Welcome to the Covenant, Yonatan Shmuel ben Yehoshua Adam!

Yom revi'i, 24 Av 5771.

I never looked this beautiful after giving birth!

This was a special day for the folks in Mishpachat Mizrachi.  And it unfolded sort of the way most things do in this brave new cyber-world.

I was waiting for my Yeshiva Bochur's mefaked (commander) to call to tell me his arrival was imminent.  In Israel, commanders make a point of visiting the home and parents of their soldiers, to get to know them a little better.  (I love this army!)

The day was wearing on, and I hadn't heard from him.  I could see "Chok Murphee" (Murphy's Law) getting itself all set up to make the day interesting.  I had to be at work at 3.  I work on the computer and phone at home; so while not what I would have wanted, we could still have our visit.

I was finally at work, knowing that I had telephone meetings with students at various times throughout the day.  But I had to leave the home phone turned on.  I was waiting for the aforementioned commander's call... and I was waiting to hear from the Dearly Beloved in the States, who might call me at any moment with the name of our new grandson.

A few minutes after the brit milah would have started, but too soon for the name, the phone rang.  Commander?  Nope.  A dear friend from Baltimore, asking me where was the bris.  (Only in Cyberspace.)  She was disappointed.  "I went to the wrong shul," she said glumly.

"Don't worry!" I reassured her.  "Nothing ever starts on time!"  I gave her the correct location; and we wished each other mazel tov.

No call from the commander...  a very long session with a student...  Now I had a ten-minute gap to give a quick call to the States.  Surely by now the results would be in...

I called my son, Soldier Boy, father of the newest grandchild.

Photos courtesy of the amazing mechutan.  It pays to marry into talent.

"Yonatan Shmuel," he said.  He then proceeded to give me the Reader's Digest condensed version of his speech.  "Shmuel" is for Shmuel HaNavi, who had a very close connection with Hashem, and for my daughter-in-law's grandfather, whom my son never had the privilege to meet.  He was a man who cared very much about family; and he was also a person steeped in kindness.  My children are hoping that these fine character traits will be passed to their son.  "Yonatan" is for Yoni Netanyahu, who like this baby was born in the States, of Israeli parents.  "Yoni was the hero of Entebbe," said Soldier Boy, with some emotion.  The 1976 "Operation Thunderbolt" (later referred to as "Operation Yonatan"), during which IDF special forces soldiers rescued hostages in a daring raid, gave us many heroes, but only one soldier-martyr, the commander of the operation.  Naming his son for Yonatan Netanyahu also represents to Soldier Boy his hope to very soon return to their Home in Israel.

Five minutes into our call, my cell phone went off.  Well, I reasoned, if it's the commander, I can always call him back in just a moment.  Soldier Boy told me about how well his father spoke, and that he was honored with the job of being the sandek.  The house phone rang, and I hung it up.  (Rude, I know; but one doesn't get to visit one's grandchild's brit milah three thousand miles away every day.)  We exchanged a few more hurried words -- I still had this meeting with the student in a couple of minutes, after all -- and the house phone went off again.

As we'd exchanged most of the critical information, with the "I love you's" and the "I'm proud of you both, and happy for you!" thrown in for good measure, I told my son I had to go and answer it.

With as much charity as I could muster, I answered the phone, prepared to tell the commander that he'd have to wait through my meeting with the student, if he'd care to...

"I'm Ms. Ploni, and I represent Such-And-Such organization, and we want to know if your husband can perform for us some Sunday or Thursday."

After responding incoherently to the lovely lady and gently unplugging the house phone, I prepared quickly for my meeting with the student, who also lives in America.

Still no word from the commander.

Chok Murphee rides again.

But I have a new grandson, with a very beautiful name, filled with spirituality, kindness, and hope for the future.

Welcome to the world, Yonatan Shmuel.

Glossary:
Mishpachat: family of
Brit milah, bris: ceremony of bringing a new son into the special relationship with the Creator of the world
Shul: synagogue
Mechutan: the father of one's child's spouse
Sandek: the person honored at a Jewish brit milah with the task of holding the baby.  (I hope the Dearly Beloved enjoys his sin-free status for as long as possible.  I love the percs to these honors!)

"Simple pleasures are the best."

Yom revi'i, 10 Av 5771.

For most people I know, the last three weeks have been more hellish than usual.

By "usual," I mean that during the Three Weeks, Jews all over the world immerse deeper and deeper into the sense of loss that has existed since the Churban, the destruction of our Holy Temple.  We did not merely lose a building.  Due to our participation in its destruction, we lost something much more dear:  our close connection with the Creator of the Universe was stretched to near-breaking.  We were at this point in history as far from our Beloved Father in Heaven as He will allow us to stray, for He will never entirely allow the connection to be broken.  In spite of our "best efforts."

We are enjoined to be b'simcha -- filled with happiness and gratitude -- during most of the year.  But during this time, we are commanded to remember that Destruction and, as with every other major commemoration in the Jewish calendar, to feel it as if it were happening to us now.

That has been very easy to do with the Three Weeks this year.

The news has been beyond awful.

Every other day, a new name is added to our overstocked Tehillim lists, as we are asked to pray for more and more and more people affected by dread diseases.

The Arab world is awash in the blood of not only combatants but ordinary men, women and children.

Many brave and heroic American fighters have lost their lives, more tragically than usual, if only in the level of their heroism, and the density of the national loss.

As the chaotic stock markets tumble in Asia and Europe and the US, the UK is in flames.  An example:  a furniture store that has survived in a London neighborhood for a hundred years -- that survived two world wars -- was burned to the ground by rioters, as looters trashed the shops nearby.  Five days of this.  And even if the police get it under control, where will the fissures of the "Arab spring" erupt next?

We religious Jews have suffered humiliating tragedies at the hands of our own, even as the heartbreak that used to grab national headlines continues on unabated.  As I thought I could not bring up any more tears over the loss of the Beit HaMikdash, I read the story of a three-year-old girl forgotten in a van in Netanya...  You know how the story ends.  It ends with the driver -- a normal fellow, just like you and me -- screaming to the Heavens:  "How could I have forgotten her???"  As her parents mourn with shock their only child...

It is the morning of the Tenth of Av.  In the impossible-to-comprehend sense of Jewish time, the Temple is still burning from yesterday's destruction.  In fact, today the flames actually may be at their worst, according to our Sages.

But those same Sages had rachmanut (compassion) for the Jewish people; so we only are asked to live in the pain of the Destruction for one day, and for a bit of the next, albeit less intensely.

Practically, this means that we can begin to climb out of the abyss created by the Destruction and its consequent spiritual nadir.

We can enjoy again.  We can feel overwhelming gratitude again.

I've been "off caffeine" for a couple of weeks, in preparation for the 26-hour fast of Tisha b'Av.  (If I didn't wean myself off of coffee, I would have a headache that can only be described as "bodacious.")  So you can imagine how special is that first sip of coffee.

I once said to The Dearly Beloved that coffee should have its own special bracha (blessing).  He taught me something very beautiful.

As you know, we say blessings over the food we eat, to show our gratitude to Hashem.  Over beverages other than wine (which does rate its own bracha), we say "Blessed are You, L-rd our G-d, by Whose word all things came to be."

When you say that bracha, taught my Dearly Beloved, you can have in mind all of the things you might encounter throughout the day for which you can't make a blessing.

Amazing, special things that swell the heart, that we might think ought to have a bracha.

Like a beautiful flower.

captured in New Zealand by my friend Sparrow

Like the first cool fog on a summer morning.

Like the smile on the face of a child.

Photo courtesy of KFProductions

Photo courtesy of KF Productions

After that bracha-enhanced cup of coffee, I say the after-blessing:  "Blessed are You, L-rd our G-d, King of the Universe, who creates the many forms of life and their needs..."  One can infer from those last few words that Hashem has left a few needs for us to fill.  May we have the merit and the wisdom to take the gifts that He has given us, and use them to repair and complete the world, and to help to bring the time of the Third Beit HaMikdash, a time when there will be no more suffering, and only revealed good.

Choices Made

Yom chamishi, 26 Tamuz 5771.

“The end result of your life here on earth will always be the sum total of the choices you made while you were here.” ~ Dr. Shad Helmstetter

Since I didn't leave my chair, this is someone else's photo.

Last night, I sat with the Dearly Beloved on our patio, and watched the fog give us a peek-a-boo show of the stars, as angels sang.  I know -- you think I'm being poetic here -- but angels really were singing.  The young ladies in the landlord's house upstairs use their home for choir practice on Wednesday nights; and the girls are getting really good together!  We don't know how many voices are in this choir...  but they truly sound angelic, especially as their blended voices float down to us from above, keeping perfect time with the drifting clouds.  The wind was strong enough that I needed a blanket.  It was cool and perfect.

This morning, I am gazing in awe as the clouds above the Mediterranean Sea pile themselves up like distant mountains.  The coffee is good; the air is cool and slightly breezy.  Light plays on the fields beyond our small town.

Later today, it will get hot, of course.  The air will become still; and these lovely Jerusalem stone walls will absorb more and more heat, until the afternoon is unbearably sweltering somewhat challenging.

I grew up in small towns.  People knew each other well, borrowed easily from one another, watched each other's kids in the streets.

I always wanted to return to that life, to raise my kids with that simple lack of city sophistication.

This was not to be, as to be an observant Jew in America usually requires trappings found only in big cities.  I say "usually" because I have known rare individuals who had the learning and strength to bring their children up in the Torah in small towns in America.  But they all had "Rabbi" in front of their names.  I know we could not have done that.  We needed Jewish day schools and kosher butchers and lots of people who were "on the same page."  For the most part, that and small town life don't happen outside Israel.

Stunt Man

Even though this was my dream for the 16 formative years of my sons' lives, we couldn't make it happen.  And I have to trust that Hashem wanted my boys to get the life lessons they acquired in the mean streets of the city.  They grew tough fighting gangs who wanted to take their bikes, their money, their candy, and at one point, even a life.  (Thank G-d they were stopped by other good and decent city dwellers!)  My boys have a jadedness level of sophistication that wrestles with the insular Torah image I had set in my mind when we started this journey into religion.

Yeshiva Bochur

 But I trust in Hashem's wisdom; so I look for the good in what has transpired against my will.  My sons are strong and fierce warriors, which makes them good soldiers.  The Torah they learned teaches them justice tempered with sweetness.  They are exactly the sort that Israel needs defending her from destruction.  I long for the day when all of that worldliness is reserved only for the football field and computer games.  But in the meantime, I can see purpose to our lives spent in an American city.

Soldier Boy

Later today, I might hop a bus to the holiest City in the world to purchase a few items for Shabbat.  I might walk over to the makolet, our little "corner grocery" a few blocks away.  I'll joke with Shulamit about air conditioning as she smiles behind the cash register, telling us she's counting the hours until Shabbat.  Someone on the local "chat list" will ask for a cup of sugar, a baseball mitt for a small boy (his was left in a tremp, and we won't get it back for a few days), directions to Har Homa.  I'll race along with several other citizens of Cyberspace to try to be the first to help.  I'll listen to the kids playing in the streets; and when I pass them, a few of them will greet me first.  A couple of them will give me a message for "Coach."

Sports Guy

I'll go to work and kvetch about the heat.  I'll lament that I never get make time to clean my apartment.  I'll wish the bank balance had a little more muscle.  The news will bother me just as much as it bothers you.

And tonight, I'll sit on my patio in the open air, watching the clouds with my husband.

May we share good news, and happy times.  Come and visit.  There's room on the patio for more chairs.

This post produced and bottled by Eastman©, inspired by Treppenwitz.

A Food Network star, just waiting to be discovered

Yom chamishi, 26 Tamuz 5771.

I finally had the privilege of meeting Miryummy at a recent food-bloggers event here in Gush Etzion.  How does a non-food-blogger get invited to a gig like this, you may ask?  Protexia, my friend.  Vitamin P.  The most important tool for survival in Israel.  (Write that down.  There will be a quiz later.)  Stay tuned for more about this delightful event, after I finish looking over the notes of the real food bloggers.

Miryummy and I "met" some time ago in Cyberspace, and enjoyed each other's stories and writing styles.  As much as I enjoyed the event, meeting my "old friend" was one of my favorite parts.  Please let me share her, the very interesting story of who she is, and her wonderful blog with you.

Introduce yourself.  Who are you, what are you, why are you?

I don't know who I was when I was born, but one cold November afternoon in Mount Sinai Hospital on Fifth Avenue I was given to my parents, childless Holocaust survivors.  My father had lost his children to the Final Solution, my mother had her childbearing opportunities literally ripped from her, and on that day I became Mirjam, pronounced MirYAM.  My father called me Miroosh, my mother called me Miraleh.  My friends' nickname for me is Mirj (merge) and my husband, when he's not busy calling me "My sweet, my love, my cherub," calls me Miriyummy.  I am a second generation Holocaust survivor who has been put on this world to boost my husband's ego, to embarrass my children and to make people feel good by feeding them.

Where do you live, and why?  

I live in Ra'anana, a city that claims (probably rightly so) to have the highest quality of life in Israel.  I don't live here by choice.  My choice would be to live somewhere in the area of Jerusalem, enjoying dry summer days and brisk summer nights.  Instead, I live in the sauna that is Ra'anana because that is where my husband lives.  He lived in Ra'anana and I lived in Givat Ze'ev, one of those mountaintop settlements surrounding Jerusalem.  He couldn't move to my mountain, so I moved to his sauna.

What is your family like?

We're a blended family.  My husband has 4 children, I have 4 children.  Ever see The Brady Bunch?  We're nothing like that.  I have a blog called Miriyummy (www.miriyummy.wordpress.com) where I discuss the family, and even have a page that explains the entire tribe, my own Guide to the Perplexed (http://miriyummy.wordpress.com/about/).

What is your relationship with food?  Do you like to cook?

I have a love/love relationship with food.  My mother taught me that cooking and eating (and feeding) is an enjoyable experience.  I love to cook, it relaxes me, makes me feel creative.  The only time I don't enjoy it is when I'm rushed, usually on Friday afternoon right before Shabbat.  I do not do well in Headless Chicken mode. 

Miriyummy in headless chicken mode?

What is your first food-related memory?

My first memories are an amalgam of smells and sounds coming from the kitchen where I played while my mother cooked.  I remember lying over coloring books on the kitchen floor listening to an accompaniment of my mother chopping liver in a wooden bowl while the aroma of shmaltz rendering on the stove filled the air.

How would you describe yourself in the kitchen?  As a hostess?

My mother had two descriptions for me as a cook.  She always marveled at the fact that I am a fast cook.  I move about the kitchen quickly, close to the speed of light, rummaging in my spice drawer one moment, rinsing some tomatoes an instant later, grabbing eggs out of the refrigerator so quickly I drop one and the dog gets a treat as he licks up the yolk from the floor.  The other way my mother described how I cook is that I cook for the six million.  If there are ten of us sitting down to dinner I will cook enough for 24.  This drives my husband insane.  He's a wonderful cook in his own right, but he prides himself on cooking enough for everyone, and just enough.  My cooking for the masses spills over into my hostessing, I love to entertain, love to have people sitting around my table rolling their eyes in ecstacy (or sarcasm) over my food.  I would rather inundate you, stuff you, overwhelm you with food than leave you wanting more.  This is something I inherited from my mother.  In the Holocaust she had to do without, so she made sure that we never had the chance to be hungry, ever.

What is your favorite comfort food and why?

Macaroni and cheese, in all its permutations.  I love the Eastern European flat egg noodles with cottage cheese and sugar and cinnamon just as much as I love the elbow macaroni smothered in a cheddar cheese sauce.  Why?  Carbs, cheese, gooeyness, all the ingredients to make me feel good (at least for the moment).

Desert island picks, name three foods you could not live without:

Coffee, chocolate and sushi, my drugs of choice. [Oh, I can't wait to make sushi for/with you, Mirj!]

Now I know how to lure you here for a visit!  (Besides:  dry mountain air, no humidity, cool breezes from the Med...)

Is there any food you hate?  Why?

I hate, despise and loathe passion fruit.  [One of my favorite fruits, and absolutely my favorite flower.]  As far as I'm concerned it looks, smells and tastes like alien vomit.  Don't ask me how I know what alien vomit tastes like.  [Ooo-KAAAAY.  Guess we won't be serving my favorite fruit.  Fine.  Thanks for sharing.]

What is your favorite Miriyummy post and why?

My all-time favorite (so far) is I Am Not Everybody (http://miriyummy.wordpress.com/2010/05/09/i-am-not-everybody/).  [I love this post.]  I may not be the genetic production of my parents, but I am who they made me.  A close second is Barge Pole (http://miriyummy.wordpress.com/2010/07/14/barge-pole/).  My motto in life is Man plans, God laughs, and that post shows just how much this philosphy follows me throughout life.

Do you have a food-related story you would like to share?

I have so many of these stories that I started blogging them in Miriyummy (http://miriyummy.wordpress.com/).  Little did my husband know that when he gave me my nickname it was going to brand me.

Recommendation:  When you want a recipe, check Miriyummy before you go to Google.  You'll get more than a recipe.  You'll get a story, a slice of life, a laugh or a good cry.  And you just may make a friend.

"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.

%@%@%@%@%@%@%@%@%@%@%@%@%@%@%@%@%@

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

"May the death of this boy mark the end of all anguish..."

Yom shlishi, 17 Tamuz 5771, the fast 17th of Tamuz.

At Leiby Kletzky's funeral - photo credit: Reuters

So we had the usual pre-fast discussion.

"I dunno," my friend said.  "I just can't feel it.  The Churban is so long ago...  even the Holocaust is so far away in history.  It's hard to get into the spirit of Shiv'a Asar b'Tamuz and Tisha b'Av."

I thought about what Rebbetzin Malky Friedman had said on Sunday morning, at her Derech Hashem shiur, when one young lady brought up that same point.

"Rebbetzin, I need your help," she said.  She was very sweet, expecting her first child in a few weeks.  Incredibly young.  "I just don't understand how we are supposed to mourn the destruction of the Temple.  I can't feel sad.  I just feel hungry, and annoyed about having to fast."

The rebbetzin answered her sensitively but straightforwardly.  "We don't have to go back to the Temple, or even to the Holocaust.  We only have to go back to last week."  After a discreet silence, during which we all "touched base" with that part of ourselves that could deal with Leiby Kletzky's murder, Rebbetzin Malky continued softly.

"We have reached the very lowest level of the Churban," she said.  "The Churban [the destruction of the Holy Temple in 586 BCE] has manifested throughout history, every time there was a destruction of Jewish lives.  But they were all done by other people to Jews.  This is the first time that Jews have had to be afraid of Jews."

I didn't think it was politic or necessary in that setting to bring up Gush Katif.  And thank G-d and Jewish nature, no one was killed there, in spite of a world press that sat licking its collective lips, waiting for that very event.  Besides, as bad as Gush Katif was, this was infinitely worse.  We can make the excuse that the murderer is deranged.  But he is a Jew.  He wears a kipa.  He was part of an insular, trusting community.

And they can no longer trust their own, because of him, because of this one incident.

"We need to feel the pain of this, because this IS the Churban," the rebbetzin reiterated.  And she is right.  Every terrible thing we experience -- terrorism, wanton murder, terrible diseases -- all of these horrors would not be possible if our Temple were standing.

(I think of events close to home, and my heart screams.  "End the Galut now!  Right NOW!")

Rebbetzin Malky left us not without hope, but with responsibility.

"Now people in that community tell me that they have changed the guidance they give to their children.  It used to be 'If you're lost, ask a Yid for directions.'  Now the parents tell their children, 'If you're lost, don't ask a man.  Not even a Tatty.  Ask a Mommy.'  We women have the same responsibility we have always had throughout Jewish history.  We have to bring the Geula.  We can and will bring the Moshiach, b'mheira v'yameinu [speedily and in our days]."

The rebbetzin then explained what we already knew.  Love your fellow Jew.  (As I looked around the table at the mix of women -- Chareidi, Dati-Leumi, very discreet about religious preference -- I saw that a microcosm of the Jewish family was listening to her words, and looking around the table with me.)  Choose a mitzvah.  (She recommended the Grace After Meals.)  Be present when you do it.  But mostly -- love your fellow Jew.

There are women right in my yishuv (and in your community, as well) who feel great pain at feeling a lack of acceptance from their fellow Jews.  Each woman is sure that it is because the other sees something lacking in her.  I am sure that it is because -- though each and every one of us desperately needs validation by our fellow human beings -- they are too caught up in their own dramas to even see the poor woman and her pain.  No one is truly trying to hurt his or her fellow Jew.  But our task is to not merely avoid causing hurt.  We have to seek out opportunities to validate, to give a compliment or a smile.  Even a smile.

Or we can take the path of the "familiar rut," the practices and habits of a lifetime, our smiles reserved for family and dear friends, our compliments reserved for "special" moments and people.  And there will be more and more tragedies, until we get it.

Feel the pain.  It will fuel us for the work we have to do.

Glossary:
"May the death of this boy mark the end of all anguish...": taken from a prayer that may be said in the house of mourning
Churban: Destruction of the First Temple (but also referring to the Second Temple's destruction)
Shiv'a Asara b'Tamuz; Tisha b'Av: fasts commemorating the Churban
Derech Hashem: The Way of G-d; Rabbi Moshe Chaim Luzatto's book on basic principles of Jewish belief
Galut: Exile, both in physical and spiritual terms
Geula: Redemption
Yishuv: community


Powerful articles that helped me to focus on turning from this evil by doing good can be found here and here.

Do you want the good news or the bad news first?

Yom shlishi, 10 Tamuz 5771.

A couple of weeks ago, one of my spinning buddies and I started swapping information about our visits to the doctor.  She was having stomach trouble.  I was having headaches.

We had a few tests.  She had PT scans.  I had CT scans.  We joked when we met on our bikes that we had to be sure she had no pets running around in her stomach, and that I had no cats running around in my head.

Every morning we have a chat over a virtual cup of coffee.   (Yes, I know we just live down the street from each other.  But we never got into the habit of meeting for a cup of coffee -- and starting because of our health concerns would have seemed like artificial sweetener.)

This morning we sent each other off to get results from our respective physicians.  We "tough biker broads," as we've started calling ourselves, planned to reconnoiter later to share good news.

Our husbands have been waiting nervously on the sidelines.

I have some sort of "jumpy vein" thing which is not a big deal, apparently.  We'll have to figure out what the cause is.  Do I need to take some sort of muscle relaxant to finally get a good night's sleep again, after two months without?  Or should I buy an expensive, specially-contoured pillow?  Do I need dental work?  Who knows.  All I know is that my husband can stop worrying about aneurysms and other scarier stuff.  I was feeling pretty cheerful, until I got home to read my friend's husband's blog, where he has been posting to their many anxious friends about her status.

My friend has inoperable stomach cancer.

Who took all the air out of the world all of a sudden?

First come the questions.  Some are existential.  Some are silly.  Some are practical.  Why do really mean people hang around the planet sucking Tums to ease their justifiably cranky tummies, and nice, sweet people filled with light and goodness struggle for their very lives?  Do I have the right for my morning shmoozes with my friend, now that I'm not in the club anymore?  What of substance can we do?

The first question is unanswerable until the Moshiach comes.  The second is just the yetzer hara, trying to make it all about me.  I'll have to cope with my own survivor guilt, as I have had to many times as friends I love had struggled.  The third is answered by our tradition, by common sense, and by the family themselves.

Our tradition teaches us that G-d does listen.  We will pray for her complete recovery, for the new advances in cancer research to be in place in time for her, for her family's strength.

We will listen when they choose to talk, not treating them like lepers, but not driving them crazy with our need for solace.  We will use the avenues that they have offered for coordinating assistance that they may need as we fight this fight together.

I will keep "dinging" my friend once in a while in the morning to talk about LIFE.  Because no matter how afraid cancer makes all of us, my friend is very much in life, and living, and loving.  When I see her, we'll talk about the kids and make jokes about exercise and discuss the myriad other things we both care about.

A good friend struggling with this disease once said to her friends:  "Don't give me the 'sad, droopy eyes look.'  I don't need you to bury me yet.  Let's share our lives together!"

Please daven for a refua shelaima for Tzuriya Kochevet bat Sara.  May we share good news!