The Nuance in the Question

5 Kislev 5780.

A really great marriage has moments over the decades of falling in love again.

There are certain things about Israel that make me fall in love with her over and over again, even after 12 years.

I needed to travel via three buses covering many kilometers and a couple of hours to make a shiva visit yesterday. My friend was here from America saying her last goodbyes to her dear mother. Without a large community of friends and family around, all of us former Baltimoreans feared she might be alone. So we did our best to take shifts.

During my travel time there and back, I met several interesting women. My new tutor, Leah, will be so proud of me: most of my conversations were necessarily in Hebrew. I heard stories of Jewish refugees from Arab and African countries. A beautiful but deeply-scarred woman gave me a first-hand account of crossing the Sudan for ultimate rescue via Operation Moses in 1984. I heard another story about a family's struggle to get from Tripoli to Tunisia -- being in a concentration camp there, fed bread with cockroaches in it, and the rescue that came just as this Libyan camp was preparing to follow the crematorium practice of Germany. Another elderly lady gave me spontaneous brachot (blessings) for the health that she herself clearly felt was slipping away. Our five minutes together were made entirely of the acknowledgement that health is everything, and mutual blessings for each other and for all our families, and of course, lots of "Amen." A young Sephardi woman spent several seconds giving me brachot and calling me "neshama," then gave up her seat to an elderly passenger. The older woman declined. "Shvi, Mahmee, shvi!" (Sit, dearie, sit!) The young woman wasn't having any of that, so they both stood for a while before the older lady finally gave in.

Once we got past the "where are you from?" part of the discussions, every one of them asked me: "Mi yesh lach po?" (Literally, "Who have you here?")

First, some background. In America in the Olden Days -- young people: "the Olden Days" refers to all time before humans were plugged into their individual cell phone worlds, sort of a pre-Matrix existence -- you could have some fascinating conversations with complete strangers on buses, trains and airplanes. Travelers might share their itineraries, and locals would politely ask things like, "So, what brings you to town?" Or perhaps, more abruptly, "Why are you here?" (They meant it in the nicest possible way, bless their hearts.)

In Israel, the fellow travelers (who dispense brachot like Tic Tac mints) most often ask, "Who is here that brings you all this way?"

I love people and I have loved traveling in different countries, immersing in other cultural styles of communication.

But my favorite, the love of my life, is this Israeli family-centric culture. Even after 12 years of living here, I never tire of the "who" of Israel that supersedes the "what."

Who brings you here, neshama? I give you brachot for health and long life and much joy from your families, those you've built or those you've adopted.

Photo credit: Elana Dressler

A Fly and a Cockroach Shake Hands

I love the way my friend Rachael Welt sees the world, and the way she tells stories.

We learn together once a week, and our conversations always weave our Torah learning through the text of our life stories. Today’s stories illustrate one of my favorite principles.

"This is what the Holy One said to Israel: My children, what do I seek from you? I seek no more than that you love one another and honor one another; and that you have awe and reverence for one another." -- Tanna d'Bei Eliyahu Rabba, 26:6

Rachael recounts a recent trip to the Mahane Yehuda shuk.

“I have never seen at one time so many people using walkers, walking on crutches, walking with canes,” she said. “And the shuk was packed with people. And of course, walking behind all these people with walkers and so on made it very slow going. Still, not one person started screaming ‘Why are you moving so slowly? Why did you come to the shuk? Don’t you know you could fall down? Why don’t you move out of the way?’

“This is the shuk I’m talking about, where people regularly yell and scream at each other – and not one person rushed these people. Not even the shuk workers with the heavy pallets they carry everywhere. Those guys never have any patience! But that day, they did. Everyone waited patiently for the old and infirm to make their way through the shuk. It was amazing!”

Rachael’s face glows when she tells stories about the good in her fellow humans.

She tells another “only in Israel” story.

“I was in Jerusalem, getting the car repaired. I was feeling a little faint, because I hadn’t eaten enough before leaving the house; so I decided to go to a nearby supermarket. As I started in the door, the guard, a man in his sixties, put up a hand and stopped me. ‘We don’t open until ten,’ he said to me. I checked my watch and saw there would be a bit of a wait. And then I saw the line of people with shopping carts. I’m thinking, I don’t need a big shopping cart. I only need a few items.” Nonetheless, she joined the line, prepared to wait with everyone else until the guard allowed entry.

“People started to say to the guard, ‘Nu? It’s ten minutes to ten. Let us in already! It’s five minutes till. C’mon, let us in! See my watch? Let us in!’ But the guard had his orders, and he was used to this. He held his ground. ‘Ten o’clock,’ he insisted calmly.

“This one guy ahead of me, but still pretty far back in the line, decided he’d had enough. He pulled out of the line, pushed to the front, and tried to get by the guard. The guard stopped him, and the guy started yelling at him.

“The guard, still calm, said to the guy, ‘You know what? You’re a zvoov,’ a fly. And the guy yells at him, really angry now, ‘And you’re a juke!’ a cockroach.”

As Rachael tells the story, I am laughing a little, because I am convinced that these conversations, with this much invective, could never happen in America. People might yell at each other, but it is never this colorful. The two men went at this for several seconds, the guard speaking calmly, the enraged customer getting so upset, and louder and louder, to the point that Rachael was praying he didn’t have a knife. She could just see herself being witness to a terrible incident.

“The man kept yelling, and saying he was going to complain about the guard, and not only complain about him, he was going to write a letter, and he went on and on, getting more and more excited.

"The guard told him, without raising his voice, to step back. The man stepped back only a step or two. ‘Only this far,’ he said. ‘No further. I’m staying right here.’

“Suddenly, the guard walked over to the man, and stuck out his hand, and the other fellow took it. ‘Please forgive me, my friend. It will all be okay. I ask forgiveness.’ And the other guy calmed down. A moment later, at ten o’clock on the dot, the guard allowed the stream of people with their carts into the store.

“But that’s not the end of the story,” says Rachael, with her patented Rachael smile.

“Later, as I was going through the aisles, the guy came up to me. ‘You see?’ he said, ‘He apologized to me. He admitted he was wrong, and I was right.’ I said to him, ‘I think you were both a little bit wrong, and a little bit right.’ (After all, calling someone a fly was not a nice thing to do, and certainly calling someone a cockroach and threatening him is wrong.) ‘The main thing is, you made peace.’ I don’t think he really understood me, because he really thought he was right and the guard was wrong. But I saw that the guard kept calm, offered his hand, and the man took it! And the guard asked for forgiveness. What an amazing People!”

I believe that Hashem teaches us to see Him as a Parent so that we can know how to behave toward each other. As a mother, nothing makes me more distressed – dare I say enraged? – than when my kids are unkind to each other. Conversely, nothing causes me to feel more overjoyed and elated than when they get along and speak well of each other.

Rachael and I learned a lot today. But I am convinced that the holiest moments of our learning were when Rachael spoke aloud words of validation about the behavior of God’s children toward one another. If our learning together doesn’t bring Mashiach closer by itself, surely the stories of Jews rising above their pettiness to respect one another inches the Geula just a bit closer.

15 Iyar 2018.

"What if we just stopped hurting each other?"

Yom sheni, 8 Av 5773, Erev Tisha B'Av.

My friend told me a story on Shabbat that was filled with such promise, I had to share it with you.  Especially now.  Especially just before Tisha B'Av, the saddest day of the year.

Years ago, there was a property dispute between neighbors.  Prior to the argument, they had been friendly, warm even.  Their children played together. They attended shiurim at each other's homes, had meals together.

After the argument, they stopped speaking.  They didn't go to one another's homes.  They didn't acknowledge each other on the street -- even going so far as to cross the street rather than cross the path of their "enemies."  If a ball rolled into the yard of the neighbor -- that ball was history.  No one would go through the gate or over the fence to retrieve it.  If a piece of fruit fell into one neighbor's yard from the other, no one would eat it, because it came from "their yard."

Years went by.  More than a decade.

Every year, my friend would write a letter in her head to the woman of the other family.  She mentally composed line after line of conciliation.  But she could never bring herself to write it, much less to send it.

Each Rosh Hashana, she struggled with a feeling of hypocrisy, knowing that she had this anguish festering deep in her heart.  Most of the time, she could work around the pain.  She had buried it, and was used to the not speaking, not visiting, not acknowledging.  But at Rosh Hashana, what had once been a series of misunderstandings felt like a giant, heavy stone in her heart.

Finally, life events piled up to such a degree that she could not go into yet another Rosh Hashana with a pain partly of her own making pressing down on her.  She resolved to write the letter, and to deliver it before Rosh Hashana.

As she sat down to write on Erev Rosh Hashana, she had the vision of handing the letter to her neighbor before candle-lighting, and of going home to light the candles with a sense of having done what she could do.  She did not know, of course, how her neighbor would react.  Would she slam the door in her face?  Tear up the letter without reading it?  Unload all of her own pain in a verbal assault?  My friend did not know.  All she knew was that she could not bear this weight any longer, and she had to try.

She wrote and wrote and wrote...  She was amazed that it was not trying to find the words to say that was difficult.  The difficulty was in stopping the torrent of writing that poured forth from her anguished soul.  Yet, not one word was about the fight.  No mention of whose rights were violated, or who had more reason to be upset.  Those words had been burned out in her own internal war long ago.

A glance at the clock told her that the time for Rosh Hashana candle-lighting was coming in soon.  She finally made herself stop writing.

She tapped on her neighbor's door, and was glad that it was the woman of the family who answered.  She started speaking immediately, rather than risk losing the moment.

"I wrote you this letter, and I wanted to deliver it personally."

The neighbor's hand reached tentatively for the letter.  Then, taking it, "Do you want me to read it in front of you, or after you leave?"

"I would like very much to stay while you read it, if you would like, but if you want to read it after I leave, that will be fine, too."

The neighbor invited her in.  My friend marveled at how strange it was, after more than ten years, to step over the threshold of this house!

As her neighbor read silently, my friend thought the words again in her mind.  "It has taken me a long time to write this.  But I wanted you to know how I feel, from the heart.  What if I said hello, and you said hello in response?  What if we went to shiurim at each other's houses?  What if when a ball went into your yard, my child would feel comfortable coming to get it, and if your child's ball came into my yard, your child would feel comfortable knocking on my door?  What if we invited each other over for Shabbat?  What if when fruit fell from our trees into each other's yards, we would be comfortable eating it?  What if we just stopped hurting each other?  What if we became friends again?"

When her neighbor reached the end of the letter, she asked, "Did you write this many times before today?"

"I wrote it mentally many times before this."

"I did the same.  I have been mentally writing you a similar letter for years now."  And with that the neighbors embraced.

My friend's candle-lighting that Rosh Hashana was holier than any in memory.  The weight of the pain of this conflict was gone from her heart.  She felt so light, so pure.

They never spoke about the issues of the past, never tried to work out who was right or who was wrong. The families involved began to behave like true neighbors, smiling at each other, sharing with each other. Over time, they even shared their story, in the hope that other people with long-standing feuds would just make up and leave the past behind -- and they have had some success in "infecting" those around them with a desire to make peace.

And that Rosh Hashana, when my friend stood before Hashem, she truly felt worthy of attending His Coronation.

"We have met the enemy..."

Yom chamishi, 28 Sivan 5773.

It's no secret that Israel is in trouble right now.

I'm not speaking about the threat from Iran with all of its obvious (to anyone not playing ostrich) bomb building.

I'm not referring to the danger at various borders caused by the hemorrhaging "Arab Spring."

Nor am I drawing attention to any "fifth column" issues within Israel's borders.

Our greatest danger is and always has been internal, within the Jewish family.

We are fighting with each other, and the fights are getting uglier.  No "side" is blameless.  The tragedy is that if we truly tried to feel what the other person might be feeling, to hear his side (even without expecting our minds to be changed through the exercise), we could not throw chairs nor invective, we could not disdain nor patronize.



דאס טוט נישט פּאַסן אונז.  Das tut nisht passn uns.  This is beneath us.



A friend has invited me to participate in a special day tomorrow.  It seems a worthwhile exercise... as long as it is the beginning of better behavior on my part, and not merely a shekel dropped one time in a pushke.  Here's what the originator of the plan, Akiva Gersh, wrote on his Facebook event notice:

Let's not wait until Tisha B'Av to think about how we can increase Jewish unity and ahavat hinam ["groundless" love] in Am Yisrael. We know what hate and intolerance have done to our people in the past. Let's not let it happen in our generation. While ahavat hinam is something we could and should focus on everyday, there's incredible strength in hundreds, if not thousands, if not millions of Jews focusing on it on the same exact day, especially on Erev Rosh Hodesh. 

The idea is that, on that day (29 Sivan/Friday June 7th), each of us will perform a "random" act of kindness for at least one other Jew, ideally a Jew who comes from a different religious/political/lifestyle perspective than you. That action will send them the message that you have honor and love for them despite any differences that exist between you two, that you have honor and love for them simply because they are a fellow Jew.

May our acts of kindness on that day increase our awareness of the inherent unity that binds all Jews together and strengthen our dedication to making ahavat hinam a priority in our lives every single day.

Our Sages deal with a question about what will finally bring the Era of the Moshiach.  How could I, so lowly, so lacking in knowledge and good deeds, possibly bring the Moshiach, if Dovid HaMelech couldn't, if the Chofetz Chaim couldn't?  Chazal answer that the operation is cumulative.  Our good deeds "stand on the shoulders" so to speak of the good deeds of previous generations.  Only G-d knows which good deed will be the last one necessary.

Join me, won't you?  And if you happen to read this well after the day, don't be discouraged.  Your act of kindness, your thoughtful word, your decision to listen fully to what the other person is saying, your plan to be more careful, may just be THE act that changes everything.  YOU could singlehandedly be the person responsible for bringing the Moshiach.

No matter with what or if you cover your head; no matter if you and I agree or disagree about religion, politics, lifestyle, or child-rearing techniques -- I look forward to standing in line to thank you personally.

The Dawn of a New Day

Yom sheni, 17 Cheshvan 5772.

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess whose people were from a far-away land.  She climbed mountains and crossed seas to marry her handsome prince.  At last, after scaling unbelievable heights and spanning unimaginable depths, they married and had children and were happy.  They moved to a mountain in a Wondrous Kingdom, and they were happier still.

One day, the princess got very, very sick.

And now it was the prince's turn to scale unbelievable heights and span unimaginable depths in order to fight against the terrible sickness, which seemed very much like a great, coiled dragon.  The prince put on his armor, and prepared to do battle with the forces of darkness.

The people of the village on the mountain gathered to see the prince off.

 Weavers and dyers made beautiful garments for the occasion.

The youth of the village adorned the trees and flowers with lavender balloons to remind the prince that he was not alone.  The village sage gave a speech of encouragement.  And then the prince departed.

He rode his trusty steed for hours and hours and hours, over hills and up mountains, covering miles and miles and miles in an attempt to slay the dragons that terrorized the nights, and to bring hope to himself and his princess and their children.

In the process, he brought hope to his community.  But not just to his community.  As the prince traveled those many miles, he brought hope to his people, those who were scattered across the globe, and those who were just around the corner.  There were knights with trusty steeds who joined the prince on his travels.  There were builders and bakers and memory stick makers.  There were minstrels and carriage drivers.  There were even court jesters.

As he rode, spreading his message of hope, the prince discovered time and again that he was not riding alone.  There were runners and riders.  There were people walking dogs, and dogs walking people.

There were those who traveled through space and time to share in the prince's struggle, among those longing for the dawn, longing for the dawn.  All along his route, the prince and the princess were reminded that many, many people had been longing to give a hand in the fight against the dragons and on behalf of goodness and kindness.

The people completed the ride together.  The prince and the princess and their children shared weary but joyful smiles.  The war was not over.  Not yet.  But they had won this battle.  And they knew that they would never, ever be alone.  Together, and with the help of the Mighty King, they knew that they could make it to the bright light of morning.

"Behold, how good and how pleasant is the dwelling of brothers in unity!...  May there be life forever!"

Please continue to daven for Tzuriya Kochevet bat Sara, among the other precious cholim of Am Yisrael.

Additional photos borrowed (ehhhhhhhh...) from Laura Ben-David.

"See me, feel me, touch me, heal me!"

Yom shishi, 20 Tamuz 5771.

I mentioned on Shiv'a Asar b'Tamuz that I had a friend who was feeling literally rejected by the people around her, simply because they would not smile at her, nor respond to her greeting of "Shabbat shalom."

Since then, I have heard other stories that cause me much pain, from around Israel and outside Israel.

• A young newlywed I know tells me she will never become religious.  "I went to an Orthodox shul a few times, to try to learn about Judaism.  I had stopped wearing pants; but I couldn't get used to the idea of covering my hair.  I asked the way to the women's section.  A man in a big black velvet yarmulke looked at my hair, and said 'You're probably the type who is more comfortable sitting next to her husband in shul.'"  Clearly, he judged her by what was not on her head, just as I find myself judging him by what was on his.
• A rabbi gives a shiur on a controversial subject.  Only a handful of people bother to show up.  As they are all Anglos, and one elderly woman has trouble understanding Hebrew, the rabbi chooses to break his usual pattern, and give the lesson in English.  Fifteen minutes into his lecture, a native Israeli (who is fluent in both languages, and who also disagrees with the rabbi's stand on the issue under discussion), walks in, and demands that the shiur be given in Hebrew, since we're all in Israel.
• A boy asks a philosophical question in class; and his rebbi -- followed by the students -- laughs at him.  The boy resolves never again to ask another question, because his questions are stupid.  It takes him years to develop self-confidence.  He still lacks confidence in the Torah educational system -- because of one moment and one rabbi.

There are many more stories like these; but my objective in writing them here is not to tell titillating tales about my people's failings.  The stories are meant to shake us up, to shake me up!  To remind us to listen to ourselves, to look at ourselves.

Do I get so wrapped up in my own thoughts and worries, or in a call on a cell phone, that I fail to notice the Jew passing by long enough to smile?

Do I decide that someone is "less Jewish" because of how she is dressed?  Is she somehow less worthy of dan l'chaf zechut, or at least of me guarding my tongue, than someone who has mastered wearing "the uniform"?

Do I sometimes forget that I represent Torah, and must think before I speak, lest I cause a Jew to think badly of people who "know more Torah"?

Do I show rabbis the respect that they are due?  Am I careful to criticize an opinion with respect, and never the person?

Do I remember to look around me at all of the people in the room, and think of what their needs might be?  Or do I only concentrate on my own needs?

Do I remember to make bridges between Jews?  Or do I carelessly, flippantly, put stones in the walls between us?

Do I encourage people to speak?  Or do I spend too much time filling the airwaves with my own words?

Do I pursue truth?  Or do I only spout platitudes or verses that others have stated before me, without thoughtful analysis? 

Do I listen to the searching question of a child or a ba'al tshuva or a friend with my whole self, or only with my ears, waiting for an opportunity to show them how much more I know than they (chas v'shalom)?

The world is in a terrible crisis right now.  We are all lost, alone, frightened, desperately needful of acceptance from each other.

I cannot say that by smiling at every random Jew I meet on the street I will save the lives of my friends who are suffering life-threatening illnesses, or that the answer will come from listening patiently or doing a kindness or living in Israel (for anyone who thinks that is the answer) or doing more mitzvot more diligently (for anyone who thinks G-d is mad at us for lacking attentiveness to His laws).

But Torah and our Sages -- both ancient and modern -- stress the need for kindness to each other.  We cannot know the mind of G-d.  I have a hard time relating to G-d as a King, or as something fear-inspiring.  (I'm working on it...)  But I can begin to relate to G-d Our Father, from my standpoint as a parent.

When my children are mean to one another, it enrages me.  I come as close as possible to "losing it," when they are hurtful to each other.

But when my children are kind to each other, when they "cover" for each other or help each other -- I can forgive them any slight against me.  

I think Hashem must be like this toward us.  While we must certainly do His mitzvot to the very best of our ability, while it is a shandeh if we ignore His gift of this holy and amazing Land, I cannot help but think that wherever we are in the world, treating each other much, much better than we do now might cause Him to change how nature and nations are treating us.

I don't know about you, but I'm tired of fasting for the Churban.  I'm tired of watching the world crumbling around me.  Most of all, I'm tired of saying goodbye to friends, and fearing more goodbyes.

I'm going to smile more, listen more closely, think about the wisdom of my words before I say them.  Please help me.

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Stella's Sunrise (taken on an early walk with my friend)

I have found that it's easier to daven with kavana for people when I know them.  Please feel free to get to know my friend Tzuriya Kochevet bat Sara in this lovely interview, posted at her husband Yarden's blog Crossing the Yarden.  I think you will love her as much as I do.  And that can only help your davening, and help to save the world.

Glossary:

Shiv'a Asar b'Tamuz: the 17th of Tamuz: a fast day commemorating the Destruction of the Temple

Shiur: lesson (esp. in Torah studies)

Dan l'chaf zechut: the commandment to judge favorably

Ba'al tshuva: individual becoming more religious

Chas v'shalom: Heaven forbid

Mitzvot: commandments, good deeds

Shandeh: a shame [Yiddish]

Churban: destruction of the Holy Temple in 586 BCE

Once again, with feeling!

Yom revi'i, 14 Iyar 5771.

Today is Pesach Sheni.  I ask the Dearly Beloved for ideas to share with my Ahavat Yisrael group this evening.  He's getting ready to give a guitar class; so I tell him that I just need an idea or two.  I see the little gray cells starting to work, as he scoots his big office chair over to the bookshelf.  "It would be good if it could focus on how ahavat Yisrael and Pesach Sheni might be related," I say to him.

His face brightens.  "It's all about ahavat Yisrael!" he responds enthusiastically.  And then he sets about explaining to me the two very special features of this "second chance" mitzvah that Hashem revealed to our forefathers in the Midbar.

In order to participate in the Pesach offering, it was necessary for the desert generation to be ritually pure.  Coming into contact with the dead rendered one impure; and the process of purification was long enough to preclude them from being able to participate in the sacrificial ritual.  But let me tell you how precious were the people who were our forebears.

There are a few different versions given for what was the mitzvah these people were involved with that prevented them from being able to participate in the Pesach offering.  Perhaps they were carrying the coffin of Yosef.  Perhaps they came across the remains of an unidentified corpse, and took upon themselves the mitzvah of burying it.  Perhaps they were involved with the burial of Nadav and Avihu, the sons of Aaron HaKohen.  In any case, they were fulfilling the mitzvah of burying the dead, which is the purest form of ahavat Yisrael a human being can achieve.  This mitzvah is so dear, because one performs it knowing that the recipient cannot pay him back, cannot reciprocate.  It is the highest form of ahavat Yisrael.

Of course, these great men could have said, "Since we were involved in this mitzvah, we will just wait until next year to offer a Pesach sacrifice.  After all, one is exempt from a mitzvah when in the performance of another mitzvah."

But they not only loved their fellow Jew.  They loved Hashem, and couldn't bear to be left out of the opportunity to serve Him in this great mitzvah of bringing the Pesach sacrifice.

Hashem "made an exception," and gave them a second chance to bring the offering.  Of course, we learn many things from this act of Hashem.  One comes first to mind, as I think of the special group of women I meet with on Wednesday nights, who leave their homes and families for an hour seriously to discuss how we can help to repair the world.

Second chances are not just in the realm of G-d.  Who has let me down, who could stand a second chance?  After all, how many "second" chances has Hashem given me?

I am honored to be part of a family that cares so much about the mitzvot as to have asked for a second chance to honor our Creator.  And I am humbled and honored to be on the giving end of a second chance, just like my Father in Heaven.

Glossary:
Pesach Sheni: a second chance to offer the Passover offering, exactly one month after Passover
Ahavat Yisrael: love of a fellow Jew
Mitzvah: commandment from G-d; also refers to a good deed
Midbar: desert; Biblically refers to the generation of the giving of the Torah
Aaron HaKohen: Aaron the Priest, brother of Moses

"There is a space for you... in the fortress of kindness."

Yom sheni, 27 Tevet 5771.

We've all heard the expression.  But have you ever felt your heart dance?  I did.  Last night, as I listened once again to the soul-stirring music of my favorite women's band -- indeed, one of my favorite Jewish bands.

Ayelet Hashachar, raising spirits and funds on behalf of the Carmel fire victims' families

Ayelet Hashachar, currently the premier Jewish women's band in Baltimore (since the loss of our beloved Dina Blaustein, z"l, who helped all of the Baltimore Jewish women's bands grow musically and spiritually) played last night -- totally free of charge for the band -- at Heichel Shlomo in Jerusalem.

Thanks to Frank and Danielle Sarah Storch of Baltimore, The Council of Young Israel Rabbis in Israel, and the I.D.F. Widows and Orphans Organization, my friends from Baltimore were able to come to Jerusalem to support efforts to lessen the horror for the Carmel fire victims' families.

One of the speakers of the evening was a woman who lost her husband in 1982, during the First Lebanon War.  "Several IDF officers came to my door, and told me that my husband, my best friend, was dead.  For a time, I ceased to be Nava, and became 'the widow'.  I saw myself only as the mother of our small daughter..."

We cried quietly, together, one woman with one heart.

Nava Shoham founded, with other widows, The I.D.F Widows and Orphans Organization to help "young widows" to cope with their losses, to feel less alone, to deal with the burden of making some kind of future for their fatherless children.  As only those who've "been there, done that" can help -- with our help.

Another lovely lady spoke to us about the Ahavas Yisrael Women's Project, which seeks to teach practical lessons in the "how to" of bringing out our higher, more loving selves.

Several individuals (Susan Taragin and Neve Daniel's own Daniel "Mush" Meyer among them) and these foundations deserve so much credit -- but this is a post about my friends in Ayelet Hashachar -- and about the varied and vibrant community of women before whom they performed last night at Heichel Shlomo.

 I remember being at their very first concert.  They were well-loved, and warmly received.  And yet -- when their signature number, "Stand Up," was played -- only a few of us stood.  I know it was not because the band's performance was lukewarm -- anything but! -- or because the ladies in their hometown audience didn't appreciate them.  It's just that in some circles, to stand and possibly call attention to oneself is so strongly discouraged that it doesn't occur to the majority to think that if we ALL stand, no one is embarrassed.

Last night, most of the ladies -- to include some who found it physically very challenging -- got up on their feet, one woman with one heart one set of sturdy high heels.  Women from Chareidi backgrounds, women from the Dati sector, woman with no apparent religious or political leaning; Israeli women, Anglo women, teenage girls filled to the brim with the irrepressible joie de vivre of youth.  Young ladies waved cell phones in the air in unison, while their elders laughed and reminisced about waving lighters for lesser causes.  An Israeli friend from the yishuv sang out to me, with eyes shining, "Zeh haya maxim.  Maxim!"  (It doesn't translate.  But it basically means she thought the performance was "tops!")  We all stood together, danced together -- and perhaps brought Moshiach a little closer by being so darn together.

The deeply spiritual women of Ayelet Hashachar would not wish for more.  It is what they pray for, and play for.  All of their songs remind us that we have a day-to-day relationship with Hashem, available to each and every one of us.  Their passionate music, sometimes to their own lyrics, sometimes to the lyrics of Judaism's most brilliant bards, reminds us that we are first and foremost spiritual beings, with the collective power to actually end sickness, destruction, fear, and to bring world peace -- just by starting with being kind to one another.

Tall order?  Yup.  And you thought "Chosen People" meant G-d likes us better.

For ladies only:  to gain inspiration for your job of saving the world, pick up the first CD of this remarkable group of musicians here:  http://www.ayeletmusic.org/.  I personally promise that your heart will dance.