From Bayside 2005

I embrace the memories of Bayside, where I grew up, and all that is evoked of my childhood in the context and presence of my mother’s recently diagnosed Alzheimer’s disease. Memories have taken on a new meaning and a new urgency for me.  They are not to be taken for granted and I feel compelled to secure and somehow protect them. I am reminded of the old, black and white Polaroid photos and the necessity of wiping them with a fixing agent to ensure that they wouldn’t fade.  If only there was a fixing agent for our memories.

It has become difficult for my mother to describe events; of days past or of the day that has just passed “We went to that special place to buy things” “We went to eat at that place where we always go”.  She confuses nouns and proper nouns; I become Leon; my wife becomes my sister; the car becomes “the thing we drive in”. 

Over breakfast I encourage my mother to talk of her youth and how she met my father. She talks in vague, ambiguous phrases and I work hard to help fill in the details. 

“I was at a place, (I believe it was small a women’s college in Manhattan), and men would come and visit”.

“I was dating another man, who loved me and kept on trying to give me something” (I believe it may have been some form of jewelry, perhaps a class ring). 

“I met my, father, I mean my husband at a place” (I cannot decipher this).  “He was so very handsome, and we fell in love immediately.”

“We wanted to get married right away but we had to wait until my sister got married first.  When we got married, it was at the same place as my sister”

These words that define who we are; these names, places, descriptors that give meaning and structure to the individualized world we have constructed over decades - what happens when we cannot find them?  There is a person who I loved, who I married, with whom I had children and shared a life.  He died, he was too young, I was heartbroken; who is that person?  Does our life slip away?  Do we cease to understand the path that brought us to this moment?

I work hard to be my mother’s partner in memory and together we come to share her story.  Perhaps, this is the nature of our lives.  We create and share collective memories – family memories, ethnic memories, national and global memories.  The sharing of memories binds us to one another.  My sisters and I have taken up the load to help my mother be part of this collective family memory.  We are richer for it, but there is a price to pay.

In the face of a fading past and an inevitable frightening future, my relationship with my mother is deepened and enriched.  Our daily phone calls have become warmer more intimate.  I begin by announcing myself with high affect – to get things started and to ensure that she knows who it is: “HI MOM!  I can hear the joy in her voice as she responds: “Hello, my son”.   I give her an update on children and relatives, and she tells me of her day – as she is able.  We end in a manner we never did before the onset of her illness - by saying “I love you”. Why is it that we only truly appreciate the present when we begin to lose the capacity to embrace the past or hope for a future?

My mother has begun to take stock of her life and to measure her days.  She talks of how lucky she is: Four children, 15 grandchildren and 7 great-grandchildren.  She is giving many of her prized possessions away; her parents’ magnificent breakfront is given to Susan; Jo and I now possess her beautiful crystal and silverware.  She cast off these heirlooms as she cast off her memories; she is letting go. In a seemingly paradoxical manner, my mother’s Alzheimer’s disease has brought me closer to my own past as I return to Bayside Oaks and walk the streets; as I talk with my mother and we become partners in memories.  Puzzle pieces of my own life, once lost, reemerge and fall into place. It is as if there is a law of conservation of memory; as my mother’s memories diminish mine are renewed. 

Across the table, my mother looks at me with such love that I am momentarily taken aback.  I realize how profoundly joyful my visit has made her and how grateful she is for our time together.  For a brief moment, it feels like a burden.  The unconditional love between parent and child has been redefined and realigned and I now fully understand that our respective roles have forever been dramatically changed – to an extent reversed.  She needs me, she longs for the times when I return home.  I exhale and embrace this burden, this role, this responsibility, this love.

We walk arm in arm down the streets that I have known for so long. The past diminishes.  The Bayside Oaks of my childhood is fading. The streets grow smaller, the houses disappear and are replaced by ones I do not recognize.  Trees, small when I was a child, are now large.  They send their roots under the sidewalk and lift the concrete.  The path is uneven, and I hold on tight to my mother so she does not lose her footing.  I will hold on as long as I can.

David Raphael © 2005

Uncle Myron, The Orioles and a Hot Dog

Freedom to love the law that Moses brought, 

To sing the songs of David, and to think 

The thoughts Gabirol to Spinoza taught, 

Freedom to dig the common earth, to drink 

The universal air—for this they sought 

Emma Lazarus 

When my Uncle Myron, known to most as Rabbi Myron M. Fenster, was to visit Baltimore for the annual gathering of the Rabbinical Assembly asked for a favor, I couldn’t say no.  He wanted to go to an Orioles game at Camden Yards. 

Not any ticket would do for Uncle Myron and I called in a favor and procured field-level box seats, ten rows behind home plate for a Sunday afternoon game. 

As game time approached the temperature rose to 97° with the humidity not far behind. I navigated to our seats which I discovered with dismay were exposed to the full brunt of the sun.  Uncle Myron went straight to the kosher hot dog stand and promptly arrived at our seats with dogs and knishes in hand.  And so, we sat, munching on these kosher delights and drinking Diet Cokes while the sun blazed down upon us and the humidity drenched out shirts.  Miraculously, we lasted till the seventh inning when we mercifully sought the refuge of the air-conditioned car.

What was it about kosher hot dogs and baseball?  It came to me several months after our outing. 

Uncle Myron

Kosher hot dogs at a baseball game represented the great coming together of the disparate parts of Uncle Myron’s identity. He is a proud American, born into the depression years and raised during days of the “greatest generation”. His father had come to America as a teen after watching his brother being murdered in the streets of Russia. America was the land of his family’s salvation. The land where he played stick ball on the streets of Flatbush, met and married the girl next door, and was accepted to the rabbinical program at the Jewish Theological Seminary. Guided by the learnings of our sacred books and grounded by the wisdom of our teachers he has been a spiritual guide and teacher to thousands.  

To be an American Jew. To be a Jew in America. Baseball, hot dogs, box seats, the Star-Spangled Banner. A double play, an inside fastball. A hot dog slathered with mustard and a Coke.  A commitment to Jewish tradition honored. “Baruch ata H’shem….HaMotzi Lechem Meen HaAretz.  Blessed are you, Creator of the Universe Who brought forth hot dog buns from the earth.”

Tekiah Gedolah

Still recovering from my post Yom Kippur gluttony, I awoke early to read the New York Times and came upon an article on Mark Zuckerberg and Marc Benioff, two Jewish techno-billionaires, blowing the Shofar. The digital version of the article featured a video of the Zuckerberg, in his ubiquitous long-sleeve tee shirt, blowing the shofar at home while an unseen child wailed in the background.  (https://www.nytimes.com/2018/09/17/style/marc-zuckerberg-blowing-shofar.html)

Like the Shofars (Shofarim? Shofarot?) used in my synagogue during recent High Holyday services, Zuckerberg’s Shofar appeared to be approximately four-feet long, it’s length far exceeding the length of his left arm which held it in place. At our synagogue, we had four men (although I do not believe any of them were techno-billionaires) with equally elongated Shofars serenading us with Tikiahs, Shivarims, and Truahs from different parts of the sanctuary.  The coordinated blowing was orchestrated to create a dramatic impact on the Rosh Hashanah worship. Unfortunately, it also confused the more senior members of the congregation.  All around me, octogenarians were seen adjusting their hearing aids. 

My friend Sandy turned to me and commented “I don’t remember Shofars being so long”.  Certainly, that was my memory.  Shofars used to be of the 10-inch variety, carved with small notches along their edges. Shofars today all seem to be in the 3 – 4-foot helix variety - far cries from the diminutive size of our youths. 

What also seems to have become elongated is the “T’kiah G’dolah” – the final blast of the Shofar in each cycle on Rosh Hashanah and at the end of Nelah, the concluding service on Yom Kippur.  In my synagogue, it is not unusual for the T’kiah G’dolah to last 30 seconds or more, causing the blower’s face to turn a brilliant shade of red.  I am concerned that one of them will have an aneurysm.

While I recognize that, to paraphrase, Freud, ‘sometimes a shofar is just a shofar’, to my thinking, the growth of elongated shofars and the final blasts of T’Kiah G’dolah, marks the rise of “Macho Judaism”, where men demonstrate their virility and alpha dominance, within the of context our Jewish rituals.  These are, in fact, “the Days of Awe”.

Another demonstration of Macho Judaism seems to be the “Hagbai” clean and jerk.  Each year select men are called upon to demonstrate their vitality by lifting the Torah after the reading has been completed.  The contestants demonstrate their strength and skill by seeing how many sections of the Torah they can unravel before the lift.  I believe the requirement is three, but, this never seems to suffice.  Seven or eight will ensure a positive murmur.  I do admire these kosher strong men but also worry that a slight misstep will require all of us to fast for 40 days.  I have nightmares of unrelenting caffeine withdrawal headaches. During these moments during the service, I was contemplating the need for a new pharmaceutical product “Jewagra”, to enable men to keep their horns and scrolls aloft longer.  Jars of Alex Jones’s “Super Male Vitality” supplements might also do the trick.  I added an additional “Al Chet” (“For the Sin”) for these wayward thoughts. 

My synagogue is fully egalitarian, and women participate in all aspects of the service.  But, in the 12 years I have been a member (and, perhaps, for the 60 years or so I have been attending synagogues), I have never seen a woman called to blow the shofar or lift the Torah.  Women in our country join the Marines, are fighter pilots and serve as police officers and firefighters around the world.  One would think they have the capacity to blow a shofar and lift a Torah.

The High Holy Days have passed, and Sukkot is upon us.  Around the world, Jewish men will be hoisting long stalks of bamboo atop our booths.  At our synagogue, the men will sanctify the holiday with “Cigars and Scotch in the Sukkah”. While I admire the alliteration, as a non-meat eater and non-smoker, I will demure. Don’t get me started on the Lulav.  Sometimes a palm frond is just a palm frond.   

It's a Mystery

Each year is unique, and each year brings it surprises.  Last year, in the days preceding Rosh Hashanah, we held the infant Bina Mazel in our arms and celebrated her Simchat Bat (Baby Naming).  A year later, in the days following her first birthday, we sat in Nomi and Keith’s living room together watching her scoot around the room.  I was reminded of days long ago when we struggled to keep up with her mother as a non-stop toddler.  Bina wants to explore everything; toys, books and dolls; but also paper cups, pieces of lint, and Milo’s (the dog) eyes and inner ears. Like both of her parents, she is drawn to music and shakes her hands and tush to the same Raffi songs we shared with our children. Like her Zayde (grandfather) she is a two-fisted eater, and, for instance, armed with an avocado slice in one hand and a sliver of pizza in the other she relishes her meals.  She is a great blessing, and her grandparents, aunts and uncles are smitten.  We are all in her orbit. 

5778 ended with a bit of crash…literally.   On July 23, as all slept, and a heavy rain pelted Atlanta, the earth that held the roots of the large oak tree loosen and physics took over. At 11:00 pm a large crack reverberated, and the house shuttered. From the back deck, the flashlight beam revealed a tree forming a perfect hypotonus across the backyard onto our roof.  Bina lay sleeping perhaps 10 feet below where the tree trunk had fallen and was lodged among the broken rafters of our roof. 

Life’s blessings so often lay hidden right before our eyes – a child sleeps. undisturbed by a raging storm and damaged home; this was a miracle of an inconvenience that could have been far worse.  

Five weeks later, we are being kept dry by a beautiful new roof, but the damage inside the house has yet to be fully repaired.  It is a useful metaphor; things become damaged and break.  We can patch them up in a matter of hours or days but a return to full equilibrium can take far longer.  So it is with life and its challenges. There is often a half-life of repair and renewal.  As the New Year approaches I am thinking about the storms I have weathered and the days, months and years it often took to recover.  But most of all, I am thinking of all the blessings I have been given; such as a sleeping baby beneath a shattered roof. 

As above, Bina recently turned one year old.  Words are emerging, most notably “Hi!” said with the same happy inflection we say it to her.  Somewhere in there is also something that sounds like “Zayde” but that may be wishful thinking.  I like these words I wrote in a recent essay: “From my limited perspective as a new grandfather, there is a deep and perhaps ineffable quality of love that we feel for our grandchildren.  Perhaps it is our primal brain rewarding us deep within our limbic center for an evolutionary job well done.  Presented in within a spiritual framework, perhaps our grandchildren link us to the eternal. In some measure, this is my contribution to the world to come.”

Fifteen months ago I left the salaried world and began a new life as a self-employed consultant. When I deposited the last of 30 years of salary checks from Hillel I had no idea how things would work out.  Since that day, I have been guided by these words from “Shakespeare in Love”:

HENSLOWE: The natural condition is one of unsurmountable obstacles on the road to imminent disaster. 

FENNYMAN: So, what do we do?

HENSLOWE: Nothing. Strangely enough, it all turns out well.

FENNYMAN: How?

HENSLOWE: I don't know. It's a mystery.

We are thankful for the mysteries of life and grateful for all the blessings that have been given us.  We wish you a “Shanah Tovah U’mitukah” – a Happy, Health and Sweet New Year.

The Raphael Adams Family: David, Jo, Nomi, Bina, Jacob, Alya, Keith and Augie the Dog

Response to My Uncle Myron on the Book of Job

Monday, September 3, 2018

Dear Uncle Myron,

I read and reread your wonderful essay on the Book of Job several times.  Some personal reflections:

It seems to me that the question is not “why bad things happen to good people”, but “why things happen”.  My mom used to frame this existential dynamic in her own words: “It is because it is”. I never saw these words as defeatist or fatalistic, but rather and acceptance that things just happen.  Life isn’t planned and can’t be predicted. “Man plans, God laughs”.

Like many, I have faced difficult, painful experiences (although not quite Jobian). My father’s illness and death, at a time in my life when I was just beginning to make sense of things, was profoundly painful – and the pain had a half-life far longer than I could have imagined.  Fourteen years after his death, when we learned that Jo was pregnant with our first son, my sadness arose like some mythical demon.  In the moment, it was unrecognizable and undefinable.   As I wrote in an essay 13 years ago, when Jacob was diagnosed with significant developmental challenges: “Compounded by the unresolved mourning for my father and by the memories of ongoing loss, my bereavement over my son’s autism was overwhelming.  It was exponential sadness and I was rendered helpless.’

On the day we buried my father I was engulfed with sadness and pain. And when Jacob was diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder the emotional devastation was unbearable.  

In those moments, both upon the death of my father and the discovery of Jacob’s developmental challenges, had I been able to look into the future, and, perhaps, see time and space as God does, I would have seen myself standing under the Chupah with Jo at my side, and Uncle Myron looking at us lovingly.  I would have watched from above as I stood in awe at the birth of my children and at my granddaughter’s Simchat Bat.  I’d picture myself pushing Alya, Nomi and Jacob in a swing, reading them books and playing with them on the floor.  I would have seen Jacob returning from his year in Israel and walking across the auditorium stage to be handed his college diploma. I would have seen myself playing with Bina and experiencing a greater joy than I thought was possible.

Of course, in moments of profound sadness, none of us have the gift of future vision.  But, we can engage in it retroactively; I can look back and see the death of my father and other struggles I have faced in the context of my life and all the blessings I have been given.  I can also look back and understand that these pains and these hardships were essential elements of the framing of who I have become.  In my essay about my dad’s passing and Jake’s autism I wrote: “Time doesn’t heal all wounds, it’s how you choose to spend your time that can heal wounds.  

How many of us are blessed to see our children’s children? Ad kama v’kama (how much more so), our children’s children’s children.  Here is another question: How many of us have had the blessing of being a spiritual guide, a friend, a teacher, a mentor and role model to thousands of people?  How many of us can say that we have made the world a better place?  I’d like to think that I have done a fraction of this – and I’d like to think that I have done a fraction of what you have done. 

Certainly, I was not able to see or comprehend this in the immediate days following my father’s death. But, had I, in those days, been able to see the fullness of my life and the blessings that God would, one day, bestow on me; a wonderful wife, children, grandchildren, dear friends and a belief that I have been a force for good, I might have, in concert with all the divine beings, “shouted for joy” (Job 38:7)

“Then the Lord replied to Job out of the tempest” (Job 38:1).  Each of us will face times when our lives are in tempest.  And in the midst of these whirlwinds of profound sadness and pain, when our lives seem shattered and in turmoil, how will God speak to us?  What will God say? Will we be able to hear God? Perhaps, this is the understated lesson of Job; in the midst of our personal tempest, listen for the voice of God. Perhaps that voice can only be heard, truly heard, out of the tempest.  Exodus 19:16: "And it came to pass on the third day, when it was morning, that there were thunders and lightnings and a thick cloud upon the mount." A tempest, no?

Perhaps it is of little comfort to those who have suffered or who are facing suffering, but, to an extent, I wonder if one can truly feel love and joy in their fullest if they have not also been able to experience pain and heartbreak. Here’s another line I wrote over ten years ago that I like: “I have learned the hard way, but perhaps the only way, that memories, and generations of memories, of life, love and loss can provide us with great potential and great strength.  If we can face the sadness and the hurt that lies in our memories we can also find the passion to pursue and, hopefully, find hope, joy and love”.

This may be my favorite line in your essay: “You may not find an “answer, but you will be comforted to know your question is real, authentic and Biblical.”   “Theodicy, to justify the workings of a good God in the face of evil.  It is an ongoing and ever-renewing problem, with no easy answer.”  Easy answers to difficult and painful questions are rarely satisfying and, most often, not helpful.  It is the hard-earned answer, borne by struggle, by devotion, by wrestling with angels that are both sustaining and definitional.  The path to leading a meaningful life in the context of suffering and pain must be a personal one and each individual’s life answer must be sui generous.  Perhaps the import of the search for answers far outweighs the answers themselves. And perhaps, among all the great lessons I have learned from you, this is the most meaning and impactful.

With love, respect, admiration, and devotion,

Why I Go to Shul

My Dear Daughter,

It is early in the morning, the day after my Yom Kippur fast.  I am thinking about our conversation of several days ago about going to shul on the High Holy Days, specifically, my stated dislike for it.  I believe my exact words may have been at bit more robust.  Our conversation gave me something to think about during those long hours of the Yom Kippur service.  Why do I go?  Like all of your queries, it was a difficult and challenging question.

The truth is that I don’t broadly dislike going to shul, rather, I find parts of it objectionable and other parts boring.  To begin, I find the commercialization of spirituality through the selling of tickets, and use of the High Holy Days as spiritual extortion (no admittance unless you’ve paid your dues) exasperating.  As someone who has spent a good portion of his life seeking to advance and enhance Jewish identity, it seems so counter-productive.  In an era when synagogue and Jewish institutional involvement is shrinking, why are we creating barriers at the one time of the year when families are drawn to connect and participate?  We had to display our tickets at two checkpoints before being permitted entry to the sanctuary for High Holy Day services. Really? We’re trying to go to Kol Nidre not the NSA. While I understand the economics of the situation, if Jews are motivated to come to synagogue once or twice a year, why create literal and metaphorical blockades, and degrade the experience by monetizing it? 

For me, few parts of the service speak to me on a personal level or enhance my sense of spirituality or connection to the Divine.  Among the prayers that do resonate with me is Kol Nidre.  Each year, I am reminded of our responsibility to engage in a personal moral accounting. Unfortunately, any sense of spirituality that the prayer evokes is immediately shattered by the droning of the ensuing annual Kol Nidre appeal. 

Thus, I am reflecting on why do I go to shul. Being Jewish, it is hard to omit guilt from the equation.  In this context, being in synagogue on the High Holy Days becomes something akin to an episode of religious “Survivor”, with the sole objective being to endure on as long as possible.  Perhaps, there is an unstated equation involved, what is the earliest I can leave shul without feeling guilty?

Thus, beyond guilt, what are the reasons I go to shul?  To begin, it is where my community is. There is a sweetness that comes in seeing my friends and members of my community.  We are all together in one room, we all sing the same prayers.  We share updates on our families and, perhaps, furtively share photos of our kids and grandkids on our I-phones.  We sit, laugh, talk politics and provide updates on our families.  It is a wonderful affirmation of community and reminder that I am part of a community.  I still have such vivid childhood memories of the High Holidays at the Jewish Center of  Bayside Oaks. That community sustained and nurtured my family for over twenty years – including painful, difficult times.

There are parts of the service that link me to Jews around the world and across the generations. There is something deep and satisfying in uttering the same words, singing the same cantillations that are being recited in synagogues around the world and that have been sung for centuries.  That connection links me to the millennia of our Jewish history and heritage.  It is about the Holocaust and my responsibility to, not simply to recall it as history but embrace it as memory. But it is also about the golden age of Spanish Jewry, the rich traditions of the Shtetl and the rebirth of the State of Israel. I am linked to the passion of Moses and David Ben Gurion, the brilliance of Maimonides and Albert Einstein, the wisdom of Hillel and Nachman of Breslov and the kindness of Ruth and Rebecca Gratz.

The service links me to the pride I feel about our Jewish values and our Jewish consciousness. On Yom Kippur we read from Isaiah:

This is the fast I desire:

To unlock the fetters of wickedness,

And untie the cords of the yoke

To let the oppressed go free;

To break off every yoke.

It is to share your bread with the hungry,

And to take the wretched poor into your home;

When you see the naked, to clothe him,

And not to ignore your own kin.

How core these words are to my values. As my daughter, I hope you have seen this, and I hope that you have observed as I’ve sought to live it. 

There is a pure and mystical quality to Kol Nidre that, through its words and its haunting melody, causes me to reflect on who I am, who I have been, where I have gone wrong and what I can do better.  And, surrounded by my friends and community, I recognized that I am not alone in my flaws and failures. We all chant the words together and I am comforted by the thought that we all are flawed, we all have erred and that those around me, and those Jews around the world are also reciting the words, reflecting on their deeds and will also seek to address their limits and do better in the year ahead.

On Yom Kippur I say Yizkor for my parents. But I also say a memorial prayer for my cousin Jonathan who passed away too young and my friend from high school Bobby Bauer, who was the best of us and who killed in a car accident at age 18.  I think your grandfather, “Pop-Pop” and Uncle Stewart. There is melancholy but there is also a quiet sweetness. I have been so lucky to have known and to have learned from remarkable people.  As I age, I think of my own mortality. And in those moments, I think of all of my blessings; on the top of that list is my family.

Perhaps it is those boring moments, where the prayers seem to drone on, where I don’t understand what is being said and where time seems to go backward that going to synagogue can become most meaningful. The meaning of the service isn’t given to us, it is up to each of us to find meaning within it.  It is the same with life.

Later today, I will begin the annual process of schlepping the aluminum frame, canvas walls, and bamboo poles from the garage to the back porch.  Tools in hand I will begin to assemble an odd structure with flimsy walls and a questionable roof.  We will eat in it for seven days – at times in sweltering heat at other times donning multiple sweaters. Mosquitoes, moths and ants will join us. Eight days later we will reverse the entire process and return the components to the garage.  Like many of our Jewish customs, building a Sukkah also makes very little sense.  But each year we do it again with joy and with thankfulness. 

© David Raphael, 2017

We All Need More Bina

"How much better is it to get wisdom than gold! and to get understanding (Bina) rather to be chosen than silver.” Proverbs 16:16

One of my favorite Jewish jokes speaks of the difference between the Jewish pessimist and the Jewish optimist.  Says the Jewish pessimist: “Things are terrible, they can’t get any worse.”  Says the Jewish optimist: “Things are terrible, but they can always get worse.”  Thus, my reaction to the current national and geopolitical dynamic along with growing climate instability is that it is hard not to be a Jewish optimist, comforted, in our uniquely Jewish way, that everything can always get worse.

In an era where there is so much that is troubling and frightening, we all need more Bina. In Hebrew, Bina means “wisdom”, however, in Jewish tradition, ‘Bina’ goes beyond knowing – it is knowledge based on understanding, tempered by contemplation and reflection. It is knowing how to employ all we have learned with thoughtfulness and framed with humanity.  Linguistically, ‘Bina’ is linked to boneh or l’vnot – builders and the act of building.  Thus, we learn that to truly have Bina, our knowledge must be built and built collectively.  Conversely, we cannot build a society and a world of purpose and of values without Bina.

I am struck that, in a number of African languages, “Bina” means to sing and to dance, as well as the quality of freshness.  In Hindi, Bina is a musical instrument.  And, again, in the context of today’s challenges, we all need to sing and dance more and seek the qualities of newness and freshness in ourselves and in others. 

This summer, our family was blessed by the arrival of Bina Mazal

– Jo and my first grandchild, daughter of Keith and Nomi Adams, and niece to Alya and Jacob.

Neith, Nomi and Bina

My daughter Nomi spoke beautifully at the Simchat Bat:

“I can understand her desire to stay in. For her last couple of months in there, she was getting a steady supply of pizza bagels and chocolate ice cream, and the outside world seems like a pretty scary place right now. There’s a lot to be afraid of. I would be lying if I said that I had no worries about raising a child in our current times. There are so many unexplainable things going on that she’s going to want to be explained to her, so many changes we need to work for. But at the same time, that’s what’s exciting about bringing a new life into the world. We have the opportunity to raise a woman who will hopefully be kind and caring, who will work for change, who will fight for what she believes in, and who will love as much as we love her. 

I cannot be more proud of my daughter Alya, who said:

“For Bina, I wish the same things for you that I wished for your mother before she had you. I wish you joy and I wish you love.

I wish you curiosity. The desire to explore the world and to learn new things and meet new people 

Alya and Bina

and hear new ideas, secure in the knowledge that you have this family and home and community always waiting and supporting you.

I wish you grace. In this world of increasing uncertainty and unkindness, I hope you walk through life leaving peace in your wake. I hope you bring light to those around you.

And of course, to echo your name, I wish you wisdom and I wish you luck. The wisdom to listen to all sides and come to the right choice.”

Finally, I share my wonderful son-in-law Keith’s, words: “So, with this name, may our daughter be grounded in her self-determination and may she also find her way to respect and protect our ultimate collective inheritance -- this earth and its inhabitants, one and the same, engaged in a unity for peace.”

Jake and Bina

At a time of great change and challenge, all of us will benefit from curiosity, the desire to explore, and the support of others.  We will benefit from grace and the wisdom to listen to all sides and make the right choices.  We share the responsibility to raise children and to elevate ourselves to be kind and caring, to work for change, fight for what we believe in, and love and be loved. Let us all find the way to respect and protect our ultimate collective inheritance -- this earth and its inhabitants, one and the same, engaged in a unity for peace.

Now is not the time for optimism or pessimism, Jewish or otherwise.  Now is the time for Bina.

My fondest regards to you, your family and your friends for a Shanah Tovah U’mitukah – a happy, healthy and sweet New Year.