Wednesday, December 9, 2020

Ner Chanukah: A Mitzvah Chaviva

I wrote this little d'var Torah (thoughts on the Torah) for Chanukah for one of the local synagogues and thought I'd share here, too! Enjoy.

Rambam says that the Chanukah lights are a mitzvah chaviva hi ad meod, or an exceedingly precious or cherished mitzvah (Hilchot Megillah v'Chanukah 4:12). This description didn’t strike me just because, well, my name is Chaviva, but because this type of language isn’t used for other mitzvot (commandments). So why is lighting the Chanukiyah considered a mitzvah chaviva? We have to start by looking back at Aharon and the Menorah.

Bonus: What's the Difference Between a Menorah and a Chanukiyah?

In Parashat Behaalotecha, we’re told that Aharon is commanded to light the Menorah in the Mishkan, and that “he did so” (Numbers 8:3). Although Aharon’s tribe had been the only one not to participate in gift giving to the Mishkan, the Kohen Gadol had many other vital responsibilities and, let’s be honest, Aharon did sacrifice his sons in the process. But perhaps he still felt a little jilted. After all, the Midrash says that each gift was spiritually specific and significant to each tribe. Perhaps Aharon felt that others were more whole after giving, perhaps in a way that he couldn’t be despite his service. Enter HaShem, who tasks Aharon with the Menorah.

Aharon saw this mitzvah as chavivut and did exactly as HaShem commanded, which, according to Rashi, was a compliment to Aharon and signified that he was uniquely qualified for this job. Just as the Menorah is made from a single block of gold, so, too, do all Jews originate at the same source. By taking on the mitzvah of the Menorah precisely as HaShem commanded, Aharon embodied and delivered on the essence of what the Menorah symbolized — the unity of the Jewish people. As Pirkei Avot 1:12, says, “Be of the disciples of Aharon, loving peace and pursuing peace, loving mankind and drawing them close to the Torah.” 

woman lighting a Chanukah menorah

From Aharon and the Menorah to the miracle of Chanukah and the rededication of the Holy Temple, we have the Chanukiyah. Although the mitzvah of lighting the Chanukiyah could be performed through a spouse, partner, or shaliach, it's such a precious and cherished mitzvah that — like Aharon with the Menorah — we each want to perform it ourselves and thus are commanded to do so. We each want to feel responsible for this mitzvah and to embody what the Chanukiyah symbolizes. After all, this is the one time in the Jewish calendar that we can be a literal light unto the nations!

On this Chanukah, more than any other in recent memory, we must be a light and bring about the unity that this holiday symbolizes. We must light every night, with a care for our fellow — for their health and safety as well as our own. We must pursue justice and peace through a fire that brings light and guides all on the path forward and not a fire that burns down the world around us, leaving us in darkness and chaos. We must be the disciples of Aharon and fulfill the mitzvah of ner Chanukah — this mitzvah chaviva hi ad meod — with a sense of collective responsibility and the pursuit of a unified Jewish people.

May we all be safe, healthy, and content as we enter the darkest months of the year. Although we can’t be together as we would all love to be, everything comes from HaShem and everything that comes from HaShem is good. This, too, must be for the good. Chag Sameach!

Monday, November 30, 2020

What's the Difference Between a Menorah and a Chanukiah?

Every November or December, whenever the 25th of the month of Kislev falls in the Jewish calendar, Jews around the world celebrate Chanukah, the festival of light. Although many know Chanukah because of it's fried jelly donuts and games of dreidel, the main religious tradition of the holiday is the week-long lighting of a special item known as the chanukiyah (ha-new-key-uh).

Many know the chanukiyah as a menorah, but there's actually a large difference in the two pieces of Judaica. 
menorah vs. chanukiah

Menorah vs. Chanukiah 

Both items are a type of candelabra, but the chanukiah has nine branches while the menorah has only seven. The chanukiah has eight candles in a row with a ninth candle separated or raised (depending on the style of the candelabra) and they come in all shapes, sizes, and themes. The chanukiah represents the miracle of Chanukah when, during the rededication of the Temple, the oil that should have lasted just one night lasted for a miraculous eight nights. 

The ninth branch, known as the shamash ("helper" or "servant"), on the chanukiah is used to light the other branches during each night of Chanukah. Each night of Chanukah the shamash is lit first and then the candles are lit one by one for each night, from left to right (unless you follow another tradition or opinion). 

The other candelabra, known as the menorah, is more of a symbolic object in Judaism. Dating to the time of the First Temple in Jerusalem, it comprises seven branches and does not have a shamash. The menorah was lit by the priests (kohanim), using olive oil every evening in the Holy Temple. 
"And you must make a lamp-stand of pure gold. Of hammered work the lamp-stand is to be made. Its base, its branches, its cups, its knobs and its blossoms are to proceed out from it. And six branches are running out from its sides, three branches of the lamp-stand from its one side and three branches of the lamp-stand from its other side. Three cups shaped like flowers of almond are on the one set of branches, with knobs and blossoms alternating, and three cups shaped like flowers of almond on the other set of branches, with knobs and blossoms alternating. This is the way it is with the six branches running out from the lamp-stand. And on the lamp-stand are four cups shaped like flowers of almond, with its knobs and its blossoms alternating. And the knob under two branches is out of it and the knob under the two other branches is out of it and the knob under two more branches is out of it, for the six branches running out from the lamp-stand. Their knobs and their branches are to proceed out from it. All of it is one piece of hammered work, of pure gold. And you must make seven lamps for it; and the lamps must be lit up, and they must shine upon the area in front of it. And its snuffers and its fire holders are of pure gold. Of a talent of pure gold he should make it with all these utensils of it. And see that you make them after their pattern that was shown to you in the mountain." (Exodus 25:31-40) 
This candelabra became known as a symbol of Judaism and can be found in nearly every synagogue around the world in the form of the ner tamid or everlasting light. In most synagogues, above the arc where the Torah is kept there is a light that is always kept on that represents the holy menorah from the Temple period. The ner tamid reminds us of the Holy Temple and the sadness of its destruction. Whereas it used to be a constantly lit flame, it is now typically an electric lamp that stays on at all hours of the day. 

As you can see, the difference in the two items is significant. Whereas the chanukiah is used for the celebration of a specific festival, the menorah is more of an everlasting symbol of the Jewish religion.

What else do you want to know about Chanukah? 

Wednesday, November 25, 2020

Holiday Lights: Reconciling Traditions from a Non-Jewish Childhood for My Jewish Kids

Photo by Adriaan Greyling from Pexels

Well, it’s officially my favorite time of year! I like to think I have reverse seasonal affective disorder — I love cold, cloudy weather. I love snow and layering and giant chunky sweaters and hot drinks. I love winter, glittering lights, and everything that comes along with this time of year.

When I was a kid, this time of year was the one time of year that I truly felt like my family was fully in-sync. We’d get out the boxes and boxes of Christmas ornaments and set up the Christmas tree with painstaking precision. My mother and her Christmas tree were unlike anything I’ve ever encountered to this day. Her tree was white, silver, and glass. It was a small child’s worst nightmare, and every ornament had a story. I can’t remember breaking a single ornament on my mother’s tree for fear of destroying the symbol of a memory that she held dear. After white lights came the strings of beads, then the ornaments, and finally the tree topper. After Christmas, taking down the tree was a chore, because every ornament had to be carefully re-wrapped and placed carefully in a very specific order back into the storage boxes.

I loved it. I loved every minute of it, even as a child.

Another tradition was that we’d pick a night to drive around and look at all of the lights in their glittering glory. These were the days before programmed lights that danced around houses to Mannheim Steamroller. My parents liked driving us to the neighborhoods with the largest houses because they lined their streets with luminaries and the lights were classic white and stunning. When we lived in Southern Missouri, a short drive from the Precious Moments Park & Chapel, we’d drive out every year for Christmas to see the light displays there and go through a drive-through display at a large Catholic Vietnamese institute run by a group of priests.

Lights were an essential part of my childhood and, for me, signaled what a family did in December.

The only other tradition my family had was that, on Christmas Day, if we could afford the expensive meat, my mom would make rouladen. This dish is honestly the only “ethnic” dish my mom ever made, and I don’t know our family history with it other than my mom’s family is German-French. With its expensive, thinly sliced beef with onions and pickles rolled up inside, it was then stewed in tomato sauce, and I grew up hating this dish (pickles are delicious, but not warm). But my mom? Much like the extravagant tree laden with delicate ornaments, my mom looked forward to it every year and it became part of the Edwards family Christmas.

But now? I’m Jewish. Even though Christmas never meant church or Jesus or anything religious, I stopped celebrating Christmas or anything that resembled it back in 2006 after I graduated college and moved out East to pursue my dreams and live Jewishly. My mom slowly stopped setting up the tree because there was no one to help her, and it broke my heart. One year, when she finally decided she was done with Christmas and the tree, she sent me one of her mirrored ornaments shaped like the Star of David, so I could always have a piece of the family tree with me. She joked that, maybe they always knew I'd be Jewish and thus, they had a six-pointed star. It made me sad, it made me wonder what this time of year meant for me and my future children.

Now, I’m lamenting that I can't sit in my favorite independent coffee haunts because of the pandemic. I miss listening to the tunes echoing through the cavernous spaces, with classics such as “Silver Bells” and “Gloria in Excelsis Deo” — songs that swung me back to a different time in my life. In high school, this time of year meant solos in the choir Christmas concert, so I can’t help singing along with the tunes. They make me smile, they make me feel. The concepts or meanings are not what do it, but the simple beauty of the voices and the melodies.

When I had my first child in December of 2013, I was living in Israel and this time of year was strange, but easy. I didn’t have to worry about Santa Claus at the mall or all of the lights or the trees or kids in daycare who weren’t Jewish talking about the holiday. It was easy. But now that we’re in Denver, and kids have questions, I’m constantly assessing how I should tackle this time of year in a way that makes sense to my three littles, yet somehow honors my own upbringing.

I will admit that it's easier this year with the pandemic. We aren't going to the mall where there's large displays of Christmas, and we're not going into grocery stores or Target where everything is red and green. I’m obviously not making rouladen (yuck), and I’m most definitely not putting up a tree.

So? This leaves us with lights. Homes around ours are stringing up lights in all colors and styles, and it reminds me of those evenings out in the minivan driving through the ritzy neighborhoods with my parents and brothers. It’s such a simple thing, but such a meaningful thing — for me — and I want to be able to share that with my kids.

‘Tis the season, after all, because light is what Chanukah is all about. The world emerged with the words “let there be light,” and light is often understood in the Torah to mean knowledge or wisdom. Since creation, we’ve fought to bring those sparks of light back into the world and to bring ourselves out of darkness. As a Jew, I yearn, pursue, and seek that light every day, even as I relish in the cloudy cool of winter in Denver.

During Chanukah’s eight days, the world is illuminated with the light of the chanukiyah. These lights are special because we can only gaze upon them, we can’t use them for any personal reasons. They serve as a message to all who pass by that “darkness can be dispelled with wisdom, obscurity can be illuminated with truth.”

I look at my neighbors' holiday lights much in the same manner. Giant inflatable Santa Clauses and nativity scenes aside, the lights are bringing a beautiful light into the darkest time of the year, and it’s an innocent way I can bring my children into a space that for me has great meaning and history. I can’t wait to pack up my kids and drive them around the nearby neighborhood filled with giant houses to look at the lights. We won’t be listening to Christmas tunes on the radio, but I might pop on some of The Leevees to set the mood.

We'll call them holiday lights and talk about how in the darkest months of the year during a pandemic, more light is what we all truly need. That said, several years ago, Asher did ask, “Mommy, why don’t we have any lights up on our house?” I happily responded, “We will, sweetie. As soon as Chanukah comes, we’ll have eight days of special lights to share with our neighbors.”

Tuesday, November 17, 2020

Do Jews Celebrate Thanksgiving? Is Thanksgiving a Kosher Holiday?

photograph of people celebrating Thanksgiving with pumpkin pie and challah

One of the biggest questions this time of years for Jews is whether Thanksgiving is a kosher holiday. Can (and should) Jews celebrate Thanksgiving? How does the secular, American holiday fit into the Jewish experience?

Thanksgiving's Origins

In the 16th century, during the English Reformation and the reign of Henry VIII, the number of Church holidays was drastically decreased from 95 to 27. However, the Puritans, a group of Protestants that fought for further reforms in the Church, sought to completely eliminate Church holidays in favor of replacing the days with Days of Fasting or Days of Thanksgiving.

When the Puritans arrived in New England, they brought these Days of Thanksgiving with them, and there are many documented celebrations of thanks during the 17th and 18th century following the end of bad droughts or successful harvests. Although there is much debate about the specifics of the first Thanksgiving as we know it today, the commonly accepted belief is that the first Thanksgiving occurred sometime in September-November 1621 as a feast of thanks for a bountiful harvest. 

After 1621 and until 1863, the holiday was celebrated sporadically and the date varied from state to state. The first national day of Thanksgiving was proclaimed by President George Washington on November 26, 1789, to be a "day of public thanksgiving and prayer" in honor of the forming of a new nation and new constitution. However, despite this national declaration, the holiday was still not celebrated regularly or consistently. 

Then, in 1863, at the prompting of a campaign by author Sarah Josepha Hale, President Abraham Lincoln set the date of Thanksgiving officially to the last Thursday in November. However, even with this proclamation, because the Civil War was in full force, many states refused the date as official. It wasn't until the 1870s that Thanksgiving was celebrated nationally and collectively. 

Finally, on December 26, 1941, President Franklin Roosevelt officially changed Thanksgiving Day to the fourth Thursday in November as a means of boosting the U.S. economy. 

The Issues

At first glance, it appears that Thanksgiving is a religious holiday founded by a Protestant sect, even though they were attempting to minimize the role of Church-based holidays. Although in the 21st century Thanksgiving has become a largely secular holiday chock full of football and belt-busting feasts, because of the holiday's potential origins as Protestant, there are several issues that the rabbis address to decipher whether celebrating this holiday presents a halachic (Jewish legal) problem. 

In medieval Talmudic commentary, the rabbis explore two different types of customs that are forbidden under the prohibition of "imitating Gentile (non-Jewish) customs" from Leviticus 18:3:

  1. idolatrous customs
  2. foolish customs found in the Gentile community, no matter whether the origins are idolatrous

The Maharik and Rabbenu Nissim conclude that only customs based in idolatry are prohibited, but secular customs that are considered “foolish” are permitted with a reasonable explanation. 

Rabbi Moshe Feinstein, a leading 20th-century rabbi, published four rabbinic rulings on the issue of Thanksgiving, all that conclude that it is not a religious holiday. In 1980 he wrote,

"On the issue of joining with those who think that Thanksgiving is like a holiday to eat a meal: Since it is clear that according to their religious law books this day is not mentioned as a religious holiday and that one is not obligated in a meal [according to Gentile religious law] and since this is a day of remembrance to citizens of this country, when they came to reside here either now or earlier, halakhah [Jewish law] sees no prohibition in celebrating with a meal or with the eating of turkey. … Nonetheless it is prohibited to establish this as an obligation and religious commandment [mitzvah], and it remains a voluntary celebration now.”

Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik also stated that Thanksgiving was not a Gentile holiday and that it was permissible to celebrate with turkey. Rabbi Yitzchak Hutner, on the other hand, ruled that whatever the origins of Thanksgiving, the establishment of a holiday based on the Christian calendar is closely tied to idol worship and thus is prohibited. Although he advises Jews to distance themselves from these customs, this is not widely practiced in the greater Jewish community. 

Giving Thanks

Judaism is a religion devoted to the act of gratitude from the moment an individual wakes up and recites the Modeh/Modah Ani prayer until he or she goes to sleep. In fact, it is believed that the Jewish lifestyle provides for the recitation of at least 100 prayers of gratitude every day. Many of the Jewish holidays are, in fact, holidays of gratitude and thanks -- like Sukkot -- which makes Thanksgiving a natural addition to the Jewish year. 

How To

Believe it or not, Jews celebrate Thanksgiving just like everyone else with tables overflowing with turkey, stuffing, and cranberry sauce, but likely with a bit of a Jewish touch and attention to the meat-milk balance (if you keep kosher). 

Even Jewish Americans living in Israel get together to celebrate, often ordering turkeys months in advance and going out of their way to find American staples like canned cranberry sauce and pumpkin. I personally prefer to pick my kosher turkey for roasting up at Trader Joe's and serve it alongside my childhood favorites: 

  • Watergate Salad (made with Cocowhip)
  • Green bean casserole (which I make with portobello mushrooms, French green beans, Imagine creamy mushroom soup, and gluten-free fried onions)
  • Mashed potatoes or no potatoes at all
  • Pumpkin pie in a gluten-free crust

If you want a more formal approach to your Jewish Thanksgiving celebration, you can always check out Rabbi Phyllis Sommer's "Thanksgiving Seder."

BONUS: The Thanksgivukkah Anomaly 

In 2013, the Jewish and Gregorian calendars aligned so that Thanksgiving and Chanukah fell in sync and was coined Thanksgivukkah. Because the Jewish calendar is based on a lunar cycle, the Jewish holidays fall differently from year to year, whereas Thanksgiving is set on the Gregorian calendar as the fourth Thursday of November no matter the numerical date. Also, Chanukah is a holiday that lasts eight nights, offering a bit of room for overlap. 

Although there was much hype that the 2013 Anomaly was the first, last, and only time that the two holidays would ever coincide, this isn't exactly true. In fact, the first occurrence of the overlap would have been on November 29, 1888. Also, as late as 1956 Texas was still celebrating Thanksgiving on the last Thursday in November, meaning that Jews in Texas got to celebrate the overlap in 1945 and 1956!

Theoretically, assuming no legal holiday changes (like that in 1941), the next Thanksgivukkah will be in 2070 and 2165. I'll be long dead for the latter, but for the former, I'll be 87 and ready to parrrtayyy! 

What about you? Do you have any Thanksgiving traditions that marry Judaism with Turkey Day?

Thursday, August 13, 2020

True Story: I'm on an ISIS Hit List

Note: This story was original published on Medium in February 2019. I don't know why I chose to post it there instead of here, but I did. But now, I want to share it here, where people know me best. Can't wait to hear what you think about this one, friends!

When I was a kid, I wanted to be one thing: an artist. As I got older, this “future me” strove to be a photographer, poet, copy editor, and, ultimately, a writer.

Of course, one thing I never followed up “When I grow up I want to be …” with was “A target on an ISIS hit list.”

I’ve been an online blogger since the dark ages of LiveJournal, parlaying my love of storytelling into a blog back in the mid-2000s focused on my journey into and through Judaism. Yes, I’m a small-town girl from southern Missouri whose family relocated to Nebraska during my formative years. I went to and graduated from a Midwestern school, converted to Reform Judaism in 2006, and then I lived here, there, and everywhere around the U.S. Several years later, I converted to Orthodox Judaism, got a Master’s degree, got married, got divorced, moved to Israel, got married again, had a kid, moved back to the U.S., had another kid … you get the idea.

And all of this? It’s online. My life is quite literally an open website. I’ve always been an early adopter, and every digital space I find online is a medium for me to share my story — not for selfish reasons, but because I’ve found that my voice gives other converts a voice and I’ve got hundreds of outreach emails from people around the globe to prove it. I used to speak on panels, make good lists like “Top XX Jewish Women on XX,” and be the go-to for all things Jewish and social media on the web. I lament that my days are now filled with poopy diapers and scut jobs needed to pay the bills, but my digital life is still very much active.

My truth is that I have nothing to hide, so I don’t have to hide. The government can pop my laptop camera (or microwave, of course) on and watch me if they feel like it, because everything in my life is safe, legal, open.

But let’s be honest. What you see out there in TV land is the “Candyland version” of my life (props to Rivka Malka Perlman for this concept). Although I like to think that everyone sees and experiences my life exactly as it is, that’s not the truth. It’s not even close to the truth.

So here I am, one year out from an incident that shook me to my core and made me question everything I thought I knew about being a super-public Jewish blogging mommy, and I still haven’t written about it — until now.

I usually leave my house in the morning, because if I attempt to do my various contract jobs from home my day becomes all about the laundry, the dishes, the cucumbers and potatoes embedded in the carpet, the filthy fish tank, and all of the things that distract a working mother from, well, working. But one day last summer when my baby was still a newborn, I came home mid-day for something, I don’t even remember what, and found a business card stuck in the iron screen door of our small home.

I plucked the card out, and it was just a blank card, with the handwritten words, “Please Call Me” and an arrow. I turned the card over and saw that it was from an FBI Task Force Officer. My first inclination was that someone was playing a joke on me, because the shiny gold seal looked absolutely fake as can be.

Me being me, I Googled the information on the card, half expecting to get a dozen links about some prank or phishing scheme.

The officer on the card was real.

My next inclination was that they obviously wanted to talk to my husband my husband, the British-Israeli Green Card holder, for some kind of immigration hangup. He had, after all, gotten stuck outside the country from October 2014 to July 2015 thanks to the bureaucratic mess that is immigration.

I sent my husband a text with a picture of the front and back of the business card and suggested he call the number because, it only made sense, they needed to talk to him.

A few seconds later, he texted me back: “They want to talk to you.”

Me being me, again, began to panic. I couldn’t fathom what the FBI would need from me, and then my husband followed up with, “A threat has been made.”

I started racking my brain. I thought about all of the online spaces where people bashed me, devoted entire threads of forums to talking trash about me and my life choices, and wondering if one of the trolls had actually turned into violent. But these were just anonymous whackjobs hiding behind their PCs in Suburbia, not the type to elicit a response from the FBI. Right?

my husband told the officer he could come over and then he came home from work because I was, understandably, a bit panicked. When the officer arrived, he came in, sat down, and got to it.

“You’re on an ISIS hit list.”

In a fog of WTF is happening to my life, the officer went on to tell me how easy it was to find me, physically, that day, despite the fact that my divorced name was on the list. The officer also said that there are a lot of these lists and that I don’t really need to panic. Not too much, the officer said. The list, I was told, was geared toward lone wolfs, extremists who want to do their individual part by knocking off a single person — me.

When I asked how I ended up on a list, the officer didn’t have a great answer. Was it because I’m Jewish? A blogger? On Twitter?

The officer left, saying that if we see anything suspicious or alarming, to be in touch with him immediately. He also reminded us that we had a good friend in the community at the FBI (“I should have just asked him where to find you, it would have been even quicker!”), and that we were in good hands.

So. There I was, in my single-family starter home, counting down the moments until I needed to pick kids up from daycare, wondering when I was going to get assassinated in the name of a Holy War I really don’t understand.

I reached out to the local ADL, just so they’d know they had an ISIS hit list member in their midst. The response I got: “There has not yet been a case of violence resulting from any of these lists, but it is very important for everyone to be smart, alert and vigilant.”

Even my rabbi seemed unphased. My neighbors, on the other hand, asked if they should relocate, move, perhaps go into witness protection. I think they were half joking (they have a dog named ISIS, which made for some fun jokes), but maybe they weren’t. Who wants to be associated with someone potentially in the crosshairs of a militant terrorist group?

I basically spent the next two months being completely irrational and paranoid. There was one day where someone came to my door that I didn’t recognize, so I hid and called my husband, who told me to call the FBI. The person outside the door started to peek in the windows of my home and I was pretty sure he was an operative sent to end it all. I felt silly calling the FBI about it, so my husband came home from work quickly and when I re-described the person outside the house to him he quickly said, “Oh, that’s our new neighbor! Maybe he lost something over the fence?”

I genuinely thought I was losing my mind.

Every time I’d be walking across an intersection and a cab driver was edging slowly into the intersection I was convinced that he or she was sent by ISIS to commit vehicular manslaughter. I realize now, outside the fog of irrational shock, that assuming every cab driver is either Muslim or an ISIS operative is pretty crazy. Probably racist, too. Being on an ISIS hit list was making me a paranoid racist who was losing her mind.

The worst part about it all was that I couldn’t talk about it. I didn’t tell anyone except my immediate family, my rabbi, my kids’ daycare director, and our neighbors. It wasn’t safe to write about it, to talk about it. And writing about it was my natural form of self-therapy. Storytelling is my drug.

And then? I woke up one day and had all but forgotten about it. Most days, I don’t even think about it. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’m not likely to be tagged and bagged by a lone wolf out to fulfill his ISIS mission. There has to be a statistical analysis of the likelihood, doesn’t there?

But every now and again, the fear and paranoia sneaks up on me. Sometimes, like this week, when I open Twitter and I’m being trolled by a “Muslim cleric” who liks approximately 30 of my Tweets in quick succession, I start to fear for myself, my husband, my kids. I fall down the rabbit hole Googling the name, location, trying to figure out if it’s a credible threat or just a zealous Twitter user showing me some legitimate love.

Last week I got a series of emails from someone trying to “meet up” with me to discuss something. They even called me, although I don’t know how they got my number. Luckily, I hate talking on the phone and never answer. I Googled the name, the email address, any identifying information, and what came up was not what the email sender provided and I began to panic again. I cut off communication and am hoping it wasn’t a legitimate request to meetup that could help me make millions.

At this point in my life, I can’t hide. What I’ve put out on the web is there for all eternity. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t delete even a single step in my digital footprint, just like I can’t delete my name from that looming ISIS hit list.

And I know what the comments will say: “You’re crazy! You’re writing about it? Now they’re going to find you!”

Storytelling is my drug, remember? My reality is that, for better or worse, the only way to overcome being on an ISIS hit list is to write about it.

Saturday, August 1, 2020

It Begins Again

As I sit and await Shabbat’s arrival I find myself filled with exhaustion and frustration. I’m asking myself why we are bringing in another Shabbat without a Temple in Jerusalem, without Mashiach, without the safety and serenity that comes along with knowing we as a people finally got it right. 

I really want to reread The Princess of Dan, but I feel like it’s just going to make me sad and fill me with longing and even more frustration. I want to experience the potential and possibility but not the frustration that we aren’t there yet. 

So, I’m bringing in Shabbat again and hoping I find the mental and emotional space to step back and find some peace and hope. 

And, here’s to more regular blogging here. It’s been far, far too long. Shabbat shalom!