Walking, talking and exploring the world

Bailey out and about and having a ball.

Bailey and I were making our way to my car recently, maneuvering our way through the garage packed with the stuff of life -- boxes of old clothes, and little used cooking utensils, tools, garden supplies and a flat screen TV that was fried during a recent storm.

As she wiggled her way between the car and a couple of dusty storage bins, Bailey muttered over her shoulder: This is a tight fit!"

She tossed out the words with a tiny exasperated sigh that had me chuckling for an instant. But I had to admit she was right. It was a tight fit! What I couldn't quite figure out, however, is when and where in her very short life had she managed to pick up the phrase "tight fit" and learn to use it correctly.

To put this all in context, consider: I took two years of Spanish in high school and two quarters of German in  college. I also lived in Germany for 15 months, working closely with locals on a NATO base that also employed a handful of officers from Italy, Belgium and France.

Given my years of study and living abroad, it might seem likely that I was trilingual, certainly bilinqual, right? Au contraire mom ami! Truth to tell, about the only phrases I recall from my scholarly and experiential efforts are the oh-so useful queries, "Habla Español?" and, that's right, "Sprechen sie Deutsch?"

I absolutely had no idea all those years ago -- and certainly not now -- how to say "This is a tight fit" in German or Spanish. So, exactly what sort of magic are Bailey and other toddlers using to learn how to talk?

Mom and Dad cuddling with Bailey.

Anyone whose spent time around a baby knows that one of the grand joys of life is watching an infant grow and mature. The talking begins with cooing around the second month and quickly morphs into babbling about four months later.

By the time a baby celebrates their first birthday there's a really good chance they're talking gibberish -- and that's a good thing! Over the next several months they start using a few familiar words -- mama, dada, Cookie Monster, string theory! Okay, the physics reference is stretching the point; but only a year or so later, about the time the infant is blowing out two candles on their birthday cake, they know 50 or so words and managing to correctly use two-word phrases.

And then they're off to the races.

Bailey is 30 months young now, a bundle of endless energy that comes gleefully wrapped with an infectious smile and a crown of curly hair. Like most toddlers her age she's hit that maddening stage of life -- the terrible twos -- when her wants are much more important than her needs.

The fascinating part of all of this is the language thing -- I'm convinced that it really is magic -- plus her boundless curiosity about all those things that we jaded adults take for granted.

Kodak moment: Bailey, Bubbe and Pops at Shabbat sing

That means that both Bailey and I -- her parents and Bubbe; her fraternal grandparents, Janice and Steve; preschool teachers and extended family and friends -- are occasionally frustrated as she explores the world and wants to know, well, everything.

Her favorite phrase right now is "What's that?" My answers as we venture about, include: A leaf, a cloud, the moon, a car, a sign, an ant, the mailman, a rock, a bigger rock, a chocolate sundae with whipped cream, nuts, sprinkles and a cherry on top!

The good news is our mutual frustration turns to joy and amazement most days when Bailey, with little fanfare, hands me a leaf and announces that it is, in fact, a leaf; that she lets me know when it's time to go home and tells me to put her in the "car", then points out the clouds that fill the sky and the moon resting on the darkening horizon.

Meanwhile, the wonder of watching Bailey become Bailey can be found in a little vignette that played out earlier this week. She was spending the night with Wendy and me and we had just finished up the initial steps of preparing for bed: Fresh diaper, into pjs, books selected and read, then read a second time.

We were methodically working our way through stage two of the process, making sure her dolls, blankets, "lovies" and pillows were all in her crib and properly placed when, unprompted and delightfully, she began quietly singing the "Shema"! Those of you still with me and not a member of the tribe, just accept my word that this is a Jewish thing akin to saying your prayers before going to sleep.

Bailey finished up the little nightly ritual, then hugged me and her Bubbe tightly before snuggling under her blankets and waving us out the door.

Another day older, another day wiser, another day filled with love. Bailey had a good day, too. Oh, it also turns out she's bilingual. Bailey chanted the Shema, after all, in Hebrew!

Bar Mitzvah in Boulder a Rocky Mountain high

Snow-capped peaks, crystal-clear lake at RMNP.

I was out west recently, in and around Boulder mostly, for a fun and festive weekend. The focus of the trip can pretty much be summed up with a joke. Four middle-aged Jews from Atlanta found themselves in an SUV with a Reconstructionist rabbi, high atop a mountain, after it began to rain.

Here's the punchline. When the storm passed we all made our way to a nearby amphitheater with a million-dollar view and took part in my grand-nephew Josh's Bar Mitzvah, a delightful and emotionally satisfying affair.

Truth to tell, the entire weekend was memorable. It began with dozens of friends and family winging their way to Denver, then spending a few days exploring the ups and downs of the region -- it's not called "Rocky Mountain High" for nothing! A few hearty souls headed south to Pike's Peak and the Garden of the Gods; others journeyed north to Estes Park and Rocky Mountain National Park.

The trekkers zigged and zagged their way around hairpin turns and staggering vertical inclines that topped out at over 15,000 feet or so. They were rewarded with breathtaking vistas filled with snow-topped mountain peaks and verdant meadows, the occasional antelope and squadrons of marmots.

The less adventurous -- that would be me and the always lovely Miss Wendy, my brother Gary and his wife JoAnn -- stayed busy checking out the hippie vibe of Boulder and the nearby community of Louisville, the Bar Mitzvah boy's hometown and a community often found on lists of the best places to live in the U.S.because of its schools, historic downtown and 1,800 acres of open space.

We wandered about the foothills outside both communities and visited the restaurants, coffee shops, retails stores and boutiques that filled the downtown areas. We serendipitously stumbled across a Jewish festival that drew a thousand or so folks to the Pearl Street Market, a happening pedestrian Mall in Boulder and even managed to make it out to Celestial Seasonings' factory for a tour and tasting of the company's iconic herb-infused teas. Little known fact: There's no actual "tea" in most of Celestial Seasonings herb-infused teas.Go figure!

Amy (l-r), Josh, Rabbi Yitzhak Nates and Greg 

But I digress. We eventually made it to Josh's Bar Mitzvah -- even got a tiny taste of the mountain scenery, both its joys and thrills -- high atop a peak, at the end of a long and twisting road.

I like to think of the pristine setting we discovered, at least on this day, as the "Shul of the Great Outdoors," an amphitheater chiseled out of rock, overlooking Boulder and the campus of the university of Colorado.

Mother Nature, unfortunately, wasn't cooperating -- at least initially. She greeted us with cloudy skies, falling temperatures and a petulant drizzle. We found comfort -- and the Reconstructionist rabbi -- in our rental car; spent a few moments saying howdy and playing Jewish geography, then collectively prayed for a miracle.

Someone was listening. The rain stopped, the sky cleared and 150 or so guests made themselves comfy as Rabbi Yitzchak Nates offered up a warm welcome and began the service.

I've attended hundreds of B'nai Mitzvot over the years, many of them featuring production values rivaling those found on Broadway, others filled with the sort of attention to detail and precision performances you might witness on the stage at Carnegie Hall. Some of these coming-of-age services and parties were joyful and uplifting, some felt spiritually adrift and emotionally flat. 

Josh's Bar Mitzvah was unique, sort of a jazzy riff on Judaism that -- at least metaphorically -- could have easily found a home in Newport or New Orleans; a laid-back affair that touched all the bases in a soft and gentle fashion. It left me feeling spiritually centered and emotionally enriched.

The Bar Mitzvah boy and his parents, Amy and Greg, set the tone at the late-afternoon gathering, standing together on a makeshift bima, sharing the instant when Josh stepped into manhood as he was called to the Torah. It was an emotional moment and the setting was perfect.

The sky had turned a pale blue as the sun began its slow descent behind a massive range of mountains. Mother Nature, perhaps chastened by her earlier misstep, offered up a double rainbow that spilled across the horizon, a cosmic apology that touched my heart. 

That's not to say all was perfect. Some family health and relationship issues had most everyone in a melancholy and reflective mood. A "white elephant" was stomping about the amphitheater and it took a couple of youngsters to quiet the beast.

Special gift from Mother Nature

The Torah portion touched on Moses stepping up and doing the right thing, being both courageous and fearless when called by God. Yitz -- that would be Rabbi Nates -- asked if anyone could recall such a moment in their own lives.

My first thought was, "bad move, rabbi! Nobody is going to stand up in front of a bunch of strangers and bare their souls." I was wrong.

After a moment, a boy stepped out, introduced himself, then set about telling us of his battle with leukemia when he was a baby. Ian mentioned how tough the disease had been on his family; details about hospital visits and medical miracles and his fight to stay alive. He not only won the battle, but the war; and now he was here on this day, with Josh, happy to be alive!

A second boy, Dylan, then took center stage. He took yet another whack at the elephant when he announced that his parents had divorced several years earlier. Life, he made clear, had changed for him but, after a time, he came to understand that there simply was a new normal, that life continued and it could be good. After all, he said, he now was friends with Josh.

I don't know the Hebrew word for "grace", but I'm pretty sure I felt it after these two brave kids opened their hearts.

The ceremony was drawing to a close when Yitz called up a dozen or so of Josh's friends, all members of their school's choir. I expected them to close the service with the traditional singing of "Eyn Keyloheynu". Silly me!

In keeping with the tenor of the service and the afternoon, the kids found a much more meaningful and jazzy fashion to end the Bar Mitzvah, offering up a memorable rendition of Bill Wither's 1972 hit, "Lean on Me"!

It was rousing and delightful, a great way -- on this day, in this place -- to add an exclamation point to a perfect ceremony. It was also a nice reminder that sometimes in our lives, despite pain and sorrow, "We know that there's always tomorrow"!

Passover bittersweet reminder of our ancient roots

I see ghosts at my Passover Seders. Many of them are key players in the ancient story Jews recall each spring, detailing the miraculous journey of the Children of Israel from slavery to freedom.

Their names – Jacob and Joseph, Moses and Miriam – have become part of Western culture, and their story remains a moving testament to the transcendent power of faith. But there are others who linger lightly in the air, spirits who fill me with melancholy and loss.

In years past, I've seen them flitting about as my wife, Wendy, busies herself setting the holiday table, breaking open the first boxes of matzo, grating a snowy layer of egg over a sculpted mound of chopped liver.

I spot them again as the guests arrive – my daughter and son-in-law, one of my brothers and his wife and children, a friend from my synagogue and a stranger, new to the city and with nowhere to go for the holidays.

My friends and family always spend a few minutes saying hello, catching up with all that is new at work and at home, slowly finding their spots around the table. There's the muffled scraping of chairs across carpeting, the tinkling of glasses and silverware, the rustle of linen napkins. And then, just like the first few seconds before the opening of any major performance, an expectant hush falls over the room.

My wife stands and lights a pair of candles. She slowly moves her arms above the flames and buries her face in her hands, whispering a prayer that "commands us to kindle the light of the festival day." The flickering light of the candles casts shadows across the room, and I momentarily lose myself in the vast sweep of time we're about to explore in the Seder.

I reach for a nearby Haggadah, the special book of psalms, stories and songs for Passover, and begin to read. And for a brief moment my words become the echoed words of others. The ghosts have returned.

There's my great-grandfather, living in a modest home in the Pale of Settlements outside Minsk, Belarus, his family spread about him at a vast wooden table. There's my grandfather, who joined tens of thousands of other Jews from across Eastern Europe and made his way to America around the turn of the 20th century.

And there's my mother and father, first-generation Americans who came of age during the depression and World War II.

For an instant their voices join together, a euphonic blend of the ancient and old, all retelling the story their fathers had told to them. So it's with a lump in my throat that I begin, repeating the opening lines of the Exodus tale that had been repeated to me.

"And there arose up a new king over Egypt, who knew not Joseph. . . ."

Many Jews – the unaffiliated, the secular, the indifferent – know little about Joseph and even less about Passover. Yet many of them attend family and community Seders. Maybe it's because of the food. Maybe it's a way to connect with friends. Maybe it's the tug of their personal ghosts. Or maybe they understand that it's important each year to listen to an ancient story and hear once again that freedom is never to be taken for granted, always to be cherished.

This year I’ll be celebrating the first night of Passover at the home of friends. Wendy and I will be hosting the second night Seder at our house. Both events will be filled with the rituals, traditions, food and song that define the holiday experience and I Know I’ll be on familiar ground each night. After all, my ghosts travel with me.

Life, Death and Noah Pozner

Noah Pozner was the youngest of the 20 youngsters who

died at Sandy Hook Elementary School earlier this month.

He turned six in late Novemeber and was in the First Grade.

I was out and about on a recent Sunday morning, walking on a trail that snuggled up closely to the Chattahoochee River just West of Roswell Road in North Atlanta. The sky was a cloudless, achingly beautiful deep blue and a stiff wind had me hunched over, pulling the collar of my jacket up around my neck and ears to stay warm.

My daughter Lauren was at my side. Now that she’s married, working and staying busy with the large and small stuff of life, we don’t have as much time to spend together as we once did.

That’s not to say we don’t see one another. There are family meals and holidays gatherings; day trips and occasional shared vacations; phone calls, e-mails and, when the weather is reasonably nice and our schedules mesh, walks along the river.

It was during our most recent stroll, as we wandered passed joggers and bikers, couples and families, that I started thinking about Noah. The thoughts were troubling and, for a moment or so, the morning grew dark and melancholy.

Noah Pozner, as some of you might recall, was the youngest of the 26 victims killed in the Sandy Hook Elementary School massacre in Newtown, Conn. a few weeks ago. He had just turned six in November and, like all of the other children murdered at the school, was in the first grade.

All these youngsters were precious souls; innocent girls and boys filled with laughter, life and endless potential. But there was something special about Noah, something familiar that had him resting uneasily in my mind. After all, he was Jewish.

As the horror played out endlessly on television, across the web on news sites and in my daily paper, I started spotting video and photos of men with kippot, some wearing tzitzit, black hats and other such garb.

One of the first people on the scene, offering comfort and a few details of the tragedy, was Rabbi Shaul Praver of Temple Adath Israel in Newtown. It would later turn out that the Pozners were members of his congregation.

And, of course, as the funerals began, Noah was one of the first to be buried. Yet again there was a sense of the familiar hovering about the cemetery as stunned family and friends observed the ancient rituals of Judaism and said their goodbyes.

"I told the mother that was grieving that I personally believe in the eternity of the soul, and I believe that she will see her son again," Praver told the Jewish Telegraphic Agency (JTA). He added that he isn’t focusing too much on the cosmic and grand these days; that mostly he thinks it important to show compassion, to hold and hug and cry with the bereaved.

The compassion and hugging and crying were all part of the scene as I watched the final moments of the funeral unfold on TV. There seemed to be a collective wail and sigh when the chazzan offered up the anguished words of El Malei Rachamim: O G-d, full of mercy … grant proper rest on the wings of the Divine Presence … for the soul of Noah!

It was the melancholy tune and words of the memorial prayer that seemed to be on an endless loop in my mind as I walked with my own precious daughter the other day. You see, what I was having trouble pushing aside was the painful reality that the Pozner family wouldn’t be spending time with Noah ever again.

There would be no family meals, holiday gatherings, day trips or vacations with the bright and active youngster; no watching him grow and mature; no tomorrows.

As Noah’s small casket was lowered into the ground, the veil we know little about was being slowly pulled aside. One journey was ending. Another was beginning.

Just a few days earlier and a few miles away in a small school house in a little village in Connecticut, there had been 26 gentle souls that now seemed lost and gone. But where? I’ll leave such metaphysical musings to the poets and philosophers among us.

But this much I know is true. At least part of Noah’s soul now rests in the hearts of all those who loved him. The rest, I like to think, is making its way to a place where pain and misery don’t exist, light and love fill the world and innocent children spend their time laughing and chasing butterflies across lush green meadows.

 

Zikh-ronah liv-rakha … may Noah’s memory be for a blessing. Amen.

Holocaust Memorial both melancholy and uplifting

Hank, Bob and Allan work on memorial at Etz Chaim

When God was handing out the handyman genes, I was still in the line for hair. Glance at my profile mug and you can see how well that worked out for me. I mention this now because I decided to take my bald noggin and defective handyman genes down to my neighborhood shul earlier this week to help pull together a new Holocaust Memorial Garden.

Fortunately, Hank N., master carpenter and handyman extraordinaire, is handling the heavy lifting for Etz Chaim’s Men’s Club, the group that has taken on the project of updating and retooling the memorial. It’s all part of an expansive renovation to expand and beautify the front entrance, foyer and office area of the synagogue.

The original memorial garden included some interesting and memorable items – cobblestones from the Warsaw Ghetto and railroad tracks that had once spilled into one of the death camps in Eastern Europe. These iconic bits will remain a featured part of the new garden, while most everything else has been demolished and whisked away.

Through the creative work of Allan S., Etz Chaim’s own personal landscape architect, I’m thinking the new garden is going to manage to be both melancholy and uplifting – recalling the past while honoring the Jews and others who suffered and died at the hands of the Nazis.

The entire area has been scrubbed clean and warmed up with new landscaping. Concrete flooring has been replaced with pavers and the entire garden is set against a startling new fence, eerily echoing the harsh reality that defined the Holocaust. Nearby, an eternal light will keep watch, offering up a warm glow and reminder that the Six Million will never be forgotten.

With the help of Men’s Club officers and members – Barry, Johnny, Jeff and Joe – and the creative and speedy work of Allan and Hank, the new and updated Holocaust Memorial Garden will be finished by the High Holidays. It will be officially dedicated in November on the Anniversary of Kristallnacht.

I’m thinking she’s not worried about muggers

My friend Malka snapped this photo recently of a teenager getting some cash at an ATM in Jerusalem. Truth to tell, the assault weapon is just about as common here as the ubiquitous jeans and camisole she’s wearing, just a little accessory that brings out the highlights in her hair!

Most Americans visiting Israel for the first time are caught a bit off guard by all the weapons carted about by IDF troops, many like this oh-so young woman in civilian clothes. It all seems so alien to the way we live our lives in the land of the free and the home of the brave. In the Jewish homeland it’s part of everyday life!

Soldiers are responsible for their weapons, even when off-duty, and often have nowhere to stash them. So they carry them on errands, when visiting friends or out for a casual drink. It’s not at all uncommon to spot a guy or girl in a bathing suit, strolling along the Mediterranean with friends, an M-14 slung casually over their shoulders.

If you happen to be at one of the central bus stations in Jerusalem, Tel Aviv or Haifa on a Sunday morning – the beginning of the work week in Israel – then you’ll have a chance to see just how much weaponry is actually in circulation in this tiny nation. I wasn’t around in the 1940s, but I’m thinking the coming and going of youngish troops, armed and smartly decked out in an array of colorful uniforms, is a mirror image of what the U.S. probably looked like during the dark days of World War II.

In Israel, troops returning to their duty bases can be spotted with Dror light machine guns, Uzi pistols and submachine guns; Galil assault rifles and the occasional high-powered sniper rifle; a wide range of handguns and, of course, the ubiquitous M-14s.

At first glance it might seem like the wild and wooly west has been reborn in the Middle East. And yet, after a moment or so, the weapons and soldiers seem a natural part of this place, just another interesting ingredient – along with Sabra wit, falafel, serpentine streets and mystical secrets – that makes Israel special.

So snap away at the teens and their assault rifles. You’ll find them most everywhere. They don’t seem to mind the candid camera hijinks of tourists and, truth to tell, all those weapons make Israel one of the safest countries in the world for visitors.

A final note: Here’s hoping that one day soon the weapons will disappear, along with all the reasons that make them necessary!

Shabbat in Jerusalem with friends, strangers

Sometimes a little creativity works out much better than tossing loads of money at a problem. That’s exactly what the energetic staff at Jerusalem’s Abraham Hostel have done when figuring out how best to pull together Shabbat dinner for their guests each week.

To understand the problem, you probably need to know that Jerusalem, both the capital and spiritual center of Israel, is one of the few places in the world that takes Shabbat seriously. The city essentially shuts down for the Jewish Sabbath, a period that stretches from Friday afternoon until three stars appear in the sky on Saturday evening.

That means if you’re a tourist you’ll have plenty of time to rest and relax; it also means that you’d better plan ahead if you want to eat on Friday night and throughout the day on Saturday. Just about everything in the city closes – retail stores, public transport, museums and theaters; restaurants, cafes, fast-food joints, mega-supermarkets and mom-and-pop groceries.

If you’re staying at one of Jerusalem’s luxury hotels you don’t need to worry. Generally along with the high-cost of your room, you’ll be wined and dined in fine style over the Sabbath. Most 5-star hotels offer up a smorgasbord of delights – soups, salads and fishy appetizers; beef, chicken and fish; veggies and baked goods; vintage wines and dessert! Needless to say, you won’t go hungry.

That’s not the case if you’re staying in a 3-star hotel or hostel. Most of these places provide a hearty – if limited – breakfast. Otherwise, plan ahead or fast; unless you’re booked into the Abraham Hostel. I stumbled across it online when planning my most recent trip to Israel. It looked interesting and the reviews were mostly good.

The price was certainly right – $20 for a bed in a dorm and $60 for a private room and bath. Once I figured out the location was just about perfect – it’s on Jaffa Street in the heart of the city, a block or so from the Jewish Market and the pedestrian mall on Ben Yehudah Street and an easy 10 minute walk from the central bus station – I decided to try it out.

Turns out you get what you pay for! When traveling solo I don’t mind roughing it a bit. I’ve stayed in 3-star hotels and the occasional hostel. The hotels, without exception, have always been fine – clean and neat, safe and affordable. The hostels have also been safe and very affordable; unfortunately, they’re generally a little seedy around the edges.

The Abraham Hostel was light, bright and filled with second-hand everything – furniture and floor coverings; dishes, glasses and plates; beds and bedding; towels and bathroom fixtures. The building was ancient and needed work. My room was tiny and featured a jarring blend of school dorm simplicity and jail-house practicality – two single beds (really cots) pushed together, harsh neon lighting and cheap wooden cabinets nailed to the walls; a small and shaky desk, nightstand and chair. There were two additional smallish rooms, one for the toilet and another for a shower. Functional is about the best I can say about the place.

There was a bright spot. The main gathering area – sort of the hostel’s ballroom – was on the second floor. It was expansive and included colorful sofas, chairs, bean bags and hammocks; a fully stocked bar and huge entertainment system; a dining area and public kitchen. It was here that everyone willing to pay out 35 shekels (about $9) came together for Shabbat dinner.

Lacking the funds to wine and dine their guests, the hostel’s management came up with the novel idea of pulling everyone together like a family. The staff would go out and purchase the food for dinner, but it would be the guests who, with a little help from the staff, would do most of the prep work and cooking.

So it was that a trickle of tourists from around the world began gathering in the kitchen area as Jerusalem started shutting down for Shabbat. We stood around, gazing about, waiting for instructions. Fresh veggies were spread across several tables and a few staffers handed out knives, bowls and other such stuff.

Before you could shout shalom, we were all slicing and dicing, sharing a bit about our background and chatting with one another about our latest adventures. The ice had been broken. The people at my work station were typical of the guests at the hostel – a guy from Canada, traveling through Israel as part of his college course work; a couple from Japan on holiday and a middle-aged woman from California visiting relatives. Well, you get the idea.

The prep work took about 30 minutes; then we had another hour or so to talk and meet up with friends. Did I mention there was drinking? As the sky turned dark and the first stars of Shabbat winked and twinkled across Jerusalem, we settled down for the evening meal. There were about 50 of us spread about the room – friends and strangers, young and not-so-young; Jews and Christians.

A youngish woman took a few minutes to detail the importance of Shabbat, offered some religious background and historical context, then lit the Sabbath candles. Another staffer said Kiddush, a traditional blessing thanking God for the “fruit of the vine,” and finished with a blessing over a loaf of challah.

Our work and the work of the staff had pulled together a feast – fresh veggies and fruit; rice, pasta and potatoes; chips, dips, bread and chicken! I’ve already mentioned there was drinking, right?

It was Shabbat and we were family, at least for the moment, sharing a special meal in a very special city. As I said at the start, sometimes the best way to deal with a problem is to hold onto your money and use a little creativity. The evening worked for me, something I’ll be remembering in coming months. Now I’m thinking the hostel’s bosses might want to capture some of their staff’s creativity and figure out how to use it to freshen up their property.  

Singing Hatikvah and finding hope in Israel

There is much still swirling around my noggin as I process the ups and downs of my most recent journey to Israel earlier this month. What lingers about at the moment is a very special happening during the first week of the trip as I transitioned yet again from flabby civilian to IDF volunteer. I’ll explain.

On this particular morning in early May, I joined with a group of volunteers from around the world – Australia and New  Zealand; Israel, France, Germany, Holland, Russia and Poland; the U.S. and Canada – shuffling about on an asphalt parade ground on a massive IDF base near Tel Aviv.

We were all volunteers for Sar-El, an organization that places people on IDF installations in Israel to help out as needed. Mostly the work is cosmically menial; but it’s work that needs to be done and it releases “real” soldiers to handle more important tasks.

Each morning after rolling out of our bunks in our oh-so spartan quarters, getting cleaned up and dressing in uniforms – yes, we wear IDF-issue outfits; how cool is that – dining on a hearty breakfast of hard-boiled eggs, cheeses, yogurt and all the tomatoes and cucumbers we can scarf down in 30 minutes, we join with a company of young solders for morning flag raising.

On this day, our madrichot – that would be Tamara and Eleanor, our guides and commanders – decide to take the morning ritual to a new level. We’ll not just heft the iconic blue and white banner of the Jewish state into the sky over Tel HaShomer, but also sing Hatikvah, the Israeli national anthem.

Hatikvah manages to be both uplifting and melancholy, an anthem that poetically speaks of hope and the Jewish soul, all wrapped up in a musical score of aching beauty. For most Jews, certainly those of us raised on the Zionist dream of a Jewish homeland, the melody rests lightly in our hearts and souls, easily recalled whenever the first mournful notes are played.

The problem is that the words are in Hebrew, a remarkably difficult language to learn – especially for foreign volunteers who are often older than Israel itself. It’s one thing to say hello, shalom, in Hebrew; it’s a bit more rigorous to recall and recite the sophisticated lyrics of the anthem.  

So while a few brave and bilingual volunteers begin singing, the rest of us stumble about, humming the tune and sounding off whenever the word Hatikvah is mentioned. Meanwhile, the company of regular soldiers nearby, young men and women drafted into the IDF and serving out their time as laborers, stare at us in bemused silence, trying to figure out why we’re singing their national anthem.

But like the country itself, there’s something contagious and endearing about Hatikvah, both the words and the melody. The silliness of the effort gradually morphed slowly into a grand effort, the mournful tune giving way to the stirring anthem that has sustained and unified the Jewish people for decades now.

Even some of the young troops are caught up in the moment as together we share the words of the poet Tali Herz Imber, “Our hope is not yet lost, The hope of two thousand years, To be a free people in our land, The land of Zion and Jerusalem.”

I can’t help but think that on this day, if only in a very small way, I’m part of the ancient promise, first whispered to Abraham; a vision that is no longer simply a hope, but today a reality.

Where in the world is Nor Grebnief off to now?

I’ve been checking out my packing list for an upcoming trip to Israel. Clothes and toiletries; that would be check and check! Camera, iPod and Kindle; check, check and check! Passport, airplane ticket, cash and credit card; check, check, check and check!

I’m good to go, it would seem. Oh, wait, almost forgot to detail the really important stuff – sheets, pillow case and towels; laundry bag, detergent, clothes pins and hangars; flashlight, extra batteries and snacks! No, I’m not headed off to summer camp, although the spartan quarters that I’ll be calling home for much of my stay in Israel could easily pass for a kid’s retreat.

I’m taking part yet again in a volunteer program, Sar-El, that will have me living and working on an army base – if I broke the rules and told you exactly where, both you and I would be getting a visit from a beefy Mossad agent!

Instead, I’ll simply report that I’ll be kept busy doing pretty much whatever I’m asked to handle – sorting, packing, cleaning, painting or any other specialized tasks that I’m uniquely qualified to handle. On the weekends I’ll be free to travel around the country and already have plans to visit Tel Aviv, Jerusalem and Zichron Yaakov – a lovely little village nestled against the Mediterranean, just south of Haifa. I’m thinking there will be drinking!

Sar-El has been around for decades, created to provide volunteers for the IDF so the real soldiers are free to handle important stuff – wars, uprisings, protests; you know, defending Israel for you and me. Truth to tell, I’m not thinking too much about politics or existential threats to the Jewish homeland when I’m busying pulling weeds or sorting medical equipment on an IDF base.

The why for trekking half-way around the globe would take way too much time to explain; but the short version would have to include meeting and working with other like-minded folks from around the world. Sar-El also provides an opportunity to get way outside the tourist bubble and enjoy a reasonably up close and personal relationship with the soldiers and civilians who call this country home.

Oh, there’s also the serpentine streets that wind about the Old City of Jerusalem and the oh-so cosmopolitan vibe of Tel Aviv; splendid sunsets over the Mediterranean and million-shekel views from Haifa; the ancient secrets of Sfat and moving history of Masada. Did I mention there would be drinking? Why, yes, I think I did!

There are also modern delights and spiritual experiences to be had, including world-class hummus, shawarma and rugelach! But I digress. The bottom line – and I’ve reported this before – I’ve met people who’ve traveled to Israel and had bad moments, but never met anyone who had a bad trip. Stay tuned; I’ll be right back!

Matzo, chopped liver, family and friends

I just nibbled away another bagel, my creative way of ridding the house of chametz. While the lovely Miss Wendy and Lauren schmaltzified a batch of chicken livers, then ground the mixture into a thick puree – chopped liver, anyone – I scoured about for bits of bread.

All this effort is a holiday tradition, getting ready for that most wonderful time of year – Passover. We’ll be trekking down south this year, wandering about like our ancient ancestors thousands of years ago. They fled Egypt and make it to Canaan, the Promised Land. We’re hoping to make it to Jacksonville.

We’ll be schlepping a few boxes of matzo, a container of chopped liver, Passover soda, pasta and cereal; holiday cakes, cookies and pies! Most of these goodies look lovely and sweet and taste like cardboard. That’s what happens when you attempt to de-chametz food products that should include flour and yeast. Trust me here; it’s a Jewish thing!

It’s all part of Passover, a week of ritual and suffering, recalling the struggles of the ancient Hebrews. At least God was good enough to provide them with Manna. In our oh-so modern world, we get macaroons, sweet wine, airy desserts, matzo-coated everything and, ultimately, constipation.

We also get a chance to spend time with family and friends, connect with our unique and distant past; figure out yet again how we’re all connected and where we fit in this crazy world that’s constantly changing and moving at light speed.

I’m thinking that’s why Passover remains one of the most observed Jewish holidays; okay, that and the chocolate-covered matzo. You know what else everybody likes? Parfaits! Have you ever met a person, you say, “Let’s get some parfait,” they say, “Hell no, I don’t like no parfait”? Parfaits are delicious.

But, ahh, I digress. I’ll simply finish by wishing all my Jewish family and friends Chag Sameach; my Christian friends Happy Easter; and everyone else – that would be you, Bill – a wonderful weekend and that we all live long and prosper!

A Jewish film festival for the ganze mishpacha!

It’s that time of year again and the lovely Miss Wendy and I are well positioned to set personal records for most films attended at next month’s Atlanta Jewish Film Festival. There are still a few weeks before the annual fest airs its first movie, but we’ve studied the schedule and already purchased tickets for a bunch of stuff – that’s official movie talk for narratives and documentaries.

The really good news is film fest officials have decided that there’s apparently an audience for what they’re offering in the northern suburbs, significantly increasing the number of films to be aired this year in my little corner of the world. The even better news is that one of the selected theaters is only a hop, skip and a short jump from my house.

The movie marathon, at least for Wendy and me, begins with “Wunderkinder”, a German film that focuses on the friendship of three musical prodigies; their passion for music and efforts to remain connected – and alive – after the Nazis invade their homeland.

Over several weeks – the festival begins on Feb. 8 and runs through the end of the month – we’ll be sitting back and enjoying entries from Israel, France, Germany and the U.S.; comedies, dramas and a few documentaries.

One of the highlights worth mentioning is “This Is Sodom”, a bit of comedy fluff from Israel that has attracted huge audiences in the Jewish homeland. It’s being touted as a raucous and bawdy flick in the best tradition of Monty Python and Mel Brooks.

I’m thinking I’ll be bumping into several of my neighbors and oh-so many Members of the Tribe during the run of the festival, all out and about for a little fun and distraction. That’s because event officials have found a magic formula.

The secret? Festival organizers manage each year to offer up a way for Jews of all stripes – those who believe absolutely in the laws of Moses and those who mostly believe in lox and bagels – to come together as a community; a cultural happening that taps into our collective souls.

But if you’re hoping to be part of this happening, you best hurry. Tickets are selling out fast. For additional information and to purchase tickets, just Google Atlanta Jewish Film Festival or click right HERE! No need to thank me. As another blogging friend often says, I’m just a sharing kind of person.

Holidays often the most confusing time of year

Blogger's note: Instead of thrashing about a bit and coming up with yet another Hanukkah posting, I've decided to reach back into my vault of golden goodies and reprint my holiday offering from last year. Chag Sameach!

The search for meaning is a constant struggle. Around this time of year, when days grow short, nights long, and the world seems to overflow with things of the spirit and holiday cheer, such philosophical concerns become even a greater problem for some.

Unable to capture just what it is they believe, many people thrash about a bit, taking a little of this and a little of that. They close their eyes and shrug their shoulders, and mostly come up with a whole bunch of nothing.

Such efforts generally are of little import. A person looks, explores, and comes up empty. Maybe next year. No wonder people suffer from holiday depression. They eventually grab hold of only the superficial elements, ignoring the transcendent beauty and wonder to be found during this, um, most wonderful time of the year.

Occasionally all this effort runs amok. In the rush to belong, to understand, and feel good about who and what they are, people sometime forget that ritual and belief need to have something meaningful at its core.

Several years ago, when I was getting paid to write and still worked for that place with a printing press, I received a publicity kit for a new children's book, "Blintzes for Blitzen." I tossed it atop a growing pile of letters, bulletins, books and press releases, planning to study it when I got a moment.

As Hanukkah neared – btw, the eight-day Jewish festival begins this evening – I remembered the colorful cover that featured a drawing of a reindeer and a Menorah, and dug out the promotional material.

At first glance, "Blintzes For Blitzen" seemed to be just another holiday offering; a cute, brightly illustrated children's book that explored the beliefs of two dramatically different religions, capturing the seasonal cheer and worth of both.

But it became clear, very quickly, that mostly this book was filled with a discordant mishmash of this and that, devoid of meaning, message, or cosmic belief.

That the story is moronic – something about one of Santa's reindeer, Blitzen, stumbling across the house of Bernie the deli owner, who is busy making blintzes for Hanukkah – only reinforces the notion that nothing of lasting worth is being offered.

The motives of the book's publisher, MixedBlessing, seem noble enough. "The book blends the traditions of Christmas and Hanukkah into a heartwarming tale of discovery and joy," the publishers write, and is aimed at the "growing number of interfaith families."

Phooey! Raising children of faith is a difficult problem these days. Helping them understand the wonder and beauty of different traditions is a worthwhile undertaking. But trying to blend the disparate traditions of Christmas and Hanukkah is a mistake that honors no one.

Hanukkah has nothing to do with Christmas. Christmas has nothing to do with Hanukkah. Placing a Star of David atop a Christmas tree might seem like a good idea that offers a message of understanding and tolerance. But it trivializes the holidays for those who take their religion seriously, lacks any depth of meaning or transcendent worth and confounds and confuses the brightest of children.

The search for meaning and faith is a struggle that involves understanding who you are and your place in the world. Coming to such belief might begin as an exercise of intellect – a product of the mind – but ultimately finds a resting spot in the heart and soul.

Standing off in the distance and appreciating the beauty of the holiday season is okay. I got no problem with anyone enjoying Christmas Carols and Hanukkah lights, sharing festive meals and handing out gifts to family and friends. It's when some folks try to smoosh everything together, creating Hanukkah bushes and Christmas menorahs, that the season grows bizarre, silly and meaningless.

Hanukkah and Christmas aren't just words, devoid of meaning. Both holidays offer something special for those who are interested in hearing the message. But there's a price that must be paid to appreciate the holidays as anything more than one-dimensional, festive happenings. You have to figure out what you believe and make a choice.

Healing, redemption and absolute stupidity

It’s Friday, time yet again for another posting of Interesting Jewish Stories and Facts. Today we visit Israel and open up a can of worms.

There are about 13 million Jews in the world today. For all sorts of reasons, only about a third are affiliated with synagogues. That means that two-thirds of the people who identify as being Jewish know little about the religion, its ancient laws, rituals and beliefs.

Meshulam Nahari is one of the reasons many Jews have no desire to join the faithful. He’s the leader of Shas, a political party in Israel that represents the Heredim, the ultra-orthodox in the Jewish homeland. He’s a nut.

His nuttiness made headlines recently when he lashed out at Gilad Shalit (photo above) for spending time with his father at the beach. Nahari thinks Gilad, the Israeli soldier who was kidnapped and held by Palestinian terrorists for over five years, should have been in shul on the first Shabbat after his release by Hamas.

Gilad, like the vast majority of Israeli Jews, isn't religious. He wasn’t observant before he was kidnapped and apparently his years of captivity hasn’t turned him into a shokeling believer – trust me here if you’re not a Member of the Tribe; it’s a Jewish thing.

The absolute gall and complete lack of sensitivity by Nahari is just the sort of nonsense you’d expect from a fundamentalist wacko. But it gets worse – or better, depending on your sense of whimsy!

The minister without portfolio, who spoke during a Shas convention earlier this week, said that the party's spiritual leader, Rabbi Ovadia Yosef, has charged him (Nahari) with the task of bringing Shalit closer to Judaism.

That’s a juicy bit of news I spotted on a blog recently and verified on an Israeli wire service, Ynet. I’m thinking Nahari, Rabbi Yosef and Shas have a little fence mending to do before they’re going to manage to show Gilad the light.

I’m also thinking that after spending five years in a hole, away from family and friends, suffering an assortment of physical and emotional problems, that God was smiling when he spotted Gilad with his dad at the beach.

Fundamentalists, no matter their religious affiliation, are convinced God only spends time in their particular house of worship, probably focused on their individual pew. They’re wrong and they’re sucking the spiritual life out of Judaism.

Here’s an idea. Just maybe Nahari and some of his followers ought to be spending more time on the beach. They might be surprised what they discover in the Synagogue of the great outdoors.

Gilad is home, back with his family in Israel

Gilad Shalit is home. After being held for over five years by Palestinian thugs, the young soldier was released to Israeli authorities today and quickly reunited with his family.

There is much to be thankful for – Gilad is alive. There is much to be angry about – a 1,000 or so terrorists will be freed over the next month, all part of a deal made with the devil that seems bizarrely out of whack. Such is life in the Middle East!

For a moment let’s push all the maneuvering, the wasted years and fear, the politics of the region aside and focus on the gentle scene of light and love captured in the photo above. Take a second and share the joy of Noam Shalit embracing his son; a moment that finally ends a nightmare that has lingered for 1,941 days.

For anyone with children, anyone with a heart, it’s clear that a measure of grace surrounds both Gilad and Noam; their lives are no longer on hold, hope has been rekindled in a world once gray and the future seems bright.

Bibi, that would be Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, stands nearby. He wears a smile and I can only imagine what he’s thinking. Certainly there’s a sense of joy and elation, perhaps a momentary feeling of victory.

The dark stuff – the deals and compromises to make this day happen, the problems already casting shadows on the borders around Israel – can wait for a bit. Today let’s celebrate with Gilad, Noam and Bibi. One of our sons has returned to the warm embrace of his family. Gilad is alive and well and, in the words of psalmist, my cup runneth over!

The Heebs among us; and happy New Year!

The lovely Miss Wendy and I are deep into home remodeling mode at the moment. Our collective wish list includes updating the kitchen, adding crown molding in the living and dining rooms, ripping down wallpaper in the foyer and breakfast nook and adding a few fresh coats of paint from, ah, here to there.

We’re also planning to replace the wooden siding that has lovingly caressed our castle with a happening new covering – HardiePlank. It’s a move, we’re hoping, that should add value to our home while protecting us from the elements for years to come!

So it was that a salesman from one of those mega-home construction firms came knocking at my door this morning. He was big, burly and filled with good cheer. He introduced himself, made a little small talk about the Falcons and Braves, then asked where I was from.

I mentioned that I had lived in the Land of Cotton for decades, but grew up a hundred miles south of here in a little village nestled along the Chattahoochee River just this side of the Alabama border.

“Didn’t know there were any Heebs around these parts,” he said. Ah, right. Check please!

For a moment I felt like I had tumbled down Alice’s rabbit hole in some sort of alternative universe where up was down and down was up. We both continued talking, the sales guy detailing the merits of HardiePlank, me mostly nodding my noggin in a distracted fashion.

The anti-Semitic blip continued to echo in the background as we walked around the house, checking out gutters and soffits, discussing various options for updating and beautifying the house. Mr. Sales Guy took a few measurements, called for a timeout and played around with a calculator in his van before presenting me with a formal bid.

He spent a few moments talking up the merits of his company, wished me a grand day and said goodbye. Five minutes after he’d left, all I recalled of the visit was his belief that there weren’t any “Heebs” living in the Land of Cotton.

For the next hour I tried to make sense of what he’d said. Did he really say what I thought I’d heard – was he serious; was he joking; was he a raving anti-Semite hiding out in the burbs? Then I spent another hour playing out how I should have responded. That conversation usually began with “beg your pardon” and ended with me showing him the door!

Finally, I simply picked up the phone and called him. I explained there was something he’d said when we first met that was troubling me, then outlined the bit of small talk we shared. When I asked if he recalled his comment after I mentioned growing up in the South, there was a moment of dead silence, then a whispered “oops!”

What was the Heeb thing all about, I asked, and Mr. Sales Guy revealed that, well, ah, he was also Jewish! Strained laughter, then he offered a rush of words – silly, stupid, unprofessional, sorry, strange sense of humor.

We both chuckled, then played a little Jewish geography before he apologized yet again. Just after saying our goodbyes and just before hanging up the phone, Mr. Sales Guy-itz added, “Happy New Year.”

And so it is – now !

One good reason to observe High Holidays

I received an e-mail solicitation yesterday and was just about to tap the delete button when I noticed it was from Yad Vashem, the world-class Holocaust Museum in Israel. They were asking for money and sharing a story. It’s a story worth repeating and remembering as many of us prepare to observe the Jewish High Holidays in coming days.

Naftali Stern visited Yad Vashem on Yom Hashoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day, in 1978. He had a gift, a few pieces of crinkled paper filled with Hebrew prayers. It was a precious gift, something he had created years earlier when the world had gone momentarily mad and a little light was needed to brighten the darkness.

In the spring of 1944, Naftali, his wife and four children were swallowed up by the Holocaust, arrested in their little village of Satu Mare in Romania and deported to Auschwitz. His family was murdered when they arrived at the Nazi death camp in Poland and Naftali was shipped off to a forced labor camp in Germany.

He was depressed and alone, each moment filled with memories of all that was lost. His world had become a nightmare – little food, no shelter, brutal guards and backbreaking work digging tunnels and trenches around German fortifications.

Surrounded by misery, a vague and distant memory took root in Naftali’s mind. The days were growing shorter and there was a slight chill in the air. Something stirred inside his heart and Naftali recalled that soon it would be Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year. Many would have easily pushed that thought aside, buried it along with their families, neighbors and villages.

Naftali clung to the thought; a very small light in a very gray world. He sold a bit of the food he received one day for a pencil, sold a bit more and managed to purchase some sacks that had once held cement. He ripped the sacks into small squares then slowly began to write the entire Rosh Hashana service.

Perhaps it was simply something that was meant to be. If not, why then did the thugs running the labor camp allow Naftali and other inmates to hold a short service? It was Naftali, of course, the chazzan in his little village shul, that led services that holiday season, his sweet voice chanting the words he had scrawled from memory.

For three decades – years after being liberated, starting a new family and immigrating to Israel – Naftali held onto his special mahzor, bringing it out on Rosh Hashana to both mourn and celebrate his life and faith. Three months after he donated the document to Yad Vashem, Naftali died.

It was okay. He knew that his special mahzor – time worn and frayed, created with love for a people and faith – would be protected. Now, three decades later, it remains on display at the museum.

Over the next several days, during Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur, as you struggle with the liturgy and ancient beliefs of Judaism – trying to make sense of the inexplicable – recall Naftali, his story and his final words.

“I pray,” he told Yad Vashem officials, “that each subsequent generation will stay true to their Jewish identity and be a link in a long chain.”

It seems to me, if nothing else, simply sitting in shul will honor Naftali’s prayer. That's a good thing. I'll worry about figuring out the more cosmic issues next year. L'Shanah Tovah Tikatevu; May we all be inscribed and sealed for a good year.

Video offers fun way to approach holidays

It’s Friday, time yet again for another posting of Interesting Jewish Stories & Facts. Today, let’s sing our way into the High Holidays.
Don’t look now, but Rosh Hashana is only a week away. That means the days are growing shorter, the nights cooler and The Fountainheads have released another delightful video celebrating the Jewish New Year.

The artistic troupe, a group of young Israeli dancers, singers, actors and artists, are all students or graduates of the Ein Prat Academy for Leadership. The goal of the non-profit is to create a new Israeli-Jewish identity and build a strong and diverse community that celebrates Jewish life.

That’s the sort of formal mission statement you might find on the organization’s website. Okay, that’s exactly the sort of statement you’ll find on the group’s homepage at www.bogrim.org. You’ll also spot their new video, Dip Your Apple. You can check it out right HERE.

It starts off with a blast; a loud and wailing note from a shofar, spilling off across a distant landscape. Then a talented group of young performers take center stage, backed up by a pounding and spirited musical beat. In just a few seconds you’ll probably be tapping your tootsies and thinking it’s time to figure out what you’ll be wearing at services next week.

Hopefully the easily digestible lyrics will also have you thinking about how best to change your life to embrace the coming year.

“A New Year’s rising, a new beginning; lift your head up, turn yourself around, the world is spinning; fill the magic of a new day, open your heart to a fresh start … open your heart to one another … it’s Rosh Hashana."

The Fountainheads have stayed busy the last year or so producing similar videos for Purim and Hanukkah, reaching out to the global Jewish village on YouTube. It’s an idea they share with plenty of other organizations in search of an audience.

Depending on where you sit on the cosmic spectrum, The Fountainheads offer a fun and entertaining way to engage with Judaism – if, in fact, you’re so inclined. What they sing about is grounded in Torah, but their message easily stretches across religious divisions.

For a moment, especially as we near the High Holidays, it’s nice to simply sit back and relax, take a deep breath and open our hearts to a fresh start. After all, it’s Rosh Hashana.

Funky video reminder High Holidays are near

Here we are well into the Hebrew month of Elul, time yet again to take a hard look at our lives and souls as we prepare for the Jewish High Holidays. The faithful have already begun the onerous task of cleaning up their stuff – misdeeds and missed opportunities – making amends and figuring out a better, spiritually lighter and brighter path to follow in the coming year.

Then there are the rest of us, especially here in the Land of Cotton, who might be praying a bit harder these days, but mostly for the Dawgs, Falcons and Braves. Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur is a grand time to catch up with friends and family, but the spiritual stuff is buried in the background noise of life. Go figure!

That’s why the folks at Aish HaTorah, a Jewish educational and outreach program, make an effort each year to find a fun and creative way to remind us the High Holidays are nearing and we should be willing to spend at least a little time getting our spiritual homes in order. They’ve just released a new video that you can find right HERE.

It’s fun and funky, featuring a bunch of yeshiva borchers shokeling to the beat of a yiddishe hip-hop tune and offering up lyrics – stand up, sit down, pass the prayer books all around – that might get you to tapping your tootsies, and certainly will bring a smile to your face.

It will also, at least for a moment, get you thinking about the High Holidays. Do that and Aish HaTorah has accomplished its mission – again.

A footnote: I’m always amazed at the first-class editing and production values Aish HaTorah captures in its videos. They obviously spend big bucks in their media work and it shows. I’ve got some problems with their theological beliefs but quietly embrace their outreach efforts. It’s also pretty cool that they can demystify and humanize a bunch of frummies wearing black pants, white shirts, tzi-tzi and kippot. That’s a good thing for Aish HaTorah, but also for the greater Jewish community. Yasher Koach.

Ritual, tradition and a final goodbye

It’s Friday, time yet again for another posting of Interesting Jewish Stories and Facts. Today we explore life, death and the inexplicable.

The entire Grebnief family will be visiting the ancestral burial site on Sunday, gathering for the unveiling of our mother’s matzevah – literally monument. She died last October and was buried next to my father in the family plot that is nestled comfortably under a towering oak tree.

The area, just off one of the major thoroughfares in Columbus, is a few hours south of the Land of Cotton. It’s part of a cemetery managed and maintained by Shearith Israel Synagogue, the shul we all attended decades ago when the Jewish community was large and vibrant, a piece of the cultural fabric of this west Georgia city. Much of that community – relatives and family friends – is now at rest here.

Judaism is an ancient religion filled with laws and customs that have evolved over thousands of years. Unveilings are relatively new, a practice that has become popular only in the last century or so.

There is no prescribed format for the ceremony which, according to Jewish law, can be performed by family. Typical services are short, somewhat informal and consist of Psalms, prayers, personal reflections, the Mourner’s Kaddish and El Malei Rachamim – the memorial prayer for the dead. Unveilings can be held as early as a month after the funeral. Tradition suggests, however, that the ceremony falls at least within 11 months of burial.

During minyon recently, a friend saying Kaddish for his father mentioned that his family had no plans to hold an unveiling. The ceremony, he feared, would simply toss everyone back into mourning and the world, once again, would turn bleak and gray. I imagine that’s a possibility.

I also think that the ceremony can serve as an exclamation point, a bit of emotional punctuation that brings an end to the mourning process. Judaism, I’d argue, gets the whole death and mourning thing right. It offers up a period for grieving and rituals to handle both the mundane and cosmic.

As we lift the veil from my mother’s marker, this last ceremony pulls us together as a family and community. We are given the opportunity to say a final goodbye. My mother is at peace, no longer suffering the pain and torment of a chronic disease, and we pray that she finds infinite rest in the sheltering presence of God.

More attacks and the world remains silent

It’s Friday, time yet again for another posting of Interesting Jewish Stories & Facts. Today we glance at the news and see that Israel is once more under attack.

Israel once again is mourning the loss of life, victims of Palestinian terrorists striking at civilians in the southern region of the country. Seven people were killed and over 40 wounded earlier this week in five separate attacks.

The terrorists slithered out of Gaza and made their way south along the Egyptian border, slipping into Israel just north of Eilat on Thursday. Around noon they opened fire on an Egged bus that was traveling from Be’er Sheva to the resort community.

Over the next several hours, the terrorists managed to pop up in several different areas, firing an anti-tank missile at a sedan carrying civilians, setting off an explosive device next to an IDF patrol and exchanging small-arms fire with Israeli troops.

Those are the facts. Now let’s suppose for a moment that all this loathsome activity was happening closer to home. What if you or I, family or friends were headed south along I-75 to Florida? Our car is packed with luggage and good cheer, the AC set on chill and a CD blasting out our favorite holiday tunes.

Just South of Valdosta, as we cross into Florida, we spot a Toyota Tacoma in our rearview mirror, a silver blur advancing wildly in our direction. Hanging out of the passenger window we can just make out the metallic glint of a weapon and then we see two thugs, their heads wrapped in keffiyehs, standing in the cargo bay.

We notice a puff of smoke blossoming in our direction and then suddenly the asphalt to our right explodes. We press down on the accelerator and our family sedan lunges forward just as a few bits of shrapnel ping off the back bumper and crack a side window.

Despite our best effort, the Toyota pulls alongside. We glance quickly to our left and in sheer terror spot the front end of a Rocket Propelled Grenade (RPG) launcher. Time slows and we can actually see the first fiery exhaust of the weapon being fired. Absolute madness!

And it is – madness. Of course life in the Land of Cotton is often hot, but not deadly. Politics here can get rancorous but we don’t often have to worry about our neighbors trying to kill us off. Just imagine if they tried – the immediate response from civil authorities; the media coverage and headlines; outrage and support from around the world.

Yes, the world has taken note that Israel was attacked – again. The international press has printed a few stories and television networks have offered a few minutes of coverage. But where’s the outrage and condemnation. Even though it’s been two years since the last major attack, it all feels like business as usual in the Middle East. Madness!

A footnote: Exactly a week earlier, a friend of mind was a passenger on the Egged Bus that was attacked on Thursday. David P is a retired NYC policeman who is in Israel to take part in a program, Sar-El, that places volunteers on IDF bases to help with menial chores. He, like the injured civilian passengers, was headed to Eilat for a weekend holiday.