These Are the Duties
I should look so good when I'm sick!
Each morning, before the daily liturgy really gets going, we recited a passage from the Mishnah regarding duties whose full worth is without measure.
These are the things whose fruits we eat in this world but who full reward awaits us in the World to Come:
- honouring parents
- acts of LovingKindness
- arriving early at the house of study morning and evening
- visiting the sick
- welcoming the bride
- attending to the dead
- devotion in prayer
- and bringing peace between people
- but the study of Torah is equal to them all
~Shabbat 127a~
From this passage, we draw out that the study of Torah, when done properly, leads to ethical and proper conduct. Chazal turned the text over and over until, finally, they bequeathed to us the ways in which we should live.
And the ways are many…
And sometimes, especially for a Jewish woman consumed with the obligations of running a household, the needs of the self are overlooked.
If I learned nothing else from my bout with illness two years ago, I learned the importance of listening to my body. Prior to that, I’d just plow through whatever was ailing me. Maybe it was all those years of performing. “The Show Must Go On” and all that.
I recognized the signs earlier in the week: tightening neck muscles, a tickle in my trachea, aches. By Thursday, I knew that things were going south and, in an unprecedented move, I called the doctor AND had our sitter take over for me.
Friday morning and I had high hopes that I’d be on the mend. “Hah!” scoffed my tired and beaten-down body. Forcing me to accept my reality. Cancel what could be cancelled and turn over the rest to BossGiraffe.
Here’s the thing — no one, and I do mean that, is so important that he or she is indispensable.
Except to her loved ones. Her husband and children and parents and siblings. To them, she is irreplaceable.
God lovingly crafted not just our souls but the vessels that protect them. Am I not obligated to care for them both?
Funny The Things We Remember
Illustration by M. Dibdin Spooner
The boys had a great deal of difficulty going to sleep this evening. After many, many attempts, I managed to convince Peach to stay in his own bed by promising to stay with him until he fell asleep. And as I knelt next to his bed, feelings of guilt reared their ugly heads. As they have done every time I have knelt down since the time I was excoriated in the midst of a Chanukah dinner when I was young.
As an act of true chesed, my parents had invited the local mohel to join us for dinner one Chanukah. Old and widowed, Rabbi F. paid scant attention to the ruckus we children were making. Scant attention, that is, until out of the corner of his eye, he spied something that caused a violent intake of breath.
“You!” he cried, “Stop vat are you doink!”
Was he speaking to me? I didn’t move a muscle.
“You dere. I am spekink to you.”
Rabbi F. came over to where I was kneeling down to speak to my little brother.
“You must get up. Vee don’t kneel like dat. Dat’s vat dey do. It’s avodah zara. Idolatry. Get up. Get up.”
He went to demonstrate how one might crouch in such a manner that it not mimic kneeling. Which, by the way, is much easier to do if the one in question is not wearing a dress or skirt.
It is only with a great deal of distance that I can appreciate Rabbi F’s heartfelt desire to teach me proper behaviour. Because, boy, it scared the hell out of me at the time.
Say WHAT?
Words have meanings. Don’t say one thing when you mean something else.
If you want to criticize the media for holding you responsible for the violence that unfolded in Arizona this past weekend, go right ahead. You have every right, thanks to the First Amendment. But call it what it is. Bloodguilt. You want to take issue with the suggestion that your vitriolic rhetoric might have contributed to the murderous actions of another? Fine. Just be sure to name it accurately.
Blood libel means something very specific. And when you misuse the word, it makes you look foolish. Or worse.
Checking In
How are you?
More often than not, a social nicety. Part of the verbal interplay that occurs between people as they pass one another in the hallway or used to open a conversation en route to more “important” topics.
And rarely do we give a complete answer. We offer a non-committal “fine” or “good,” followed by “and you?” If things are anything less, we keep the details to ourselves. After all, why saddle anyone with what is actually happening?
Today, at a funeral attended by hundreds and viewed by thousands, I reintroduced myself to someone I knew from camp. “How are you?” Mikey asked.
“How are you?” What kind of question is that to ask at a funeral?
“How are you.” As Mikey taught me, perhaps there was no more important question to have asked today.
Common Language
A group of of us were scheduled to get together for lunch today. For most of us, it was to have been our first IRL experience. We know each other, though, through our ongoing conversations on Facebook, Twitter, reading one another’s blogs, etc.
After careful consideration of time-schedules, dietary restrictions, and other logistics, we settled on what looked to be a delicious choice.
Or so I imagine.
Because life got in the way. One of us was unable to procure child care. Another one of us had to stay longer at work. I ended up caring for Poppyseed, who was diagnosed with influenza this morning.
And so, apologies and rain checks were exchanged.
Im tirtzu ain zo agada , said one.
Parapharsing Theodor Herzl, if we will it, it is no dream.
I love sharing a common language.
This I Believe
I believe in God.
I believe in the power of prayer.
But I see these statements as only somewhat connected.
I believe in a God who is omnipotent. Who is omniscient. And omnipresent. I believe, as well, that God hears our prayers.
But hearing our prayers and bending to our desire are not the same thing.
On the day that the planes hit the Twin Towers, stories about people who were supposed to be at the WTC or on one of the hijacked planes but weren’t were told and retold with a great deal of urgency. “But by the grace of God” accompanied most of these stories. As in “There but for the grace of God, go I.” Ascribed to English evangelical preacher and martyr, John Bradford, who, while imprisoned, uttered a variant after seeing a criminal being walked to the gallows. In other words, if it had not been for God’s mercy, that would have been me.
What that statement implies, and what I find troubling, is the notion that one person is deserving of God’s mercy while another person is not. In other words, what about all those who had the misfortune of being on those planes? Was God not watching out for them?
In the aftermath of yesterday’s horrific shooting in Arizona, there was much confusion. Rumour and fact were co-mingled and then disseminated. Quickly. Inaccurately. Reports of Congresswoman Gabrielle Gifford’s death. Then retracted.
Mistakes happen. And in the age of social media, an incorrect report can spread rapidly while corrections seem to take longer. (Feather story, anyone?) What I found shocking were the tweets that seemed to imply that it was the power of prayer that changed the outcome. That the once-dead Giffords had been restored to life as a result of prayer.
Or the prayer vigil that occurred last night at the close of Shabbat. With people wholeheartedly believing that if only enough people prayed or prayed hard enough, that power could be harnessed to restore Debbie Friedman to health.
Given that Debbie, z”l, died in the early hours of the morning, what must those people be thinking now? Do they feel that they somehow failed their mentor, their teacher, their friend? Or that God failed her?
I believe in God. But not a God whose Hand can be tipped by the prayers (or absence of prayers) of others. Or who chooses to love one person more than another.
I believe in the power of prayer. I believe in the ways in which we, God’s children, can be strengthened by joining our voices and souls together.
And I believe in a God who holds us in our grief and brings us out of dark places. Helping us sing, once more, in joy.
What a Difference a Day Makes
January 14, 1996. Our wedding day…
Well, not exactly.
See, when we got engaged on 23 December 1994, PC and I immediately set about to select a date for our impending nuptials. Given that I was studying in Jerusalem at the time, any wedding would need to wait until I returned at the end of May. Our rabbi (BossGiraffe) didn’t have any availability until August, but my best friend was getting married in August and it made sense to look for another time. Then the fall chagim. Given that I was in school, term break made the most sense.
Looking at the shul calendar, we noticed that the (then) cantor’s youngest daughter was becoming Bat Mitzvah on Saturday, 13 January. “How wonderful,” we thought. The rabbi’s family and the cantor’s family could rejoice together. A wonderful plan. And the date was set.
For one day.
Because the next day, I had second thoughts. Would I, as a thirteen-year-old, have wanted to share the spotlight with a bride?
So, we moved the date back one week and planned to meet under the chuppah on 7 January 1996.
Except….that January 14 somehow lodged itself into PC’s memory bank. Though the 14th was our projected wedding date for less than twenty-four hours, it has remained with us all of these years. Every time, and I am not exaggerating, every time that PC is asked to recall the date of our anniversary, he asks “is it the 14th?”
Well, my love, this year let’s do it your way. Since you are out-of-town until the 14th, let’s move our anniversary up a week. We’ll celebrate fifteen years of kiddushin next week.
So for now, I wish you a very happy un-versary.
Til next week…
Influential
Sing Unto God by Debbie Friedman
This was my first introduction to Debbie Friedman. I was about five years old and enthralled with this 60’s-sounding group of high school kids singing Jewish folk songs. The recording is raw, unpolished, and wonderful. Dated, to be sure. But still some of Debbie’s best work.
Today’s press release, sharing news of her critical health condition, names her Mi Shebeirach as the piece for which she is best known. Without question, Debbie’s composition, which holds deep meaning for a tremendous number of people around the world, introduced the topic of healing into the Reform Jewish community’s dialogue.
And so we include, among all those we name in our hearts, our teacher, D’vorah bat Freydl.
Bless those in need of healing with r’fuah sh’leima (a complete healing)…
And let us say amein.
Who Am I?
From four o’clock in the afternoon until I arrive home, any call that shows up on my mobile’s caller ID with the name “home” fills me with dread. Because “home” is never calling for just a chat. And by “home,” I mean Beernut. Having overheard me “leave the number after the beep” somewhere between one and two million times, it seems that he memorized it. Giving him, in his mind, permission to use it. At any time. For any reason.
Imagine my surprise, therefore, when the voice that greeted me on the other end of the line belonged not to Beernut, but to Poppyseed. (Note: I didn’t even know that she knew how to use a phone.)
Poppyseed: Mama, can I be in the multi-cultural fashion show?
FrumeSarah: Is it tomorrow?
Poppyseed (laughing): Of course it’s not tomorrow.
FrumeSarah: Then this conversation can wait until tomorrow. Anyway, why would you be in a multi-cultural fashion show?
Poppyseed (eyes audibly rolling): I am Jewish, you know.
It raises an interesting question. What does it mean to be Jewish? Or, more specifically, what does it mean to be a kid from a serious Jewish family, living in a non-Jewish society?
By asking to take part in her school’s multi-cultural fashion show, Poppyseed recognizes what was articulated by Rabbi Mordecai Kaplan in his groundbreaking, 1934 work, Judaism as a Civilization.
Judaism is not only a religion; it is a people with its own history, identity, culture and civilization.
Not only does Poppyseed sense that her Jewish identity extends beyond issues of faith, but she is willing to stand up and take her place among her Vietnamese, Thai, Japanese, Egyptian, and Indian classmates. [Indian as in the Commonwealth not the indigenous peoples of the Americas.]
Now we just have to figure out what she should wear?
So which shall it be???
- Jewish Mother Racheil
- Dreidel Maidel
- Shabbas Queen
- Shtetl Chic
California Dreamin’
With the MegaMillion jackpot at a whopping $355M, I spent a few moments lost in outlandish reverie, contemplating what things I could do with an insane amount of money.
Standing on one foot…
- HUGE endowment for the shul — may they never have to worry about money again.
- large donation to Mazon-The Jewish Response to Hunger.
- establish a complete ASD program at URJ Camp Newman.
- buy an apartment for my sister.
- pay off our mortgage.
- college funds for the kids.
- full-time ASD specialist for Beernut.
- apartment in Israel for an annual trip — or two.
- go back to school for doctorate and an MFA — though not necessarily in that order.
What would you do with that kind of money?
Frume Sarah is Shabbos-observant -- in a Reform way, that is. Please note that from Friday afternoons until one hour after sundown on Saturday evenings, Frume Sarah will be unavailable, in observance of the Jewish Sabbath.
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Thank you for your understanding...and gut Shabbos!!! 
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