At Your Service
Trying to accomplish simple household errands with three average kids in tow is no big deal. My three kids, however, are anything but average. One is three years old. One has ASD. And one is an overdramatic, high-maintainence pre-tween. As one might imagine, going marketing with these particular children is nothing less than a recipe for disaster.
“Why not order online and have it delivered?” asked one well-meaning folk.
A reasonable suggestion. And so, I spent over an hour, setting up an account AND selecting the items that we need from my favourite, neighbourhood market. And though there were just a few things that they didn’t have, I figured the overall convenience was worth it.
Only to discover, as I began the checkout process, that this particular store does NOT deliver. Nope. Their version of online shopping consists of some poor sod who runs around the store, gathering the items I have requested, and then for $5.95, I can go and pick up the groceries. While more convenient than doing it myself, not quite what I had envisioned.
And so, I began the entire process again at another neighbourhood store. One that, for example, does not carry my brand of water. (Of course, I could have the water delivered directly from the company, but that’s for another day.)
And, of course, after placing the order, I realized that there were another six or seven items that I had neglected to select. Between those items and the water, a quick jaunt to the market is still in order.
If I added up the amount of time I spent just placing the order, which I suspect takes longer the first time, as well as the delivery fee, which was waived the first time, AND having to block out a window of time to accept the delivery, there is no question. Given the opportunity to avoid public tantrums from the Frumettes is completely worth every penny.
Sukkot-r-Us
If you are a regular reader, than you know that I was fretting earlier this week about the inability for me to get my act together and build a sukkah. What you may not know is that I received a VERY generous offer from a long-time friend in response to my angst.
Seriously…I am not working right now and I would be so delighted to get together with you and the kids and help you build one with PVC pipe. I’m kinda handy that way. You could probably do the whole project for under $50 including the silk plants and lattice for the roof. I might even have some plastic fruit somewhere. What do you think?
My initial inclination was to refuse this VERY generous offer. Her ability to just toss up a sukkah (and with something called PVC pipe) humbled me to the point that I couldn’t believe my own inadequacy.
Yet I knew that it would be wrong to allow my own insecurity to prevent another person from making it possible for my family to fulfill a mitzvah.
It turns out that the sukkah did not just get tossed up. It was an intense effort. And it bears little resemblance to our original plan. It’s short. It’s not Halakhic. And it is too fragile to support much decoration.
But it’s ours. And it was created out of love and friendship. It is beautiful. And it is perfect.
!חג סוכות שמח
Desperately Seeking Sukkot
Having written about the Frummies attempt to make Shavuot meaningful for the entire family this past Sivan, we are now faced with Sukkot.
Though there is a worship component to Sukkot, it is mostly a home-based holiday. In fact, as BossGiraffe is fond of saying, “you don’t really own this holiday until you’ve built your own sukkah.” And he’s right.
With PC in Easton, PA much of the time, my days and nights are full as I juggle family and congregational responsibilities. With familial obligations often taking a backseat. So…no sukkah this year. Which makes me sad…and leaves me feeling rather guilty that I am not living up to my own expectations as a Jewish mother.
The kids will not be going to school on Thursday. It is the first day of Sukkot and, as is written in the Good Book, “it shall be a day of complete rest for you.” Since they won’t be in school, I’ve set out to find an appropriate place for us to celebrate the first day of one of the major festivals on the Jewish calendar.
Nada. Nisht. Efes. Nothing.
That’s right. With Sukkot starting midweek, virtually every single Reform and Conservative shul (and many of the Othodox as well) is planning age-appropriate Sukkot activities this Sunday. But not actually on the first day. Day schools are all closed so it isn’t as if there aren’t any kids who will need to find where to be that day.
My guess, and please correct me if I am wrong, is that families who choose to keep their kids home or attend schools that will be closed, are not regarding shul as their primary avenue for Sukkot observance. Rather, I imagine that they will be visiting the sukkot of family and friends that day. Synagogues, therefore, have no reason to create programming for kids who won’t be in attendance.
Which leaves us without any plans. And gives me less than twenty-four hours to come up with meaningful ways for our family to observe the first, and sacred, day of Sukkot.
**this is NOT our sukkah. It IS available, however, from Sukkah Soul.
Grief Revisited
The firsts are always the hardest. The first family birthday party. The first Pesach seder. The first Mother’s Day. Her birthday.
Nothing could have prepared me for the first Yom Kippur.
Truth-be-told, I expected it to be hard, though if pressed, I would have been unable to articulate what that meant before the fact. I certainly would not have anticipated the crushing sensation that enveloped me as we moved into the afternoon service.
How can I describe the way she would sit with her legs gracefully crossed at her ankles? Or the way she would nod and bob her perfectly-coiffed head in time with certain melodies? How many years did I sit next to her, transfixed at the rhythmic way she would twirl her thumbs? In one direction and then the other. Were there any pages during the middle of the Mincha service that she had not read at some point over the years? How I missed seeing her sweet, round face turned up towards me, smiling with pride.
And then Yizkor. It was then that the reality of the loss slammed into me. My mother had always gone outside during the memorial service. But now, with the death of her mother, she no longer had that option. Observing this life transition was just so sad, seeing her take her place amongst those who have been a primary mourner.
To lead the service as one who has recently experienced a loss is to grieve in a raw and public way. Sitting in the pews provides a modicum of privacy. Being on the bimah…
The sadness is palpable. Tonight, in the midst of dinner, Poppyseed describe what she calls “the AfterLand.”
It is a place where you go after you die after your mom dies too. And then you start all over again. You are in her belly again and then you are born. As yourself. Reliving your life. It doesn’t matter about the dad, she said, because the mom is the one who is pregnant. Sometimes it looks a little different. Sometimes it looks like stuff is floating. You know…like different levels on a video game.
Here’s the thing: Yizkor gives us the time and space to reach all the way down and grieve again. And then put it away. It allows us permission to live life fully, free of guilt for going on without our loved one, because we know that there will be moments set aside to remember.
I am glad that the first Yom Kippur has come and gone. To have emerged on the other side, knowing that the edges of sadness will be softened with the passage of time. And that the opportunity will come, in its appropriate times, to reflect, to mourn, and to remember.
The Yom After
No new post today. And not because I have nothing to say. It just will have to wait a day while I get through the heavy murkiness that is the day after The Day.
Meanwhile, head on over to Chavi’s place for this week’s Haveil Havalim. (BTW, no host for next week as of yet. SO feel free to share the responsibility and take a week.)
Please enjoy this repost that will give you some insight as to where my head (and soul) tends to be right after Yom Kippur:
Even under the best of conditions, there is a physical toll that the High Holy Days take. But that isn’t the impact I feel most keenly. It is a type of day-after letdown that is not completely unlike the emotional low after the birth of a child.
The first time I felt it was the day after my Bat Mitzvah service. The house was relatively quiet. The two middle kids and my dad were at Religious School. My mom and baby brother were sleeping. For the ONLY time in my Religious School career, I was permitted to take the day off from school. Standing at the top of the staircase, I remember thinking “now what?!?” as I surveyed all that remained of my big day. Strewn about the living room were books, boxes containing gold charms (a VERY popular B/M gift in the 80’s), Cross pen sets, records, and other post-Bat Mitzvah chazzarei. Thank you notes aside, I couldn’t imagine what would replace all of the time and energy I had been spending each day in preparation for my service.
A little more than eleven years later, a similar experience on the morning after our wedding. I stood at the top of the spiral staircase and gazed down upon my beautiful, lifeless wedding gown that we had carefully laid out on the couch just hours before. {{sigh}}
And each year, in the aftermath of the High Holy Days, I am enveloped by a haze. I move with heavy limbs. And a heavy heart. And the sadness is in direct proportion to the heights of the day before. The more glorious the service, the harder the fall.
I used to think that arrival of Sukkot on the heels of Yom Kippur was a cruelty imposed by a Tradition that didn’t take real life into consideration. Now, with a soul yearning for another encounter with the Divine, I see the wisdom.
An Effective Fast
צוֹם קַל I have always been troubled by this traditional salutations of Yom Kippur. It is translated as “Have an easy fast.” But what would be the point of having an easy fast if the purpose of the fast is to afflict ourselves? The time we spend in shul over the 25+ hours are not meant to be easy. Soul-searching is never easy. And if you think it is, you’re probably not doing it right.
Last year, the Ima wrote a post that perfectly captures my thoughts. (Incidentally, her post on the topic this year is worth reading too!) Among the comments was a suggestion that we use the term צום טוב. Literally “a good fast,” I like to think of it as “have an effective fast.”
So I wish you a צום טוב. May all the soul-work you do be met with favour by the Kodesh Baruch Hu.
Speaking too Soon
It really wasn’t my place to say anything. I just couldn’t help myself….
They were about nine years old. Two girls and a boy. The girls approached him, making the loser sign, and gesturing in that not-nice way that pre-tween girls have a tendancy to do. Their words were muffled, but their feelings weren’t.
And in response, the kid gave them the bird.
It is a vulgar gesture, to be sure. But I remember what it feels like to be called a loser. The sinking feeling in your gut that says “hey, you don’t belong and you’ll never belong. FREAK.” Flipping the bird was the only way this kid felt that he could deflect the pain and seem as though their name-calling didn’t chip away at his self-perception.
But here is what happened next.
The boy’s mother came over and the head mean girl ratted on him. The mother looked mortified that her son had made such an obscene gesture and immediately began to reprimand him while the “victim” smuggly observed.
As the mother continued to explain, rather patiently, that such a gesture was inappropriate, my Yetzer HaRa said to the girl,
And so is calling someone a loser.
It wasn’t that what I said was wrong. It’s just that I said it to the wrong person. I should have taken the boy’s mother aside and explained that her son had been provoked. As Beernut, who observed the entire exchanged later said, the boy should have a consequence for doing something wrong. And I concur. I just felt that the mother ought to know that her son doesn’t just go around giving people the bird when she wasn’t watching.
I think my Yetzer wanted that girl, who obviously represents girls-since-grown, to know that we are always being observed. And we must be accountable for the hurts that we cause.
I have no way to apologize to her. Or to the mother. And that’s the problem with speech. Like Elvis, once the words have left our mouths, they are gone. They’re not coming back.
Al cheit…for the sin of speaking first and thinking second. For this sin, O God of mercy, forgive me, pardon me, and grant me atonement.
I Need a Hero
School is back in session and already the tension is mounting with the first of many projects already looming large. The first assignment?
Famous American Biography Assignment
Part 1
Read a biography of a famous American. The book must be at least 100 pgs. The subject must be someone who has made a significant contribution and is no longer living. Complete the Biography Notes worksheet thoroughly and neatly.Part 2
Draw a portrait of the famous American and label with five adjectives describing him/her. Thoughtful consideration should go into choosing the adjectives and you must be able to give good reasons for your choices. This part will be done in class.Part 3
Write a full page (minimum) tribute about this individual, including specific accomplishments, admirable personal qualities, obstacles overcome, etc. This tribute should be typed or written in your best cursive, and be free of grammatical and spelling errors.Part 4
Give an oral presentation about the life of this famous American. Pretend you are the person you read about. Tell about “your” contributions, and about “your” life. You will need to rehearse at home and be very prepared. You will only have five minutes for your presentation.
Monday afternoon
Beernut hands me the instructions for this assignment and excitedly announced his choice for a famous American who had made a “significant contribution”: Sandy Koufax.
FrumeSarah: “Sandy Koufax? Really, Beernut? What did Sandy Koufax do?”
Beernut: “Mo-om! Everyone in the whole world knows that Sandy Koufax didn’t play on Yom Kippur.”
The poor kid has no idea that Sandy Koufax’s athletic accomplishments, such as the speed of his pitches, are what catapulted him to fame. It’s only within our community that he is known first and foremost for taking himself out of the lineup of Game 1 of the 1965 World Series.
Tuesday afternoon
FS: “Good news, Beernut. I’ve ordered a 106-page biography on Sandy Koufax and it will be here on Thursday.”
BN: “Uh Mom…I can’t do it on Sandy Koufax. He’s still alive.”
FS: “Are you sure? I really thought he’d died.”
BN: “Yep, I’m sure. Mr. Nakamura told me.”
FS: “It’s OK. We can come up with someone else.”
BN: “Mom, I’ve already done that. I’m going to do my report on…Louis Brandeis.”
FS: “Louis Brandeis?”
BN: “You know…the first Jewish Supreme Court judge.”
FS: “I. Know. Who. He. Is. But Beernut, where the hell did you learn about LOUIS BRANDEIS???”
BN (with eyes rolling): “Religious school.”
Oh…right.
Wednesday afternoon
FS: “Bad news, Beernut. I can’t seem to find an age-appropriate book on Louis Brandeis. But I know we can come up with someone else. Hey…I have a book that I got as a Chanukah gift when I was just about your age and it’s about a fellow named Haym Solomon.”
BN: “Who was he?”
FS: “Well, he came to America when he was thirty-five years old and was instrumental in helping America gain her freedom from England.”
BN: “He wasn’t born here. He wasn’t American.”
FS: “I think that a good arguement could be made for him given there was no America at the time AND he was responsbile for getting the money the Colonists needed to pay for the war.”
BN: “I’m not sure. How about Papa? He fought in TWO wars.”
FS: “Yes, he did. But I’m not sure Mr. Nakamura would consider that a significant contribution given the thousands and thousands of young men who served in those times.”
BN: “How about King David? He’s definitely dead.”
FS: “He’s not American.”
BN: “Right.”
FS: “You know, Beernut, you don’t have to pick someone Jewish.”
BN: “Yeah, Mom, I do.”
And then I remembered. Remembered what it was like to sit through history classes as a youngster and wonder where I fit into the story. Learning about California state history was like studying a foreign country. My family was still in the shtetls of Eastern Europe. They weren’t anywhere near the El Camino Real, which runs from San Diego up to Sonoma. So to do a report on someone like Levi Strauss writes us back into the story.
For children of ethnic, religious, and cultural minorities, pointing to heroes that look, sound, and act like them is empowering. It send the message of inclusion and belonging. And it sends the message that they too can make significant contributions to our world.
Incidentally, anyone know how Mr. Koufax’s health is these days??
Calls it Like She Sees It
For the sake of Shalom Bayit this morning, Poppyseed graciously accepted my offer to wear the necklace I had chosen to wear today in lieu of the one she had chosen to wear and was now hanging around the neck of her “annoying baby brother.”
“Please be careful with my necklace, Poppyseed. It’s very special to me.”
“Tell me the story, Mama.”
Because with Frume Sarah, my kids know, there is always a story. And so I talked about my semester in London during undergrad. And how this was a crazy, impulse buy. I didn’t really need a black beaded necklace, but the random Mogen Dovid charms on the necklace made it too compelling to pass up. Where did I find such a treasure? Camden Market.
As I struggled to describe the open-air atmosphere to my seven-year-old daughter, who has been deprived of visits to Farmers’ Markets and swap meets, Poppyseed’s eyes grew wide with understanding.
I know what that is, Mama. It’s a shuk.
Yes. Yes, it is.
Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-change
Frume Sarah isn’t big on change. Which can be difficult for a rabbi in the Reform (aka Progressive) movement. Sometimes the resistance to change is completely irrational. Which is also problematic in a movement that prides itself on a rational approach to religion. After all, my alma-mater is a direct descendant of the “Hochshule.”
But remember…they don’t call me Frume Sarah for nothing.
It may surprise you that when it comes to gender and gender roles, I am pretty much a traditionalist. Present vocational choice excluded. The term avot indicates ancestors. I’m good with the “L word.” And it truly does not bother me that men thank God for not having made them female. [Though I personally think it makes more sense for both women AND men to thank God for being made according to Divine Will — another post for another day.]
Women bentch licht. Men say kiddush. It isn’t that a man can’t light candles or that a woman can’t say the blessing of santification over the wine. The mitzvah of lighting the Shabbat candles, according to Maimonides, falls to both men and women (Hilchot Shabbat 5:1), though it is primarily the obligation of the woman (Hilchot Shabbat 5:3). Thus, if no Jewess is available come the astronomical sunset on a Friday, the man is obligated to light the candles.
That’s how it’s been. And that’s how it shall be.
Or so we said.
It isn’t that it was exactly forbidden. It’s just that no man had ever requested to light the candles at the start of Kabbalat Shabbat. It simply has not been our minhag.
Until a couple of months ago, when a member of our congregation wondered whether he could light the candles. And then we had to make a decision.
I am bound to disclose that I was one hundred percent, completely opposed to the notion. For no reason other than a purely emotional response. After all, the Reform movement counts women towards a minyan, ordains women, allows them to be called to Torah, act as witnesses, etc. In other words, women are given full access to all areas of ritual life. How, then, could we suddenly prevent someone from participating in a ritual based on gender? So I recognize that my feelings were irrational. I was permitted to voice my opinion, as all staff members have always been free to express thoughts, ideas, etc. And then…I was overruled. Because, in the end, I am not the senior rabbi. There is one senior…and it is not me. The pulpit and its rituals, ultimately, rest in his hands.
This was still hypothetical, however, as no male had been scheduled to light candles.
And then…there we were on Shabbat Shuvah. With no one assigned for the honours. Why, you ask? Because — and I hate to admit this — folks just aren’t up for yet another service after spending so much time in shul during these Days of Awe. Between me and the lampost, I do find it fascinating that the folks who attend Shabbat Shuvah by us are the ones who tend to attend most, if not all, of the services for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. The ones who complain about not being able to spend “one minute more” at synagogue are the ones who typically put in an hour, maybe two, and then cut out early. [Also a post for another time.]
The next thing I know, two folks (a man and a woman) are up on the bimah, lighting candles. She read the English, he lit the candles, and recited the bracha in beautiful,flawless Hebrew. With the most kavanah I have heard over candles in a long, long time.
And as I whispered the Shehechiyanu into the ears of the candle blessers, I silently thanked God for removing the stumbling block from before me.
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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