” in Olam haBa.

You probably already know that 10 days ago Aaron Panken was tragically killed when a small plane he was piloting crashed shortly after take-off. As I’m sure you can imagine, the entire Reform world is stunned. Even now, with the funeral and shiva over, it’s going to take a long time for the reality to sink in – most of all for his family, but for everyone else too. So, a new Talmud teacher is coming to Olam haBa – and maybe he’s already there, settling in, arranging some books in his office, putting together a syllabus. If he offers a class for lay people, I know you’ll be first in line to sign up.

In the late afternoon I went to Amy’s because she had to teach at a bankers’ meeting that night, so I stayed with Ian. At 15, he could have stayed by himself for the few hours she was gone, but it’s always more fun for both of us when I “babysit.” We brought in pizza for dinner and then I helped him with a history essay about British imperialism in India. (Sad to say, the kid got your feet, but definitely didn’t inherit any of your writing genes.) Certainly not a traditional Mother’s Day, but also not bad for a rainy Sunday.

In other news, tomorrow night I’m going to get all gussied up to go – for the first time – to Shaaray Tefila’s annual gala. The ticket cost me more than half a day’s worth of freelance work, but the honoree is someone who has been incredibly kind and caring since the day I met her, just five weeks after you died. You’d like Liz – she’s honest, forthright, studies Torah, has a lovely singing voice and a heart of gold, and is a lifelong member of the synagogue.

That’s about it from here for this week. I hope you had a good Mother’s Day and please don’t forget to sign up for a Talmud class. Maybe there will be one in time for Shavuot...that would be perfect for you!

Miss you….xoxo,
~ Boo!

P.S. It’s going to be near 90 degrees today and I’m schvitzing like it’s July. My turn to say “Feh,” a word that, thanks to you, increasingly is a part of my vocabulary!

#BlogExodus: Launch

Yikes! It's #BlogExodus again...already?! 

I suppose it's fitting that this year, 1 Nisan falls on the same day, March 28, that since 2010 has marked (and will ever more mark) for me the launch of the Pesach season. 

Here's how I described today's anniversary on Facebook:

Seven years ago today, I went out to the 'burbs to finish the cooking for "the Passover that wasn't." What happened during the seven weeks that followed fills me with memories bitter and sweet.

In response to an inquiry from Harriet, a friend whom I only met afterward, I wrote this: "My mom went into the hospital on the day of the first seder and into hospice on Shavuot." To which Harriet replied, "That must have been unbearable. Every year must be difficult. Some sorrows we never get over, we just learn to live with them."

It is true. I know I will not get over this sorrow, but I have learned to live with it...and to find the silver linings within it. 

Inspired by Ima on (and off) the Bima, this post is one in a series marking the days of the Jewish month of Nisan leading up to Passover, which begins at sundown on Monday, April 10, corresponding to 15 Nisan. If you want to play along, check out this year's #BlogExodus and #ExodusGram prompts. 

The Fine Line Between Memory and Lore

This yahrzeit candle is for Tante Laura, who died when I was only seven (yes, 47 years ago). Nonetheless, I have many sweet memories -- although some are more lore than memory.

1. Tante Laura and my grandmother and their brother, Uncle Max, came to this country from Vienna in the early 1920s, and worked in the garment industry, saving to bring their parents here as well.
2. When my mom was a little girl in the Bronx, Tante Laura and Uncle Max – neither of whom ever married – rented an apartment from the Provenzanos that was right next door to Provenzano Lanza Funeral Home on Second Avenue between Second and Third streets. Directly across the street was the Church of the Nativity, and on Saturdays in the spring, my mother would watch from Tante Laura’s window as the wedding parties assembled on the steps of the church for photographs. She always described the bride and groom in the middle, flanked by taffeta-clad bridesmaids – two in blue, two in yellow, two in pink, two in green, and so on. Oh, how those young women must have captured her imagination. To this day, whenever I ride the bus down Second Avenue, I take a long glance at those windows, wondering at that early 1940s scene.
3. When my cousin, Ted, was in college, he told his mom about a kid in his fraternity – Joe Cernigliaro – who had some connection to the Provenzano Lanza Funeral Home. Don’t ask me why or how the two guys figured this out, but on a whim, my Aunt Claire told Ted to ask Joe if his mother’s name is Adrienne. Sure enough, that’s his mom. I’m not sure if she knew my mom and Aunt Claire when Tante Laura and Uncle Max were her family’s tenants, but it’s a small world nonetheless.
4. To say that Tante Laura was generous would be an understatement. When she made sandwiches, my mom would ask her to make hers with just one slice of bread. She did, of course, but she used the biggest, thickest one from right in the middle of the rye bread! Years later, when my parents were married and living with two young kids a few hours from New York, my mom always found a $10 bill tucked in the pocket of her coat or purse upon returning from a visit.
5. When I was born (or maybe it was Amy?), Tante Laura made a dress from Swiss dot fabric (the dots were red) that still hangs in the closet in what had been my sister’s room at 12 Webster Road.
6. In my mind’s eye, Tante Laura was always zaftig (and I am convinced I got those genes). She wore combs in her hair and black orthopedic shoes on her feet. To me, she resembled Golda Meir, which accounts, I think, for my fondness for the zaftig Israeli politician with the black orthopedic shoes.
7. This memory isn’t necessarily sweet and it’s not even a memory because I didn’t learn about it, let alone understand what it meant, until long after it happened. When Tante Laura died in 1970, the gravediggers were on strike in New York and my parents traveled hastily from Maryland to New York for her funeral, returning there for her burial when the strike ended three months later. To this day, I think about this sad circumstance – and Tante Laura – whenever the gravediggers lower a casket into the ground before the rest of us cover it with shovels full of dirt. 

Rest in peace, Tante Laura, now and always.

What Feels Like Injustice May Be a Chance to Honor a Friend

Dear The Mums,

Yesterday in the minyan, we read from Ha’azinu, which, if I had to guess, is your least favorite Torah portion. Anyone who ever studied with you at this season in years past knows you were ever annoyed with God for telling Moses in no uncertain terms, “You may view the land from a distance, but you shall not enter it—the land that I am giving to the Israelite people.” (Deuteronomy 32:52)

The day before, we had a stark reminder of another of life’s injustices as hundreds of us gathered to say goodbye to Marcus Burstein, our friend, colleague, incredible mensch, and gentle soul extraordinaire. Marcus had died two days earlier, just after Yom Kippur drew to a close.

Like you, I want to be mad at God for allowing such an injustice, for letting an incredible, universally beloved human being suffer and die at 45. However, that would dishonor the memory of someone who had deep faith in God – in good times and bad. Instead, I’m going to try to honor his memory in ways that embrace the fullness of the life he crammed into those 45 short years.

I’m usually not one to dance, but I think a spin or two around the bedroom every so often with iTunes cranked would be a fitting tribute.

Unlike Marcus, I’m not a cook or baker, but perhaps I’ll bake a batch of magic cookie bars for Sukkot. (Another friend posted this recipe, one of his favorites, online and since they're "foolproof," I'm hopeful that even I can handle it.)

Smiling more, listening well, seeing the good in others, and embracing life and its blessings – those in plain sight and those that are hidden – are other ways I can try to honor his memory and his well-lived life.

I hope you’ve made peace with God over God’s injustice to Moses. I, too, will try to make peace with God over what feels like a huge injustice to Marcus, his family, and all the rest of us who knew and loved him. If he shows up in your Torah study group in olam ha-ba, I know you’ll be glad to see him – and that he’ll flash that wonderful smile at seeing you, too.

xoxo,
~ Boo.

P.S. In spite of the circumstances, it was good to see so many people I don’t see often enough anymore – lots of whom you knew, too, from the days of the New Jersey-West Hudson Valley Council.

I Remember…

Last year, December 14 was Shabbat at the URJ Biennial in San Diego.

I was up early, eager to fulfill my Biennial responsibility as a Torah guardian.  In this role, I was responsible for carrying one of the many scrolls that would be used in the service from the storage room to the site of the service, keeping an eye on it throughout, and, afterward, returning it safely to the room where it would remain with the others under lock and key until it was returned to the local congregation from which it had been borrowed.

#BlogElul: Remembering

As a wrote for last year's #BlogElul "Remember" prompt, we Jews are a remembering people. Among other events and people, we regularly remember Shabbat, the Exodus, what the Amalekites did to us, the victims of the Holocaust, and Israel's soldiers who died in battle.  

Within our own families, we remember our loved ones each year on their yahrzeits and at this season of return. For me, the "remembering list" includes a number of people I knew personally -- my grandparents, two of my grandmother's sisters, two of my grandfather's brothers, cousins of my parents, family friends and, of course, my mom.  It also includes individuals who, in one way or another, have, more recently, come into my circle of remembering, but whom I did not know personally: Chaim Glasberg, Tante Mina, and saddest of all, a friend's son, Sam.  

In the new year, even as sweet memories help to sustain us following loss -- whether recent or not -- may we, our loved ones, and our friends know no more sorrow.

Inspired by Ima on (and off) the Bima, this #BlogElul post is one in a series marking the days of the Hebrew month of Elul, which precedes the Jewish High Holidays and traditionally serves as a time of reflection and spiritual preparation for the new year.

Yom HaShoah: Past and Present

In honor of Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day, which is tomorrow, I wrote this short piece, which was Thursday's Ten Minutes of Torah.

Two years ago, I wrote this post on Yom HaShoah, and in 2009, this was my Yom HaShoah reflection.

As a witness to history, it is my responsibility to remember...on Yom HaShoah and always.

The Presence and the Loss

A friend, after reading my annual pre-Pesach letter to my mother, had this to say:

Poignant piece.  The ache never fully goes away.  Yizkor on Pesach was a wise decision of our rabbinic forebears.  We feel the presence...and the loss...of our dear ones most keenly on this festival.

Indeed, I felt the presence and the loss intensely today...

This morning, having made it uptown with time for a leisurely walk from the bus stop to the synagogue, I took this photo along the way:

The morning came full circle when, during the Yizkor portion of the service, the rabbi read "We Remember Them," the well known poem by Sylvan Kamens and Rabbi Jack Riemer:

At the rising of the sun and at its going down, we remember them.
At the blowing of the wind and in the chill of winter, we remember them.
At the opening of the buds and in the rebirth of spring, we remember them.
At the blueness of the skies and in the warmth of summer, we remember them.
At the rustling of the leaves and in the beauty of autumn, we remember them.
At the beginning of the year and when it ends, we remember them.
As long as we live, they too will live, for they are now a part of us as we remember them. 

When we are weary and in need of strength, we remember them.
When we are lost and sick at heart, we remember them.
When we have joy we crave to share, we remember them.
When we have decisions that are difficult to make, we remember them.
When we have achievements that are based on theirs, we remember them.
As long as we live, they too will live, for they are now a part of us as we remember them. 

Today, a day truly marked by the opening of the buds and the rebirth of spring, did I feel intensely the presence and the loss of so many, but none more keenly than my mom's.  Indeed, it is her presence and her loss that live in me, each and every day, from one spring to the next, from season to season for all time.

#BlogExodus: Prepare?

Dear The Mums,

Once again, the Jewish world is preparing for Passover -- boiling up chicken soup with matzah balls, buying brisket like it's going out of style, and sweeping nearly year-old chametz crumbs from toaster ovens, countertops, cars, and couch cushions.

For the fourth time, we're doing it without you.  But, truth be told, we're not really doing it.  With Aunt Claire in Detroit, Amy, Daddy, Ian, and I (and perhaps a friend or two of Amy's) will be at Amy's for the first night.  She and Ian will be leaving for DisneyWorld the next day -- it'll be Ian's spring break -- so it's certainly not going to be a full-blown seder.  In fact, I don't think that Daddy will even bring the yellow haggadot that I compiled about eight or nine years ago.  Of course, we'll all be together for dinner, but, as I'm sure you've surmised, we haven't had a full-blown seder since the last one you and Daddy hosted at 12 Webster Road.  Passover was always "your holiday," and the preparations are so very different now.  I think it's what's called the "new normal," but no matter how many times we do it, it will never feel normal to me.  I suppose that's no surprise given that we did all the preparation in 2010, but then didn't celebrate at all.  Sometimes at this time of year, it feels to me as though I am trapped in the Egypt of that particular Pesach season.

Thankfully, as I've been doing for years (but not in 2010), I will once again celebrate the whole megillah on the second night.  From dipping parsley into salt water to washing my hands twice, and from building and eating a Hillel sandwich to dodging bugs and lice and hail and boils as they're bandied about, and finally singing corny songs after the door's been opened for Elijah, rest assured that I'll be among friends who feel like family, observing the second night of Pesach as I have been since moving to New York.

Without much need to prepare for the seder, I am, as has become my minhag, writing to update you on what else has been going on in my life...

On many weekends during the past few months, I have been occupied -- after minyan -- with researching, writing, and editing a large freelance project I was able to secure back in the fall.  The bulk of the work is finished now, although there will be some photo captions to write and some proofing to do a little later in the spring.

About a month ago, Daddy and I went to Baltimore for Mrs. Steinberg's unveiling.  As with you, it was totally surreal to once again stand in the cemetery, trying to wrap our heads around what is supposedly the "new normal."  If you ask me, it just feels empty and sad and different.  In fact, it's anything but normal.

In some happier news, two weekends ago, I was the keynote speaker at a Sisterhood Shabbaton at Congregation Beth Or in Maple Glen, PA, the theme of which was women's health and healing.  I spoke -- as I have several times in the last year or two -- about BRCA mutations and the path I've traveled since finding out that ours is an affected family.  The congregation's not too far from Terry, so we were able to make a weekend of it, which was especially nice because Matthew was home for spring break.  Hard to believe that he's nearly finished with his freshman year.  As an added bonus, Terry was able to hear me speak, and I was glad to have her there.

I've spent a good bit of this weekend getting my new computer (a MacBook Air) up and running.  It's a totally different process than it was seven years ago when I went from a desktop to a wireless laptop, but it seems that it still takes more time than anyone anticipates.   On the positive side, everything runs more smoothly on a Mac, and as I understand things, there's virtually no need for virus protection software because there are no viruses on Mac computers.

There's lots more to tell you about, but it's late and I'm tired.  Suffice it to say that no matter how much we might pretend to prepare for Passover, the holiday's just not the same anymore.  Besides the seder and all the prep, I miss your matzah farfel stuffing, the first morning of the chag at 12 Webster Road, where having finished with the major clean-up the night before, all that remained was to return the wine goblets and the gold flatware to their rightful cabinets and drawers before sitting down to a leisurely cup of coffee, creamy with milk, a tad bit of sugar (used at no other time of year) and soaking bits of matzah farfel -- the quintessential Pesach breakfast...and one of the things I miss most.

xoxo,
~ Boo!

Inspired by Ima on (and off) the Bima, this post is one in a series marking the days of the Jewish month of Nissan leading up to Passover, which begins at sundown on Monday, 14 Nissan. If you want to play along, check out this year's #BlogExodus and #Exodusgram prompts.

Where's JanetheWriter?

This week, it seems, she's everywhere...

A post I wrote following my recent colonoscopy (if you're a regular visitor to this blog, you've probably already seen it), was posted yesterday on Penn Medicine's Focus on Cancer blog.  No worries, though...I've spared you the gory details

And then, late this afternoon, I received word that a short piece I'd submitted to the blog at Rhodia Drive was live and I was today's guest blogger.

Over the weekend, look for my dad and me in greater Baltimore and Washington, DC for an unveiling.  Hard to believe it's been a year since this post. 

Shabbat shalom, everyone.

Letter to Chicago

Dear Chicago,

As I noted in a recent post, "I've visited Barrow, AK, but never Chicago, IL, except to change planes at O'Hare."  I think it's time that we finally meet IRL, and I'd like to check your calendar to see if there are some dates later this winter or in the spring that might be good for a visit.
 
There are lots of things I'd like to build into my itinerary, but it certainly will come as no surprise that at the top of my list will be seeing Phyllis and her family.  Even if there's nothing to say but "Hinneni" (as thousands of us have been doing--from near and far--for the last 18 months), I can hold her hand, hug her close, share her pain. If the weather's OK, maybe she, Michael and the kids will be willing to show me some sights--the zoo, a museum, or the skaters at Millennium Park. Or, maybe we'll spend an afternoon just hanging out in the kitchen that her pictures always portray as so very warm and inviting.

I'm hopeful that the timing also will allow me to visit with Rachel Roth, Stacey Zisook Robinson, Janine Mileaf, Stephanie Fink, Barb Leibson Shimansky, and Kate Heilman--as well as include tourist stops at the Art Institute of Chicago, the John Hancock Observatory, Wrigley Field, and an authentic Chicago deep dish pizza spot, the specifics of which I'll leave to the locals. (When my parents visited Chicago in the mid-1980s for a cousin's wedding, my mom brought home a pretty bangle bracelet for me from Marshall Field's.  Too bad that's not still a tourist spot...)

So what do you say, Chicago?  Please check your calendar and let me know what might work for you.  I'll set up a fare alert for LGA to ORD, pull out a hat, warm boots, and my mittens (even though I'm at that stage of life that makes it totally unnecessary for me even to button my coat in New York City), and hope we can make this visit a reality.

I look forward to an opportunity to follow the "Ground Transportation/Exit" signs at ORD and to seeing you (and my friends who live near you) sometime in the next few months.

~ Jane.

A Sad End and a New Beginning: A #BlogElul Post

Earlier this week, a good friend's mother reached the end of her life.  It was more than unexpected -- tragically sudden, in fact -- made all the more so because my friend is to be married in October.

Ever since, the Unetanah Tokef has been echoing in my head.

This version from the machzor:

On Rosh Hashanah it is inscribed,
And on Yom Kippur it is sealed.
How many shall pass away and how many shall be born,
Who shall live and who shall die,
Who shall reach the end of his days and who shall not,
Who shall perish by water and who by fire,
Who by sword and who by wild beast,
Who by famine and who by thirst,
Who by earthquake and who by plague,
Who by strangulation and who by stoning,
Who shall have rest and who shall wander,
Who shall be at peace and who shall be pursued,
Who shall be at rest and who shall be tormented,
Who shall be exalted and who shall be brought low,
Who shall become rich and who shall be impoverished.
But repentance, prayer and righteousness avert the severe decree.

And this one by Leonard Cohen:

And who by fire, who by water,
Who in the sunshine, who in the night time,
Who by high ordeal, who by common trial,
Who in your merry merry month of may,
Who by very slow decay,
And who shall I say is calling?

And who in her lonely slip, who by barbiturate,
Who in these realms of love, who by something blunt,
And who by avalanche, who by powder,
Who for his greed, who for his hunger,
And who shall I say is calling?

And who by brave assent, who by accident,
Who in solitude, who in this mirror,
Who by his lady's command, who by his own hand,
Who in mortal chains, who in power,
And who shall I say is calling?

But more than just pondering the words of the liturgy, the circumstances have prompted me to tell people in my life how very much I appreciate their presence and their friendship.

To C, who offered to help plan a gathering when our friend returns to New York, I wrote this:  "Life turns on a dime...and so thanks for your offer and for being my friend."

To E, who was at the out-of-town funeral because he always steps up to the plate for his friends, I said: "And with this sad reminder that life turns on a dime, I want to tell  you how much your friendship means to me.  Travel safely."

To S, who sometimes drives me nuts (and knows when he's doing it!), I added this postscript at the end of an email:  "I was reminded this week that life truly turns on a dime and so I just want to say that I appreciate having you as my friend.  You're a good egg."

And to V, who called yesterday during a work-from-home day, I reiterated the message:  I value you as a friend and a colleague, and I'm glad to have you as part of my life."

And so it is that from this sad ending comes a new beginning, the focus of which is not only feeling gratitude and appreciation, but also telling of the gratitude and appreciation.  In the new year, may we be blessed with good friends...and may we tell them just how blessed they make us.

Inspired by Ima on (and off) the Bima,this post is one in a series marking the days of the Hebrew month of Elul, which precedes the Jewish High Holidays and traditionally serves as a time of reflection and spiritual preparation for the new year.

The Minutes and the Hours and the Days Pass By…

Dear The Mums,

Today strikes me as a real “circle of life” day. 

Ian and "His Monica"

I got up early and was out the door by 8 a.m. to head to the West Village for Ian’s graduation from P.S. 41.  It’s hard to believe that the little boy with the baby face who started kindergarten there six years ago is moving on to middle school.  I know I’m biased (as you would be, too), but he’s tall and good-looking, a great baseball player and teammate, as well as a wonderful mimic, but still a sweet, kind and polite kid.  He loves Legos, drawing, riding his scooter, Sponge Bob, and hanging out with his friends (and "his Monica").  I think that’s how you turn out when everyone loves you.

The morning’s festivities were more like a wonderful assembly than a graduation, and I thought it was nice that the kids didn’t wear those cheesy polyester gowns with the matching mortarboards because you could really see their personalities in the clothes they wore (or that their mothers made them wear!).  Ian wore a “nice shirt”—a plaid button down, with khaki shorts and sneakers, an outfit that was similar to what many of his friends were wearing.  Some kids wore suits and ties, others jeans, but I especially loved the sweet dresses—adorned with flowers and lace—that many of the girls wore.

Jack T. and Ian

You would have loved the whole thing, sheping nachas and bursting your buttons from beginning to end.  As the kids processed in by class, America the Beautiful played in the background.  We weren’t really listening though, just looking for Ian and waving wildly when we saw him.  Once they were all seated on the stage facing us, we rose for the Pledge of Allegiance and then listened as the kids sang the P.S. 41 Song.  Then came a few speakers:  the principal, Manhattan Borough President Scott Stringer, the head honchos of the PTA, and the assistant principal, who presented an award to a student whose unknown theater arts talents were uncovered at P.S. 41. Then the kids sang Imagine by John Lennon and, with all those formalities out of the way, the teachers from each class presented the certificates of promotion to each student as his or her name was called.  When Ian's name was called, I leaned over to Monica and said, "Bubbe would be so proud."  Once the last graduate—Salenne Wolfe—had picked up her certificate, there was lots of whooping it up and a few tears, mostly from Monica and Amy.  The ceremony ended with the entire class singing Shy, from Once Upon a Mattress, which was the  fifth-grade production, and serves as a rite of passage for the kids as much as, if not more than, this morning’s graduation.  After the graduates recessed to the cafeteria, we all followed for hugs and photos.

Henry P. and Ian

Meanwhile, Daddy also got up early because sadly, he and Aunt Bea went to Ray’s funeral this morning.  He’d been in hospice for a few weeks with failing kidneys, and died yesterday at 83.  You know that had I been able, I would have gone with Daddy, but I believe that had the two processions intersected, the funeral would have yielded to the graduates, and I thought it best to be with Amy, Ian and Monica (and John, Carla, Nolan (Ian's little brother), and Carla's mother) on this milestone day.  However, I will do my best to make a shiva call later this week.

And so it goes, The Mums.  Ian’s moving on to middle school and Ray’s joining you wherever you are.  Although I’m not sure you’ll see him in the yeshiva where I'm sure you're spending lots of time, I do hope you’ll connect with Ray and be able to enjoy some of his gastronomic delights. 

As Rabbis Ken Chasen and Josh Zweiback, the singing duo known as Mah Tovu, tell us in the chorus of their song “Round and Round:”

Every morning the sun comes up
And every evening the sun goes down
It’s a beautiful thing the way it all works together
And the world goes round and round
The minutes and the hours and the days pass by
Months turn to years, but I don’t know why
God makes it all happen right before our eyes
And the world goes round and round 

Indeed it does…and I miss you more with each spin of the earth on its axis and with each of its trips around the sun.

xoxo,
~ Boo!

#BlogExodus: Learning

Earlier tonight, I was catching up with my college roommate, Terry.  Although it was a "quick" conversation compared to our last call, a 174-minute marathon, it was long enough for her to remind me of a poignant lesson that no matter how often we learn it, needs to be learned and relearned, again and again.

I was telling her about losing Mrs.Steinberg and our travels to and from the funeral two weeks ago.

Knowing me well, Terry asked if I knew anything about Warren Zevon.  Of course I didn't.

She explained that he was a singer-songwriter who was diagnosed with inoperable peritoneal mesothelioma and died less than a year later.  During his illness, he was a guest--as he had been on many occasions in the past--on Late Night with David Letterman.  In talking about his disease, and about life and death, Zevon offered this adage:  "Enjoy every sandwich."

Indeed, in our everyday comings and goings--sprinkled as they are with too much stress and too little time--we often do forget just how fragile is life.  Instead, as I've now relearned from Terry, by way of Warren Zevon, we must learn to hug our kids, tell our friends we love them, and enjoy every sandwich.

Inspired by Ima on (and off) the Bima, this post is one in a series marking the days of the Hebrew month of Nisan leading up to Passover 5773.

I'd Know Your Dairy Dishes Anywhere

Dear Mrs. Steinberg,

That bagel and white fish salad over there was my dinner tonight and represents the one I would have eaten at your house yesterday had we not had to head directly back to New Jersey from Baltimore.  Of course, it’s not as though I never ate a bagel in your house…and in fact, I’d know your dairy dishes anywhere.  Who could forget that big, abstract orange flower in the middle of the plate? 

There are so many other things we can’t forget…and reminisced about all of them on our ride down to Chevy Chase on Tuesday and on the way home yesterday, too.

Amy kept reminding us about the parrot (I think it was a parakeet, though), whose cage was on a television cart that she loved to push around your apartment in Georgian Woods. She couldn’t have been much more than three or four at the time.  That was during the same era that she asked you, in the middle of Snider’s Market, if watermelon had nitrates, and when Lipton made flavored instant iced tea that you and my mom loved—orange for you, lime for her.

Later, when you moved to Winding Waye Lane, there was Ari, the three-legged dog, Barbara’s rainbow-themed room with the bright orange walls, Dr. Steinberg and my dad dozing in the family room, and, of course, bagels and noodle kugel served on your dairy dishes whenever we’d visit from New Jersey for the weekend.  There also were the weekly Monday night phone calls with my mom that began at 11 p.m.—when the long-distance rates went down—and continued at that hour even after unlimited long-distance became the norm.

Of course there was your gas-guzzling Chevy Impala, too.  It was the car you drove to pick up a friend and me from the Shoreham Americana Hotel where we were attending a model United Nations (our high school was the German Democratic Republic) so we could meet Heidi, who’d been born just a few weeks earlier.  I’ll never forget the first time I saw her sleeping in the playpen in your family room that afternoon and what a treat it was to hold her and feed her a bottle before you had to take us back to the hotel.

More recently and with button-bursting pride, I know you told many of your Hadassah friends about my job as Eric Yoffie’s writer, and not once during the last 18 months did you and I have a conversation in which you didn’t tell me how glad you were that I’d opted for a prophylactic mastectomy and autologous reconstruction, avoiding the risks and hassles that can come along with implants.

Yesterday before we headed to the cemetery, Heidi told us that she envisions you and my mom together in the world to come, having picked up your conversation right where you left off in this world, just about three years ago this month.  If she’s right—and I hope she is—you’ve got a bit of catching up to do, which no doubt you’ll do in some late night chats in the coming weeks.  Once you’re caught up, I’d like to think you’ll head out to do some shopping, and can easily see the two of you together in Pier One choosing new place mats and matching napkins, drinking glasses, or even a new coffee table—provided it’s all on sale, of course!

Whatever you and my mom are up to, though, I wish both of you eternal peace in the shadow of God’s wings. I miss you both and am glad you have each other.

xoxo,

~ Jane.

We Remember

Shame on the International Olympic Committee for not honoring the 11 Israeli athletes--and the German policeman who lost his life trying to save them--with a moment of silence at tonight's opening ceremony of the 2012 Olympic Games:

David Berger (weightlifter)

Anton Fliegerbauer (German police officer)

Ze'ev Friedman (weightlifter)

Yossef Gutfreund (wrestling referee)

Eliezer Halfin (wrestler)

Yossef Romano (weightlifter)

Amitzur Shapira (track coach)

Kehat Shorr (shooting coach)

Mark Slavin (wrestler)

Andre Spitzer (fencing coach)

Yakov Springer (weightlifting judge)

Moshe Weinberg (wrestling coach) 

May their memory be for a blessing.  Zichronam l'vracha.