tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37814106775985169882024-03-05T11:30:50.217-08:00Be The MenschThoughts on doing the right thing...gracefully.Be The Menschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14332500865818261528noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3781410677598516988.post-74017075043695978962021-10-12T10:41:00.003-07:002021-10-12T10:54:02.827-07:00The Making of a Mensch<i>Note this was written in 2008. It was first posted in 2021.</i><div><i><br /></i><br /><div>A few years ago, I took my daughter’s high school and Prozdor Hebrew high school diplomas to be framed. As I showed the latter to the shopkeeper, he said, “I’ve seen Dartmouth, Yale and Brandeis today, but not one of these.”<br />
<br />
Though humorous and telling, this statement started me thinking about the next task at hand for my daughter - college. What in her Jewish upbringing would she bring with her, and what setting would she need to thrive and grow Jewishly? Or would her Prozdor diploma be emblematic of her Jewish life: framed and nice to look at, but static and no longer accessible?<br />
<br />
I was raised secularly, but had many “Jewish” opportunities. I went to Hebrew school, had a bat mitzvah and loved my 4 years at Jewish summer camp. One of the few to continue in my synagogue’s confirmation class, I then spent 7 weeks on a teen tour in Israel. The year after, I immersed myself in Hillel at Boston University. I am an educated and involved member of my Jewish community because of these experiences.<br />
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When it came time to educate our daughter, I knew I wanted to give her all that I had had...plus one more: Jewish day school. It seemed right for her, and for our family. We enrolled her in kindergarten and she had a great education there, thanks to dedicated Judaic and general studies teachers, strong administrative support, and engaged cultural programs.<br />
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When she left to attend secular private school beginning in 7th grade, she was well prepared for the challenge, both educationally and Judaically.
At this point, we enrolled her at the Prozdor Jewish high school due, in part, to our synagogue’s wise suggestion to continue with Jewish education as a condition for her bat mitzvah. <br /><br />
Our daughter spent six transformative years at Prozdor and her parallel education is constantly with her – in her thoughts and attitudes, in her schoolwork and in her daily life. The effort the Prozdor staff puts into making this a life-affirming and transformative experience is remarkable, and the dynamic faculty is to be commended: forty classes later, they are doing
G-d’s work with our teens. Who knew that this, too, would become a part of her, so much so that she decided to stay for the 12th grade Moreshet, the senior seminar.
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I am proud and grateful to say my daughter is an educated Jewish young adult. And this past summer, as a student and traveler in Israel, was a defining event for her. All she had learned came together in one place, at one time, in our homeland. She loved her time there and will forever be changed by the experience.
Her Jewish life and education has become central to her being, as she has struggled to find a place for herself at her school, and in her world. Being a student at a decidedly non-Jewish high school has been a challenge. But she has so benefited by being part of both a Jewish day school experience, and supplemental Jewish education. I know that Schechter laid the foundation; Prozdor helped her “own” her Judaism.
She’s had to confront these questions of ownership earlier than most. Yet, these last two years have had the most profound effect on her – the course work, her teachers, and her volunteering for Gateways: Access to Jewish Education, which provides Jewish education to children with special needs.
Now her college life has defined itself more clearly: she is a student ready to participate fully in her Jewish world, and having this is not an option – it is her future. <div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div>Be The Menschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14332500865818261528noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3781410677598516988.post-36667452230972299792017-03-24T01:47:00.000-07:002017-03-24T01:59:35.067-07:00New Year, Sweet Memories<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUwK0MJpjuKrjQ8owjBBOa9xYio7fmOYg_VN5osXjCo0dnoCbOllL06oYhfvVHqVkhnl0C7CVJlPBzWhRP4CdtSTTHEBk2jWKxLSymacviNQEC9P0MtYz8kQyzryAtBZONeacS6ZDC5gQ/s1600/135.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUwK0MJpjuKrjQ8owjBBOa9xYio7fmOYg_VN5osXjCo0dnoCbOllL06oYhfvVHqVkhnl0C7CVJlPBzWhRP4CdtSTTHEBk2jWKxLSymacviNQEC9P0MtYz8kQyzryAtBZONeacS6ZDC5gQ/s1600/135.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">In late
summer of 2013, I noticed a familiar woman at my local market, but couldn’t
remember who she was. Just then, a grocer approached her, pushing cartons on a
dolly.</span></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“Mrs.
Goldstein, here’s your honey.”</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Ah, yes, I
had met her years ago when we first moved to town. I said hello, wished her
Shanah Tovah…and then asked, “Why the honey?”</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">She explained
that her congregation had a tradition at Rosh Hashanah of delivering honey to
every member family who had suffered a death during the previous year. I love
to give friends and family this gift at the holidays; I thought this effort was
a very touching thing to do.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">A few months
into that New Year, I became a member of my synagogue’s Religious Life
Committee. One of our charges was to report back those ideas and customs we
might witness at other synagogues that our membership might appreciate. I
remembered the “Honey Project.” The committee loved the idea and so, this past
September, each family who lost a loved one in the past year (and still lives
in the area) received this special gift. The attached note read, “From our
Family to Yours, Shanah Tovah. May the memory of your loved one always be
sweet.” Each of the 70+ packages was hand-delivered by a volunteer and, if
someone was home, a visit was a dividend.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The response
was powerful. We heard from numerous recipients and couriers, and it is clear
that the initiative touched the hearts of both. Those whose family members died
a year ago, and those whose loss was recent, were equally moved by the
outreach. To be remembered in this way made a difference. I had the honor of
delivering the honey to the wife of our late Rabbi Emeritus, and noted to the
committee that I hoped every loved one might be remembered in the same “honey-hue”
her eyes reflected when I arrived.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">On the
morning of Yom Kippur, my husband and I arrived at our seats in the early service
to find a woman I didn’t know sitting in our seats. Hers were for the later
service but she wanted to be there that morning. She began to move over but I
said, no worries, we have three seats. A short conversation and I discovered she
was on the “honey” list.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Paraphrasing
from my favorite movie, Casablanca: “…Of all the rows, in all the services, she
chose to sit in mine….” What was most moving was, for the past ten years, we had
shared this side row with a dear friend and her family. This year, she had died
unexpectedly, and their part of the row was empty…but I believe the guest sat
there with her blessing. Some things are </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">besheirt
(meant to be)</i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">…and some are coincidence, i.e., G-d wishing to remain
anonymous. My friend’s family had also received our gift.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">There are
many more such stories. It was my pleasure to bring the Honey Project to my
community, and I feel gratified that they embraced it. One never knows how a
program will be perceived or accepted, but this was truly </span><i style="font-size: 12pt;">lev-b’lev </i><span style="font-size: 12pt;">– from heart to heart.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I want to
thank the Committee’s chairman and the members, for their encouragement and
support. To our clergy and office staff, and lay leadership, I am grateful for their
help in creating this initiative. A special thank you to our Brotherhood
members who, without being asked, stepped up to make each delivery. A labor
of love for all.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt;">We all know
that, each year, there will members who suffer the loss of a loved one. I am
proud that this project will continue in the future to lift the spirits of our
fellow congregants, and perhaps engage some of those who received the honey in
5775 in preparing the packages for next year’s recipients. It is a way to help share
in the very mitzvah that moves us.</span>Be The Menschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14332500865818261528noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3781410677598516988.post-88676201153708061202017-03-10T08:12:00.002-08:002017-04-09T15:23:40.073-07:00How My Mother's Illness Made Me More of a Mensch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHmMmNhYIjikhXd-KLw12C50cZWRxxxNG4EPlGGrssCDcTdw8iU3LU73npEmascNA0ncckWRqdaBfoM1Q7kmrLwRGwT2JBsIg73QGDX-e0sJbuWrl8sJGmVcHVwNZRYGv9G8408vxA-WE/s1600/pictures+fall+2013+1228.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHmMmNhYIjikhXd-KLw12C50cZWRxxxNG4EPlGGrssCDcTdw8iU3LU73npEmascNA0ncckWRqdaBfoM1Q7kmrLwRGwT2JBsIg73QGDX-e0sJbuWrl8sJGmVcHVwNZRYGv9G8408vxA-WE/s200/pictures+fall+2013+1228.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This is my first post in almost three years. Life happens - and having a parent with Alzheimer's changes everything.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My mother, Verna Caryl Brodsky Moidel, died on December 23, 2016. It was a sad end to the saddest of all times in her life - almost two decades with Alzheimer's disease. I've written about my mother before, but this is so final.<br /></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">There is a positive that came from this sadness: we created a fund in her memory at Camp Laurelwood, which she attended on a scholarship in 1940. She never forgot that magical time there, as I discuss below. We thought it would have the most meaning for her. I wish she could know that other children will be at camp this summer because someone cared for them, too.<br /></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Here's the link: <a href="http://www.camplaurelwood.org/forverna">www.camplaurelwood.org/forverna<br /></a></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Thank you for helping us help others.<br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This was my eulogy:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My mother was right about
everything. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">And probably so was
yours. We have become our mothers, and the older I get, the more her wise words
haunt me. Worse, that Verna voice emanates from my lips towards my daughter
Erica, now an independent young adult. And she reacts just as I did when I was
her age: OK, Ma, sure, whatever you want…said with a roll of the eyes.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">How to distill a life into
a few minutes? By reviewing what mattered most to mom. The thing is: she didn’t have a mother around to tell her these
things, so she learned them the hard way: she lived her life…a life bookmarked
by sorrow and pain: the first two decades, by hard times and the loss of her
mother to the stigma of mental illness; the last two decades, by the scourge of
Alzheimer’s. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But in between, she made
plans and lived her life in a meaningful way. She loved and was loved. And for
that, we are grateful. I’d like gratitude to be the word of the day, because
our mother was a good mother, and we are who we are because of her.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When you have a family
member with a serious illness, life becomes smaller. You decline invitations,
reserving energy for just the essentials. At times, our family cared for multiple
parents at once so, over the years, I spent so much time managing their needs
while trying to pursue my own goals, I forgot that indeed, time marches on. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I realized this when the
notice of my mom’s 60<sup>th</sup> college reunion came in the spring of 2012.
I was jolted by how much time had passed since I first became her advocate in
1997. I remember when she went to her 50<sup>th </sup>in 2002. She was young
then; ten years later, she was old. It was painful to think that she would not
be going that year. I wanted her to be represented, and so I wrote an essay that
told her story:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Mom was born in New Haven
in 1930, four years after her sister Norma, who she adored. Her father David owned
the local hardware store. They were very poor – it was the Depression. These
were difficult times, and she was deeply affected by her home life, especially
when her mother, Isabel Nusbaum Brodsky, was institutionalized, as they said
then, when mom was in grade school. She said it was schizophrenia, but I’ve
often wondered if it was undiagnosed post-partum depression, not something known
then, and a reaction to having two small children during dire financial
straits. Except for occasional visits, some at home, my grandmother, who I
never met, was now essentially gone forever. This affected her deeply. The loss
of her mother and the lack of resources was the force that pushed her to work
and make a life for herself. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Mom adored her father,
who was old by the time she was born. He was born on the boat, as they said, of
poor Russian immigrants, in 1888. He was self-taught, read constantly and could
fix anything. He had a happy disposition – amazing considering what his life
had been. She learned that from him: she was positive and determined. In the
summer of 1940, she had the time of her life when the New Haven Federation sent
her to Camp Laurelwood on a scholarship. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">She always worked, first
in the hardware store, and then in a factory sewing shower curtains. Even then
she had drive, and expressed a desire to go to college. With the help of an
uncle who helped her navigate the admissions process, Mom proudly joined the
freshman class of the Teachers College in 1948. She lived at home and worked each
afternoon. In the summers, she waited tables in the Catskill Mountains. Her
annual tuition was $100, a lot of money, she would tell us, and she made it on
her own. She loved college and though challenged by circumstance, she made the
grades to succeed, as well as life-long friends whom she kept in touch with for
years. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When she was a senior,
her dream of living in Hartford came true when she was offered a job as a
second grade teacher at the Mark Twain Public School. I have the kind but
formal letter, dated January, 1952, which states that her annual salary would
be $2495! She was so proud!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The summer after
graduation she and three girlfriends piled into a car and drove to California
and Mexico on an adventure. She loved it – she had freedom for the first time
in her life. (1952, no air conditioning…no highway system…think about it…she
never complained.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My parents met in 1955 at
what was the jDate of its time, the Hartford Emanuel synagogue dance. Dad was
swept away by how pretty she was, but she wasn’t so sure. She told me she dated
a bit, including a cousin of Einstein’s and one of the Lender Bagel brothers.
(Oh, imagine the possibilities!) But Dad’s European yiddishkeit and
intelligence won out, and they married on Washington’s Birthday (you got it –
she had a day off from school). That summer, they moved to Miami – the Goldena
Medina at the time – where yours truly was born. They started a clothing store,
and when the first Cuban families began to arrive in 1959, they went to night
school to learn Spanish so they could help these new customers. When Mom went
back to teaching in 1961, the Cuban parents loved that she spoke Spanish and was
a very serious and strict teacher. Her students loved her because she was fun,
especially when she cooked and played games with them. Every Christmas and
June, in gratitude for her kindness, the parents brought her gifts of powder,
perfume, and those big boxes of little chocolates. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Mom continued to teach,
on and off, in 3 states, for more than 25 years, in spite of the fact she
didn’t learn to drive till 1968. She was
a most devoted, responsible teacher, and I have vivid childhood memories of her
in a dress, or a blazer with a bowed blouse (skirt in the early years; slacks later
on), going off to work in the early morning by bus, coming home to make dinner,
and then every night sitting at the kitchen table, and mind you, this was the
stone age, hand writing report cards and grading papers. On weekends, she would
write next week’s teaching plans that were given to the principal on Monday
mornings. She loved the kids, and had wonderful stories of the things they said
and did. I calculate there are 1,000 adults today who can read because of mom. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">One small coincidence: In
1985, right after we became engaged, I was perusing Steve’s Conard West
Hartford High School year book when I came upon the picture of one Jan Jacobs.
I asked him if he knew her, to which he replied that he had lived next door to
her. Jan Jacobs had been a student in my mother’s class in Hartford, and when
it came time to name me a year later (my parents had married by then and moved
to Miami), she decided that Jan was the name she wanted for her “smart, sweet,
Jewish girl.” Fast forward, I was able to meet my namesake at Steve’s 25<sup>th</sup>
high school reunion in 1990, a few months after Erica was born. Jan had no idea
of the impression she had made on my mother, her teacher Miss Brodsky…but we
discovered we both had daughters named Erica. The tradition continues!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">During my childhood, Mom
always said her mother had died – until one day towards the end of my senior
year in high school, we learned about mental illness in “health” class. For
some reason, I went home with the mission to ask my mom what happened to her mother.
Mom answered the door in black clothes – those were not fashionable then – and
said she had to tell me something. Her mother had died the day before and the
funeral was the next day. In answer to my shock, she explained her mother had
been in a “home” all these years, and she had visited her. I never knew – and she
wouldn’t let me go to the funeral – she said I couldn’t miss a day of school. I
was young – 16 – and as with so much I don’t know, I wish I had just asked more
questions. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Mom was very proper and somewhat
naïve. But she had seen a lot in her life, so you couldn’t fool her much. She
also was very personable. If she met you, she would ask questions, and
suddenly, you were into a good conversation which she love. Dad always wondered
how she could talk for so many hours with a friend. She didn’t entertain, but
was always up to go out. She read constantly – books, newspapers, which I think
made her a great speller. But Gd forbid she’d tell me how to spell anything! And
yes, Steven, she was a goodie two shoes – and I’ve followed right in her
footsteps. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Like most girls, my
mother drove me crazy. She could be rigid and relentless, and as I got older,
she would constantly nag me, ask questions, and offer sure fire advice,
gathered from a lifetime of hard knocks. Some of it was nuts, like when I was
going to a dance, she said, “Wear something red and stand near the door. “ We
had our battles, some serious and some silly: about school work, about boys,
about cleaning my room…and about my clothes, which she bought at thrift stores.
I was mortified. Like Second Hand Rose, I never got a single thing that’s new. Yes,
she was right – there are gems in those stores. It was tough to be her child –
she had very high standards, and wanted us to have what she hadn’t – but I know
she was driven because she cared so much about her students, and about David
and me. I know she would be proud that my daughter Erica, a Brandeis graduate,
works with children. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In 1969, when we moved to
Jamaica Estates, she taught on Long Island in Valley Stream, and had to learn
to drive. These were some of her happiest times. My parents started to go out
more - to theater and to comedy shows.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">By now, you can imagine she
was very brave. The bravest act of all was having a baby at age 44. It was 1973
and she was one of the first women to have an amniocentesis. My brother was a
complete surprise to me. I was already at college (that’s a story for another
time) and totally shocked. I’d wanted a sibling…but now? My friends all thought
it was great; I wasn’t so sure. But Mom knew, and today, David (named for her
beloved father) is a mensch, with two sons, a wonderful career, and my friend
for life. She would be so proud of him. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My mother did a lot for
me: She wanted life to be better for us than it had been for her. She taught me
to sew and cook; encouraged me to try new things; She gave me my Jewish
neshamah, a caring soul, and insisted I have a Jewish education even though she
hadn’t had one herself (both Yiddish and Hebrew School, bat mitzvah, Hebrew High
School, Israel, and as </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I
was an only child at the time, she gave me Camp </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Laurelwood). She shared
her love of books. She loved her summer in Boston in 54 and decided I should
come for college; 4 decades later, I love it still. She was my first editor, “Read
it out loud,” I heard in my head as I wrote this yesterday. And this is really
special: She taught me to love Barbara Streisand. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Mom moved back to her
beloved Hartford area in the late 80s, after our parents’ divorced, and began
to teach again. When she retired at 67, she took cooking classes, thinking
she’d open a takeout café. Sadly, this
was just the time she was diagnosed with mild cognitive impairment, the precursor
to Alzheimer’s. We watched as the woman who could do anything began to slip
away, so we quickly moved her to the Summerwood community near her home. She
had five wonderful years there – going on trips, playing games, and schmoozing
to her heart’s content. It was camp once more.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I never heard my mother
swear until her 70<sup>th</sup> year – that was when I was convinced that Alzheimer’s
had now taken hold, after a few years of weird episodes and cognitive testing. When
we started this journey, I could never imagine it would be twenty years. She
was so self-reliant. The thought my mom wasn’t in charge never occurred to me.
It turned out, as I took over her finances, she had saved for years, thinking
she would have a long retirement…yet it all went now to care for her through
these many years. I don’t know how we did it all – but I knew she couldn’t be
out there on her own. There were some heartbreaking moments along the way, and
I came to know my mother needed us as we had needed her. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Always resourceful, she
never threw anything away. You know the type – maybe you are the type! It took
nine months to clean out her house. Every corner had a bag with some precious
chatzkah. She was a squirrel – jewelry hiding in the sewing machine console,
silver in the attic, the statue of Mozart under the sink. It wasn’t rational
and it got worse over time. These things were her future. Inherent in this
hording were the seeds of her illness, and indeed, in retrospect the signs were
there in the volume and randomness of all she saved. I remember looking around
and not knowing where to start. To make order out of chaos, but knowing she had
thought she was safe. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Mom often said, she had
no mazel, luck. It was terrible luck to be stricken with Alzheimer’s so early
in her life. Alzheimer’s is known as the “long goodbye.” She has missed out on
so much, especially getting to spend time with her grandchildren Erica, and
David’s sons, Jesse and Bailey. And
indeed, it’s been almost 20 years – of managing her life in her home as long as
we could; at Summerwood; and then a short time at Newbridge Memory support,
which ended when she fell and broke her hip six years ago. A surgery, rehab…and
a 10 week stint at McLean, trying to manage her pain and her confusion. After
just two weeks, we knew she was now nursing home bound for Newton Wellesley Alzheimer’s
Center. We deeply thank all of these organizations for their devoted care and kindness
towards her. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">One story from this time:
She was a romantic and loved the old songs, which she sang in a nice voice .
Eight years ago, the last time I took her out in W. Hartford before moving her
to Newbridge, we went out for lunch and stopped into Barnes and Noble. I saw a
book with the 100 top songs of the last 100 years. Mom, I said, you’ll love
this. She found a chair to sit in, and began to belt out song after song. She
knew the melodies, and sang with abandon, without regard to who was around.
People stood and listened and, instead of being mortified, I smiled. Twenty minutes
later, she stopped and closed the book – and was so surprised when people clapped
and cheered. Some of you know I haven’t visited my mother much this past year
because it was too painful to see her in the end stage of her disease. I would
rather remember the smile she had on her face that day. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I have often thought that
all the years I have cared for her has wiped out all the years I struggled with
her. I think it’s Gd’s plan - to see in our parents what we now have become. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When my father died 10
years ago, I recognized what he had taught me as what our Rabbi Gardenswartz
calls a person’s “Torah,” a legacy. So
here is my mother’s Torah: <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">Be persistent and resilient;</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Appreciate the value of work; <br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Don’t take yourself too seriously. Have
fun. Despite her difficult life, she loved to laugh and found humor and
humanity everywhere. She never felt sorry for herself, or complained; she was a
realist, an especially good way to live.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Education is the key to everything. (Yes,
Ma, I should have gone to grad school.)<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Always have a job (I’ve done that for the
most part) and never leave a job until you have another one (sorry, Ma, that’s
not always possible). <br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">That blue was her and my best color
because of our eyes (she was right about that, too)<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Finally, save money and always have a
dollar in your pocket. It’s easy to spend it, but hard to make. <br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">·<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My penance for not always listening to her
on this last one? It’s being married to an accountant for 30 years! Verna’s
voice has ricocheted with every sage finance word Steve has said. OK, OK, I get
it!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .25in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Over these many years, it
did indeed take a village. When in this situation, your best bet is to share
the news. This can be a lonely journey, this taking care of parents – but it
can be eased by community. We were lucky to receive good advice and support,
medical care and maintenance for my mom. My family will always be grateful for
the kindness of strangers, and all of you, and the many friends and family
members who cared. Alzheimers is a terrible disease, and one we must find a
cure for. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I want to thank my dear
Steven for his constant support and wise advice, as we traveled this long road
in the care of Mom. At times, we had both mothers and my dad, in differe</span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">nt
states, and in different states of wellness, and he was there for them, and for
me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Thank you, David, for
your support and confidence in me as I took on this task. It wasn’t always easy
for you – to be so young and in NYC, having two parents in Boston, who aged early,
but you were there for me…like when we moved Mom from Hartford to Boston, you
took the train to meet us, helped Steve schlepp the furniture into a truck… then
got back on the train to NY. It was a stressful and sad time for you, so many
yet to be, but you showed up. I am so grateful to my mother for giving me a
brother. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Since second grade, Erica
has been a witness to the care of our parents. She has been kind to them,
independent when we needed her to be, and helpful over many years when their
welfare took precedence over hers. It has not been easy, but her menschlekeit
makes me proud every day that I am her mother.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Our heartfelt love and
thanks to our cousins Merrie and Mark, and Nancy, who did so much for Mom – visiting
her, taking her to lunch, on trips, and mostly, for never forgetting her. She
loved you all, like she loved your mother, her sister Norma, and your
kindnesses will never be forgotten. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Boston has been good to
me these past four decades, and then it was good for mom. I was humbled to have
the advice of “older” members of Temple Emanuel when I was one of the first in
my generation to be dealing with aging parents. They shared their wisdom and
experience, navigating elder care for their parents, a generation earlier. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I feel blessed to live in
Boston with our richly woven social service fabric. I received countless hours
of help and advice from professionals at these agencies, which will always be
remembered. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Thanks to those in West
Hartford who helped me navigate the first years of this obligation with courage
and patience: dear friends and family, and Steve’s longtime friends and their
children, all who gave us valuable legal, real estate and tactical advice, and
sometimes, just a bed for the night. While both Steven and David grew up there,
I did not, but came to feel at ease because of their kindness. And there were
wise strangers, too: those in line at Starbucks and the lovely lady at the Crown
kosher bakery, who always asked how Mom was doing; I ate a lot of Black and
White cookies driving back to Boston. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My deepest appreciation To
the caregivers, activity directors, rabbis, social workers, doctors, nurses,
and maintenance professionals, who helped us keep Mom at home as long as possible,
at the four places she lived and was cared for during these almost 20 years of holding
on…thank you for your compassion and capacity to see yourself in another
person’s shoes. You honored my mother and I have been blessed to know you. David
and I share the sadness that comes from the loss of such a vibrant life to this
dreaded disease, but I believe we have no regrets – we did all we could to make
her last years vibrant, comfortable and meaningful. And when you care for your
parent, they are revealed and you understand. She was a good mother, the mother
she never had. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In closing, I want to
acknowledge all of you today, and with gratitude for Rabbi Robinson, and Cantor
Sheni Dan Nesson, from Temple Emanuel, for being here for us today, and every day. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This old song says it all: I know
that I owe what I am today / to that dear little lady so old and gray / to that
wonderful Yiddishe momma of mine.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Mom, you did well. Rest
in peace. Grandpa David is on the other side waiting for you. Shalom.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">
</span></span></span>
</span><br />
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<br /></div>
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Be The Menschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14332500865818261528noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3781410677598516988.post-76718499156066656092014-02-06T17:44:00.000-08:002014-02-07T13:16:29.022-08:00Sustaining ValuesI work for a Jewish communal organization. The only one of its kind in North America, the Synagogue Council of Massachusetts promotes Jewish unity. We strive to strengthen congregations and engage their members in pluralistic dialogue, learning and social action. <br />
<br />
It's a mission I have come to love. Why?
I've aways believed that first, we are a family. In Yiddish, Mishpocha. I describe it this way: <br />
<br />
You're a Jew and I'm a Jew; what's the next question?<br />
<br />
"Where's your family from?"<br />
<br />
Inevitably, we know people in common. It's reassuring to hear that in your city or in mine, in Europe, Israel or the US, we have crossed paths. Our friends, family and ancestors walked together once before, and continue to do so.
It doesn't matter what denomination we identify with, or whether we are a "Jew by Choice." It doesn't matter which temple we attend or where we or our children received their Jewish education. It matters not whether we answer no to either of these inquiries.
We are all Jews. We have the same history and the same triumphs and tragedies in common. We endeavor to make the world a better place by living lives of meaning: to love life, to do acts of loving kindness, and to raise our children to be charitable and caring souls.<br />
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I am proud to help encourage and sustain the belief that we are more alike than not, to change the perception that we can't all get along to one of respect for differences. I am proud that our efforts continue to bring new perspectives to the fore where none existed before.<br />
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I work for a Jewish communal organization. I am a Jew. So are you. We are a community.<br />
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So tell me, where's your family from?
Be The Menschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14332500865818261528noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3781410677598516988.post-56053603481167503322014-01-08T17:11:00.000-08:002014-01-11T12:24:55.388-08:00Pomegranates
I never realized how much I love this beautiful and unique fruit until 2010 when I began to travel annually to Israel. There, in both function and form, you see pomegranates everywhere. From the stunning jewelry stores in downtown Tel Aviv and Neve Tzedek, to the shuks and Cardo of Jerusalem, poms call out to me: silver earrings, challah covers, shiny menorahs, bronze pins. My prize possession is the latter, found in a small shop in Ein Hod, an artists’ colony in the Carmel Mountains, near Haifa.<br />
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While the fruit has only widely been in US markets for a few years, it is often small and dark. In Israel, poms are a rich part of their cuisine. Their size is triple what they are here, the gorgeous red, radiant, and the most enticing element of the orb, the crown, is open, fresh and intact. They are served in salads, made into juice, and one very special treat, pomegranate molasses, the trendiest of condiments.<br />
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The fruit is believed to hold many secrets: romantic images in the Torah; fertility for women; the world of plenty and pleasure. References and reflections abound in literature and music. In the mid-1990s, my daughter attended Jewish day school while I set about to have an adult bat mitzvah and participate in a wider range of adult learning. Sometime during this period, I became aware of the minhag (custom/belief) that a pomegranate has 613 seeds, the number of mitzvot in the Torah. I was so charmed by this concept, my daughter and I tried once to count the seeds!<br />
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While many of my poms are ubiquitous today in gift shops around the world, there are some unusual ones:<br />
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A small painting was purchased in Tzafat, a small town rich with spiritual history and artist life in the high mountains of Israel’s most northern point. The Boston contingent of that year's JFNA Womens Philanthropy’s Heart2Heart trip had gone to visit our sister city, Haifa, that day, so we reached Tzafat very late in the afternoon. Down the long, narrow winding street where artists sell their wares, I saw only men, eager to sell before the day’s end of business. Suddenly, deep in a little alcove, I saw a woman, quietly painting, the only woman in a sea of male artists. And her specialty? Poms! The paintings were beautiful, and perfectly sized for traveling. I bought this one, which hangs in my kitchen, and every day I remember that year's trip to the spiritual mountain town.<br />
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One year, I had just an hour to walk on Ben Yehuda Street, a famous and busy shopping district of Jerusalem. As always, I was on a search for poms, and drawn to one of the many chotchkeh (souvenir) shops. These small sienna-colored ceramic poms were packed, two by two. They are traveling Shabbat candle holders, or as I use them, for salt and pepper. They were wrapped in a cellophane bag with a card that indicated they were made by people with disabilities, as part of a non-profit enterprise. I bought half a dozen, and they were the gift for my friends that year.<br />
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A wall hanging was bought at the amazing gift shop of the even more amazing Israel Museum in Jerusalem. It’s the prayer for the home, which you see all over Israel, in English and Hebrew. The words mean: Within this gate, there will be no sadness; within this home, there will be no trouble. Within this door, there will be no fear; and in this room, there will be no arguments. Within our home, there will always be blessings and peace.<br />
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A large cookbook by Janna Gur is wonderful, and not just because of the gorgeous picture on the cover. I was honored to watch the author, a Russian Israeli who is widely known the world over, cook when she visited a few years ago. Since friends and family know how much I love poms, I’ve received three copies (so far!). It’s fun to pass them on, with my love of poms, to other friends.<br />
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And just for a sense of whimsy, I cherish a cup from El Al. I always travel on Israel’s official airline, and last year, 2013, they had a new set of paper goods, each with a picture of one of the seven species. I couldn’t resist taking the Pom cup home!<br />
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As I prepare for yet another visit, I imagine a special pomegranate waiting for me in the bustling corners of Jerusalem, or Tel Aviv, or perhaps, in the hotel gift shop. And, hopefully, in the many delicious meals I will have. Be The Menschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14332500865818261528noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3781410677598516988.post-38036978549833149652013-01-05T08:39:00.002-08:002013-09-07T12:09:17.154-07:00Mom's Memories Matter<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom, Then and Now....</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">When you have a parent with a serious illness, life becomes smaller. You begin to decline invitations, reserving your energy for just the essentials. Over the years, you spend so much time managing his or her needs, while trying to pursue your own goals , you forget that indeed, time is marching on. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Recently, I was jolted into realizing just how much time had passed since I first became the sole advocate for my parents. A notice arrived announcing my mother's 60th college reunion. I still remembered her participation in her 50th. She was young then; now she was old, with advanced Alzheimer's. It was painful to think that she would not be going this year. I wanted her to be represented in some way. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">And so I wrote to her college Alumni Office:</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #215868; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>Dear Alumnae of the Class of 1952,<o:p></o:p></em></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #215868; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>My mother is a member of your distinguished group. All my life, she talked about her college years as wonderful, reminiscing about lots of good times with her girlfriends, especially the summer she and three others piled into a car and drove across the country on an adventure. <o:p></o:p></em></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #215868; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>She was born in New Haven in 1930, and her father owned the hardware store in the neighborhood. They were a poor family – it was the Depression – but Mom expressed a desire to go to college, the one in her town. A kind uncle helped her navigate the admissions process and Mom very proudly joined the freshman class of 1948. She lived at home and worked every afternoon, either at her father’s store, or at a local factory sewing shower curtains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> She spent e</span>very summer at one of the hotels in the Catskill Mountains, waiting tables. She told me the tuition was $100 then, and she made it on her own. She loved college and, though challenged by circumstance, she made the grades to succeed as well as lifelong friends she never forgot.<o:p></o:p></em></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #215868; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>When she was a senior, her dream of living in Hartford came true when she was offered a job for the coming fall as a second grade teacher in one of their public schools. I have the kind but formal letter, dated January, 1952, which states that her starting salary would be $3,700. She was so proud of this opportunity and continued to teach, on and off, in three states, for more than 35 years. She finally retired at the age of 67, back once again in the Hartford schools.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></em></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #215868; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></span><span style="color: #215868; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>I have vivid memories of Mom, always dressed in a blazer with a bowed blouse (skirt in the early years; slacks in the feminist era!), going off to work in the morning, and spending every night grading papers. On weekends, she would again be at the kitchen table, writing by hand the required week’s plans that were to be given the principal on Monday mornings. Can you imagine having to do that today? I also remember the endless work of report cards three or four times a year. But she loved the kids, and had wonderful stories of the things they said and did. It was tough to be her child – she had very high standards – but I know she was hard working and hard driving because she cared so much about her students, and about me, and later my brother. She would be proud that my daughter, a recent college graduate, is interested in working with children. <o:p></o:p></em></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #215868; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>Mom moved back to her beloved Hartford later in life, and began to enjoy the fruits of her labor. Sadly, not long afterwards, she was diagnosed with mild cognitive impairment and now lives in a nursing home near me with advanced Alzheimer’s disease. I know that if she were well and aware of this reunion, she would be there in a heartbeat. It is so sad she cannot join you. She would love reminiscing and looking at pictures, many of which I still have that tell her story. I hope that Mom’s friends and acquaintances are well and happy, and will feel comfortable enough to be in touch with me with stories, pictures and reminiscences of their own. I don’t remember all the names of the gals she knew, but please remember that she was always appreciative of your friendship and kindnesses. <o:p></o:p></em></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #215868; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>One small coincidence: When I was engaged, I was perusing the high school year book of my fiancé (who grew up in West Hartford) when I came upon the picture of a girl whose name seemed familiar. I asked my fiancé if he knew her, to which he replied that he’d lived next door to her. She had been a student in my mother’s class in 1955, and when it came time to name me two years later (my mother had married by then and moved away), she decided that this was the name she wanted for her “smart, sweet girl.” Fast forward, I was able to meet my namesake at my husband’s 25<sup>th</sup> high school reunion, a few months after my own daughter was born. This woman had no idea of the impression she had made on my mother, her teacher …but we discovered both she and I have daughters named the same. The tradition continues!<o:p></o:p></em></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #215868; font-family: 'Arial','sans-serif'; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><em>I calculate that there are over 1000 adults today who can read because my mother taught them. Your school can be proud that they launched one of the most devoted teachers ever. She was a grateful student and alumna, and I thank you for this opportunity to share her life with all of you on her behalf. <o:p></o:p></em></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Shortly thereafter, I received a beautiful picture postcard with a kind note from the alumna who had organized the reunion. The snowy winter scene, in sepia tones, was of the old wrought iron gate, with the initials of the college's name, which my mother would have walked through every day of her college career. Now refurbished, it stands at the entrance of the expanded university. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Seeing this evocative memory made me cry. My mother's lost memories, forever captured in a single view.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy of the SCSU website.<br />
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<br />Be The Menschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14332500865818261528noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3781410677598516988.post-67549306222564015162012-12-18T16:46:00.000-08:002017-03-24T01:58:53.882-07:00The Trip That Made Me More Of A Mensch<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The roof of Tel Aviv's<br />
Yitzhak Rabin Center<br />
evoke the wings of a dove;<br />
Peace, above all.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Three years ago this month, a small post</span> appeared on my federation's website:<br />
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<em>Join National Women's Philanthropy of JFNA for Heart2Heart: A Women's Journey to Israel, this February 2010. Pack your bag and share your heart and Israel with women from across the US.</em><br />
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Something about this invitation immediately moved me, unlike other enticements I had seen before. Was it the natural lure of "just for women,” or the comprehensive five day program, manageable for both family and work? Perhaps it was a response to a recurring and gnawing feeling: I was missing out on the Israel experience. <br />
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To be sure, it had become privately embarrassing to work as a professional in the Jewish community, knowing I had not been to Israel in 37 years! Back then, I participated in the Zionist Organization of America (ZOA)’s teen tour - seven weeks in the summer of '72. I had few memories of that trip: mostly negative ones of meals of dry schnitzel, lousy bathrooms, and long bus rides to ancient ruins. What was it about today's Israel that excited my colleagues and friends? I felt the sudden urge to find out.<br />
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I had hesitations and concerns about this upcoming adventure. My husband and I had always supported our federation, but what was “Women's Philanthropy” and who was involved? No one I knew was going on the trip and I had not traveled alone for 24 years. And, the scariest reason of all? I was afraid to fly! <br />
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At the time, a fulfilling yet exhausting year as the development manager of a Jewish non-profit was coming to an end. It seemed like a good time for a vacation. I asked my boss, a frequent traveler to Israel, who encouraged me to go, as did my husband. The cost of the trip was reasonable, including the pledge for a minimum gift to Combined Jewish Philanthropies (CJP), so I proudly decided I would pay for it all myself. Two days later, I had the distinct honor of being the last woman to sign up, like the 10th person to join a minyan, and, as Moses at Mt. Sinai, naïve and unaware of what was to come, I said, <em>Heneni, Here I am<strong>. </strong></em><br />
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<strong>Heart2Heart changed my life.</strong><br />
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The Shabbat morning after I returned, I felt compelled to go to synagogue. My rabbi offered an <em>aliyah</em> and asked me to say a few words to the congregation about my experience. As I spoke in front of the <em>Torah</em>, intense feelings began to well up inside of me and I began to weep, uncontrollably. The time change notwithstanding, I realized then that I was forever transformed and forever grateful.<br />
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In ways both personal and professional, I am a different person today because that initial journey challenged my confidence and ability to “go with the flow” in whatever situation I find myself. My life is enriched by what I have learned about myself in the company of Israeli and American women. I even traveled alone one year and thoroughly enjoyed it! I have brought new and old friends who have loved H2H as much as I have and it has brought us closer together. In 2012, I nurtured a 16 member contingent from my city which visited our sister city, Haifa, a very special day of humble feelings and moving testaments to the power of caring communities. <br />
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As one of the few independent development professionals on these trips, I’ve seen firsthand what moves a donor and what she looks for in a cause, teaching me that love of purpose is the first step to supporting a project. And I have met the most extraordinary, diverse, kind and warm women, of all ages and backgrounds: professionals and mothers; the young and young-at-heart; those devoted to Israel; some who donate and volunteer every day of the year, and some who had never heard of “federation.”<br />
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Much like the youngsters called “10/2’s” who live for ten months just to go to sleep away camp for two, I am that “51/1” who waits all year for the privilege to participate in this mission. The three weeks I’ve spent in Israel these last three years are etched in my mind and inform my daily life. I willingly share my impressions of our Israeli sisters and brothers, and remember that I and my fellow travelers have made a difference in the lives of people just like us, as we visit the programs and projects our communities support.<br />
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I always cared about Israel, but now it is truly part of my soul. For instance, whenever I recount the poignant story of the young female IDF soldier, who traveled on my bus two years ago, and said as we drove her home at the end of a long day and night of magical, meaningful moments, “I always knew I had to do my service for my country; I never knew I was doing it for all of you, too,” I weep tears of true understanding of what Israel and its people mean to me. Yes, I often cry tears of joy and memory in my life…but Israel and these very special journeys have the power to overwhelm me with emotion. It’s extraordinary - and you can’t buy that anywhere. <br />
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Heart2Heart also offers a unique and rare opportunity for women. One week out of our busy year of taking care of our families, our homes, our public lives; a single week, when we, ourselves, are taken care of: where we go, what we do, when we eat, is all arranged for us. It is a gift of pure freedom and joy, to share time in Israel in an easy and rewarding way via extraordinary venues, with intelligent, imaginative and invigorating people. The Tel Aviv hotel experience is perfect. Even our tour guides, now my friends also, are remarkable women, and they have left an indelible and distinct impression on me.<br />
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And here’s the most amazing discovery of all:<br />
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Last year, I realized that trip I took in the ‘70s (and the one you may have gone on then, too) was the “Dead Tour.” What do I mean? In those days, you saw the <em>Cave of Machpelah</em> (the tomb of the Patriarchs), the Dead Sea, where the crucified Jesus had laid in state, Ben Gurion's Sde Boker memorial....and cemetery after cemetery of dead heroes. Perhaps this is why I never established a connection. Today you visit living, pulsating Israel, interacting with its people and feeling its energy: the skyscrapers and the sages; the industry and the incredible restaurants with delicious, perfectly flavored offerings - not a schnitzel in sight!; the politics, and the plethora of shopping, art galleries, music venues; and of course, all the wondrous beauty of the Mediterranean, the Carmel Mountains and the vegetation now watered in the Negev. You are filled, much like a vessel is with wine, with excitement, alluring sounds, and sights you could never imagine. And the food, oh, the FOOD – from <em>Machana Yehuda</em> (the market in Jerusalem) to the trendiest restaurants, to a Druze home, to an enormous Bedouin tent, somewhere in the South, resplendent with colorful floor pillows, kosher dinner…and belly dancing. Of course, what happens in a Bedouin tent stays in a Bedouin tent! <br />
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Remember when I said I didn’t know what Women’s Philanthropy was? Today, I give an annual gift in my own name and I am a member of my local WP board of directors.<br />
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I was one of the first to register for this year’s Heart2Heart4. You have just a few more days to say, <em>Heneni,</em> <em>Here I am</em>. Come with me and be transformed. I look forward to seeing you in <em>Eretz Israel. </em><em>Shalom!</em><br />
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Here is the Heart2Heart Link:<br />
<a href="http://www.cvent.com/events/heart-to-heart-4-mission/event-summary-e849d67e411b44e8b25a0299f54a3530.aspx">http://www.cvent.com/events/heart-to-heart-4-mission/event-summary-e849d67e411b44e8b25a0299f54a3530.aspx</a><br />
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For more of my impressions of Israel:<br />
After the first trip: <a href="http://www.bethemensch.blogspot.com/2010/03/grace-in-sky.html">http://www.bethemensch.blogspot.com/2010/03/grace-in-sky.html</a><br />
After the second: <a href="http://www.bethemensch.blogspot.com/2011/05/power-of-one.html">http://www.bethemensch.blogspot.com/2011/05/power-of-one.html</a><br />
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</em></strong>Be The Menschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14332500865818261528noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3781410677598516988.post-38851042321178970122012-12-13T14:08:00.001-08:002012-12-13T19:48:50.757-08:00Making The World A Better Place, One Crisis At A Time<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Recently, I had the honor of hearing Dr. Ofer Merin, Deputy Director-General of Shaare Zedek Medical Center in Jerusalem and the Director of surgical operations for the IDF Field Hospital, at Boston's Combined Jewish Philanthropies' (CJP) Health Professions Group Annual Breakfast. Dr. Merin spoke passionately as he shared a moving slideshow of the hospital’s time in Haiti and Japan after these countries’ devastating earthquakes. He had 400 medical personnel in the ballroom of the Park Plaza Hotel listening intently. The pride was palpable, as everyone understood the extent of Dr. Merin's efforts in the face of such calamity.<br /><br />Coincidentally, while taking part in three annual winter trips to Israel, I became a friend of Dr. Merin's wife, Ora, who organizes trips from the Israel side for American Jewish federations (JFNA), of which CJP is one. At breakfast one morning, in the dining room of our hotel, here's what she told us (paraphrased) - 100 American women - about her husband's work. We were visiting at the end of the 2nd week of the Haiti recovery, February 2010: <br /><br /><em>Dr. Merin had been urging the IDF for many years to create a field hospital for humanitarian purposes. He felt that Israel knew disaster relief so well, of course, and this was an opportunity, nay, a duty, to help, which of course would also lend itself to positive feelings and PR from around the world. When he finally received the OK, it took Dr. Merin two years to assemble the appropriate staff and materials, culled from the full nation’s resources. <br /><br />Not two weeks after the hospital was completed and personnel, procedures and protocols set, the earthquake in Haiti occurred. Israel was the first country, with the first hospital, within 48 hours, on the scene. During the long flight, the doctors and staff continued to prepare for what they might encounter, and included discussions of life and death decisions and self-support tactics they would all need. Many of us watched CNN during their non-stop coverage in the early days and weeks of this disaster. </em></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i>One scene Ora described I will never forget: </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><em>Dr. Merin had brought along two incubators, knowing that women may have gone into pre-mature labor because of the earthquake’s tremors. At first, many of his colleagues and superiors had questioned their need and the use of such precious resources to secure them. Then, the first baby was born, and in front of the usually skeptical Anderson Cooper and the visibly moved medical reporter Elizabeth Cohen, the Haitian mother exclaimed the baby's name would be...Israel.</em></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That morning in Tel Aviv, as Dr. Merin’s wife, Ora, recounted these and other efforts Dr. Merin and his colleagues’ were making for the people of Haiti, Ora’s phone rang. It was her husband, having just arrived in Israel after a two week stay in Haiti. The room exploded in applause, and there wasn’t a dry eye, including those of the multi-national hotel waitstaff. <br /><br />Dr. Merin is considered an Israeli national treasure…but so too his fellow citizens, who help the world in so many ways. I am constantly amazed at what I witness in Israel….<br /><br /><em>Here is another story about Dr. Merin, from the New England Journal of Medicine. </em></span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="http://www.nejm.org/doi/full/10.1056/NEJMp1001693"><span style="color: black;"><em>http://www.nejm.org/doi/full/10.1056/NEJMp1001693</em></span></a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Be The Menschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14332500865818261528noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3781410677598516988.post-39342286181230149082012-07-16T13:05:00.002-07:002012-07-16T13:05:45.912-07:00The Caring Of A Caregiver<br />
I have been someone's daughter, wife and mother, with all the attendant roles and obligations. Yet I never felt these more than when I became the caregiver for my parents. <br />
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During a Shabbat morning a few years ago, my synagogue had a special service as part of "Hillel's Call to Action," a response to issues important to its membership. This service provided an opportunity to acknowledge those who are caring for others. Caregivers' Shabbat highlighted this issue by having temple members recount poignant stories of evening calls, crisis intervention, long-distance guilt and local role reversal. <br />
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Rabbi Wes Gardenswartz described caregivers within the framework of Jewish tradition. Upholding the commandment "Honor thy mother and father," to care for your parents is love through loss. And to care for one's spouse, says the Talmud, is to move from the love of Passion to the love of the Ages. Add caring for children, siblings or special friends, and most of us will be caregivers. <br />
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The definition of a caregiver is one who takes on total responsibility for another person's wellbeing. The term is new, but not the enormous task. Coined in recent years by my generation's penchant for infusing the mundane with nuance and necessity, caregiving is now a calling with its own language, service providers, support networks and books. <br />
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There are three things that make the current caregivers different from those of past generations: <br />
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First, caregivers are older than before, but have younger families. I married at 29; my husband, 38. Our daughter was a young teen when our parents began to falter. <br />
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Second, times have changed. In 1971, when my husband's <em>bubie (grandmother)</em> needed something, his mother walked the four blocks to her house. We don't live that close anymore; having an elder living in our homes is an exception, not the rule. <br />
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Finally, our parents are living longer. But older age can sometimes lead to disease and distress not dealt with when people died earlier. <br />
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When I moved my 68-year-old father to Boston in the late 1990s, I became his sole advocate. It was a role I never thought would be mine, and one for which I was not prepared. Yet when he died eight years later, I knew I had done the job well, and the exhaustion yet relief I felt were the rewards of doing the right thing. Dad had the best housing, medical care and a good quality of life, even during his final days. <br />
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Often, I felt alone in my struggle to care for him. His complicated medical and emotional situations were unique, and not everyone could relate. Learning the ways of caregiving, I discovered there were people who had walked this road. Professionals helped me and there were empathetic friends with stories--the war stories that can be sad yet uplifting to another person in the same boat. <br />
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I used to work for an organization that supported children with special needs in Jewish educational settings. I saw parents struggling to care and advocate for their children, some with severe impairments. The love and devotion of these families to find the right school and services were inspiring. And an example of my last point. <br />
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Caregiving takes enormous energy, both emotional and physical. You need your full resources to accomplish your goal: your mind, to seek answers and make decisions; your body, to get the physical work done; and your heart, to love, honor and cherish those you hold dear. <br />
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<em>A version of this article first appeared in The Jewish Advocate, </em><a href="http://www.thejewishadvocate.com/"><em>www.thejewishadvocate.com</em></a><em>, June 8, 2007. </em><br />
<br />Be The Menschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14332500865818261528noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3781410677598516988.post-80751684908791773042012-06-17T17:05:00.000-07:002012-06-17T17:05:12.192-07:00A Place At The Jewish TableAs Mary Ann Shoap prepares for Shabbat on Friday afternoons, there is much anticipation of the evening and the weekend to come. In the kitchen, she and her nine-year-old daughter Molly are enjoying their weekly routine of baking a special dessert. Watching closely is Daniel, Mary Ann’s seventeen-year-old disabled son. Having just arrived home from school, Daniel, in his wheelchair, is strategically placed near the kitchen island so the family can include him in their conversation. Daniel has spastic quadriparesis — a disability commonly known as cerebral palsy — caused by an accident at birth. While he is very alert and aware of his surroundings, he is unable to walk, speak, or eat. He cannot control his movements or his verbal outbursts, and he needs help with every aspect of daily life. His devoted and loving parents, siblings, and a daily caregiver are available to him every hour of every day. Yet, despite Daniel’s significant needs, the family never misses the opportunity to celebrate Shabbat, holidays, and family milestones. <br />
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As the sun begins to set, Mary Ann adds the finishing touches to the meal and readies Daniel’s dinner (Ensure, a nutritional supplement), which is provided through a feeding tube. Shabbat begins when the family enters the dining room and each person adds money to the tzedakah box. Mary Ann lights the candles while Molly says the prayer. Daniel’s face lights up because he knows “his” blessing is coming. After saying “gut Shabbos” to each other, the family listens as Lester and Daniel make kiddush. Lester says the prayer very slowly and Daniel mouths the words. With help from his mother, Daniel holds the silver kiddush cup in his hand, then takes a sip of wine and smiles; he knows it is Shabbat. They all say the prayer over the challah, and then Lester and Mary Ann bless their children. Jewish music, via a CD Daniel received as a bar mitzvah gift, brings a sense of calm and joy to the evening’s rituals. Mary Ann offers Daniel a taste of mashed potatoes or sauce, but mostly, he passes the time watching and smiling throughout the meal. Judaism — and especially Shabbat — are central to the family’s life. <br />
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A Jewish family in a Jewish home celebrating Shabbat. Here’s a difference: a green grated ramp and the “handicapped parking” signs outside their suburban Boston home. After dinner, Lester moves Daniel toward the elevator at the back of the kitchen. The elevator was added seven years ago when Daniel became too heavy to be carried up the stairs. They say goodnight, and begin their ascent to the second floor and the bedrooms, where Lester will put Daniel to bed. <br />
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Mary Ann and Lester maintain a “normal” life, she says, whenever possible. Except for their summer vacation, Daniel goes everywhere with the family: on college tours, to restaurants, and once, on a cruise. “Danny reminds us,” Mary Ann explains, “to celebrate life. Like other families, we’re parents and children. While we have had to work hard to reach this point, we have moved on; we’re not bitter.” The “normal” did take some time to achieve. The family has had many challenges along the way: the cost of Daniel’s medical needs and daily care; the constant worry for his wellbeing; the need to give time and care to Molly and their oldest child, Alex, who is now in college. But Mary Ann, a trained nurse, and Lester, a cardiologist, have been able to devote the lion’s share of their time, resources, and energy to creating a warm Jewish home. <br />
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Daniel’s bar mitzvah was the culmination of his participation in a program created by Gateways: Access to Jewish Education, which enables Jewish children with special needs to have a Jewish education, in both day schools and supplemental settings. Daniel’s <i>parshah</i>, <i>Bamidbar</i>, is the story of the first Jewish census, when everyone was asked to contribute to the community as a way to count each member. The psalmist wrote, “The stone that the builders rejected has become the chief cornerstone.” (chap.18:22) For the Shoap family, Shabbat and their children — all of their children — have become the center and the strength of their lives. <br />
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<i>I was humbled when asked to write this for Sh'ma when I was the communications and development coordinator for Gateways: Access to Jewish Education in Newton, MA. (www.jgateways.org) I am grateful to Mary Ann Shoap for collaborating on this article and for expressing her appreciation for the opportunity by saying, “Who knows whom it may reach and influence.” </i><br />
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<i>This article was originally published in Sh'ma Magazine, June 2009. http://www.shmadigital.com/shma/200906?pg=16#pg16 To subscribe: 877-568-SHMA www.shma.com </i>Be The Menschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14332500865818261528noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3781410677598516988.post-38062733603242902422012-04-09T09:16:00.004-07:002013-04-15T09:15:13.902-07:00My Favorite Things<br />
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Each year, as I begin to prepare for Passover by taking out the boxes of dishes, utensils and assorted necessities from the basement cabinets, I am reminded of seders past and relatives long gone. The joy and comfort I feel as I unwrap these plates, pots, graters and ceremonial items (many of which once belonged to family members) eases the sense of loss that accompanies them. Indeed, Passover is often a time of family challenge: ailing elders, children stressed by exams, transitions for the rest of us. Those making seders are equally burdened by the fast approaching deadline. I am both excited and nervous about making this magic happen each year.<br />
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Yet we do it, year after year. Why? Because it is part of who and what we are. A people, changing with the times, growing in new ways, creating traditions unique to each of us. <br />
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I love the community I have created by having seders every year. The core group always returns, supplemented each year by newcomers. We do old and new readings, eat the same foods brightened by new recipes, and create new memories by singing favorite songs.<br />
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At the Jewish day school where I work, we have created a vibrant school community by joining our institutional memories with the world in which we live. For instance, our students are learning via new technology their ABCs and Aleph Bet, biology and bible study, creative writing and how to make charoset. And its creation is assured by the devoted staff, faculty and parents, dedicated volunteers and generous donors who give of their time and resources to ensure that these youngsters grow into <span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">the adults they are meant to be.</span><br />
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Thank you for being a part of my community. May you find joy in your holiday <span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">celebrations with families and friends at this very special time of year.</span>Be The Menschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14332500865818261528noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3781410677598516988.post-18056435491171425242011-11-23T14:42:00.000-08:002012-07-02T13:30:53.344-07:00My Mother's Memory Became MineI grew up in Florida and my mother spoke often about the summer she spent at Camp Laurelwood. Mom was raised in 1930s New Haven, the second child of a family deeply affected by the Great Depression. One year, she received a scholarship to go to camp. I don’t know if the gift came from Laurelwood directly, New Haven’s Jewish Federation or its JCC, but no one ever appreciated this largesse as much as my mother. <br />
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Her fond memories of the fun she had that one and only summer away from home fueled her desire to have me go, and she made it happen in the summer of 1967, the year my father decided to move us back to the Northeast. I was ten and a half years old, an only child and extremely shy. Mom thought it would be good for me to be away while they set up our new home in New York. <br />
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In those days, camp began around the Fourth of July and ended in late August, a full eight weeks. I arrived that first day with one trunk and two duffle bags, absolutely terrified. I didn’t know anyone and I was clearly different from the other girls: they’d already been at camp for a few years; they were mostly from area communities; they had nicer clothes and wore makeup! I was THE NEW GIRL. <br />
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My parents always remembered the sentence with which my first letter began: “If you could get your money back!!” Apparently, I was unhappy and ready to leave, but aware that our family of modest means couldn’t afford to be frivolous (I think camp cost $100 a week back then). Somehow, over the next three weeks, the magic of camp transformed me and, on the final day, I joined the chorus of sad campers. My mother and father were astonished as they watched me tearfully hug my counselors, Irma, the head counselor, Belle Schiffman, and other adults and kids. On our way out of camp, I pronounced with certainty, “Next year, I’m going for two months!”<br />
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I came to camp three more summers, each for the full session, and they are melded in my mind into a glorious panorama of milestone events. One in particular stands out: the summer of 1969, when on the afternoon of July 21st, campers and staff crowded into the dining hall, gathering around a very small black and white television set to watch the first man walk on the moon. We all remember important national moments; for me, a key one is where I was when I first heard, “One small step for man, one giant step for mankind.”<br />
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Then there was the year we lost elderly Mr. Gordon, the long-time director who lived with his wife in a cottage and daily drove a golf cart to survey our activities. He’d been involved at the camp since my mother’s days. I didn’t really understand at the time, but there was a palpable deep sadness for days amongst the staff that I remember with respect.<br />
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Less dramatic but equally special times over four summers included:<br />
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• Becoming a star on the trampoline which for this nonathletic girl was a definite sport. Decades later, I shared a trampoline moment on Cape Cod with my young daughter, who laughed as I painfully tried to recreate my moves;<br />
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• Arts and crafts on the afternoons of socials, when girls were allowed to publicly wear their hair in rollers. Ours were often empty orange juice cans, four placed strategically atop our heads resembling helicopter blades;<br />
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• A first kiss at that social;<br />
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• The rainy days in the library;<br />
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• Color war, remembering the lyrics we sang to “Somewhere” (There’s a place for us, Laurelwood’s the place for us…);<br />
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• The joy of discovering that Wonder Bread, which I didn’t get at home, made a great mayonnaise, tomato and lettuce sandwich on days I didn’t like the menu.<br />
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When my daughter was of age, I chose to send her to the same camp in northern New England her school friends attended…with the same duffle bags I had used 30 years earlier. She went for five years but never loved camp as much as I did and, in hindsight, I wish I had let her take the chance on Laurelwood. I wonder if it was that initial need to make it my own that brought me so much satisfaction.<br />
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The Jewish experience of Camp Laurelwood has remained with me the most, instilled in a way that still sustains me. I believe it also affected my mother because while she didn’t have much of a Jewish life at home, being at Laurelwood made her appreciate her Jewish heritage. She instinctively knew I would benefit by going to Hebrew school, Israel, and of course, Jewish camp. I will always remember the wonderful Friday night dinners with amazing challah and everyone dressed in our best whites. We would be singing together but I especially loved when Belle lit the candles and sometimes sang the Yiddish song, <em>Bei Mir Bistu Shein</em> (To Me You're Beautiful). She was my favorite “elder” at camp. The Jewish girl in me will be forever grateful for those summers when Jewish song, ceremony and values were infused into our days and nights. That first summer, 1967, began one month after the Six Day War and looking back, I suspect a sense of pride permeated everything we did. <br />
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My one sadness is that I didn’t keep in touch with camp friends and I envy today’s campers with email, Skype and Facebook. When I went to college in Boston, I did meet some, including my cute waiter I’d had a crush on for years!<br />
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Today, I work in my Jewish community, surrounded by young children and their parents. While day schools nourish our next generation during the school year, how lucky we are to have Jewish camps continue this sacred work throughout the summer. Like my mother before me, I will never forget what Camp Laurelwood did for me. <br />
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<em>A version of this post appears in the CLW 75th anniversary tribute book, <strong>Fun, Friends, Forever</strong>, published by Camp Laurelwood, 2012. For more information about the book, and the 75th Gala on August 25th at CLW, go to <a href="http://www.camplaurelwood.org/">http://www.camplaurelwood.org/</a>. All proceeds from both the book and the gala benefit the CLW Scholarship Fund. Please give the gift of a summer at CLW to the next generation.</em>Be The Menschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14332500865818261528noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3781410677598516988.post-16785399844309485612011-11-21T18:11:00.000-08:002011-11-22T05:55:53.955-08:00Remembering the Good in OurselvesToday, my community suffered the loss of three special individuals, and I am struck by the similarities in their lives, which makes their shared day of death an interesting coincidence.<br /><br />There is Joe, 104 when he died, who came to temple every Shabbat morning with a list in hand, a collection of names he rose to recite in prayerful hope for their return to good health.<br /><br />Ina, a strong woman who made her mark in so many ways: ritual committee trailblazer, sisterhood mentor, devoted wife whose husband preceeded her in the same slow, debilitating illness that took her life.<br /><br />And Bernie, who forever changed the work of Jewish communal service so that it reflects the values and respect our global community has for those who engage in tikkun olam, repairing the world.<br /><br />Joe, Ina, and Bernie - I didn't know them well - yet my life is better because of their efforts. <br /><br />I watched Joe rise each week and purposefully walk to where our rabbi would acknowledge his presence and his appeal for Divine intervention. His ritual, his consistent mission, always made me think of someone I knew who might be helped by a prayer. He made me a better Jew.<br /><br />Ina was a force - an intelligent, Ivy-educated woman who knew her mind and stuck to it. She welcomed me into her temple, her home, her friendship with care, support, and opinion. You knew where she stood on everything...and I respected her for that. She taught me about ritual, devotion and love. We could use more teachers like Ina.<br /><br />I met Bernie once, a long time before I began to work in the Jewish community. He was a mensch's mensch. As a professor, he made a difference for his students. As the founding director of the Hornstein Program at Brandeis University, he created an institution that forges great organizational leaders. In creating BALI, the adult learning program at the university, he engaged the broadest of communities.<br /><br />The Jewish community, my community, has benefitted by these determined, mindful souls. We are forever changed by their insistence on doing good. Let us reflect on the good they did, and hope that our good works will reflect back onto their lives.<br /><br />May their memories be for a blessing.Be The Menschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14332500865818261528noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3781410677598516988.post-45763922665226200532011-05-05T16:46:00.000-07:002011-05-05T17:27:12.775-07:00The Power of One<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKNeN2YxnuTDoEyMTN-y4PLfygZYy1o2_FZkvsc9ICZp5R9zFo7j7Z0Q4l3aJ10DrmCz_xbbCtErQ7R07zur23TpARz2ux0cW1Ph-IlJ40Dud3mr7sd-IP7Bj48kIaJIKJtPysCLztXqQ/s1600/iphone+Feb+2011+194.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKNeN2YxnuTDoEyMTN-y4PLfygZYy1o2_FZkvsc9ICZp5R9zFo7j7Z0Q4l3aJ10DrmCz_xbbCtErQ7R07zur23TpARz2ux0cW1Ph-IlJ40Dud3mr7sd-IP7Bj48kIaJIKJtPysCLztXqQ/s320/iphone+Feb+2011+194.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5603384565290078962" /></a><br /><strong>In a whirlwind trip, women discover the power of one</strong><br /><em>Heart to Heart shows their dollars at work </em><br /><br /><br /><br />When you enter the hospital, you are greeted by a huge, colorful mural. There are a rainbow and a dancing Winnie the Pooh, balloons in hand, one of which is inscribed with “Baruchim Habaim, Welcome Friends.” I knew then I would not leave without shedding tears.<br /><br />This was the third of five days I spent in Israel, and I was beginning to feel the rush of exhaustion and exhilaration one gets after jet lag sets in. Thrilled to be traveling with two of my closest friends from Boston and 85 other American women, I was on a mission sponsored by the Jewish Federations of North America’s (JFNA) Women’s Philanthropy division. <br /><br />We had come to Be’er Sheva, to the Soroka Hospital for Children, to meet the teachers and the students of the World Ort Kav Or program, which helps ill children continue their studies during a prolonged hospital stay. After hearing from the hospital director and educational coordinator, we were divided into small groups to visit the wards and view the program in action. <br /><br />I was immediately moved by the children and their families – Israelis in bright clothing and Arabs in traditional dress – who were sitting together in small rooms or working in the cheerful classrooms. My eyes fixed upon a teenage boy, wearing a hospital gown, and sitting with an instructor at a small desk. On closer look, I saw that the youngster was working on complicated math problems and he had payus wrapped behind his ears. <br /><br />Realizing I was staring, I turned to join my companions and became conscious of how out of place we must have seemed. A strong sense of obligation washed over me: It was incumbent upon us to tiptoe lightly through this reality of other people’s lives. <br /><br />And then out of the corner of my eye, I saw her. A woman in her late 30s sat off to the side, on a folding chair placed against the gray tile wall. She was quietly watching us while slowly sipping from a paper cup. It was apparent from the way she was dressed – long skirt and sleeves, beret covering her hair – that she was an observant Jew. Thousands of miles away from home, I felt an instant bond with this stranger: She was a mother.<br /><br />She looked up from her cup, and I took the opportunity to say, “Shalom.” <br />“Shalom,” she replied. <br /><br />“Medaberet Ivrit? Do you speak English?” <br /><br />“Yes.”<br /><br />With a wave of her hand, she asked who we were. Choosing my words carefully, I explained that we were Americans, members of an organization that supported the hospital school. I asked if the young man studying math was her son. She said yes, and that he had been there a week with another yet to go. I did not ask why he was there; she did not say. But at that moment, I was no longer a visitor; she was no longer a Sabra. We were sharing the worry for her son. I looked at her as my eyes began to water and said, “I wish him a Refuah Sheleimah, a return to good health.” She too began to weep and said, “Thank you, and thank everyone for their help here.” I said goodbye and moved on, touched by this private encounter. <br /><br />The Heart to Heart (H2H) mission is an invitation to all women, at any stage of their lives, to take the leap and travel alone, and together, to our homeland. Participants include young mothers, empty nesters, career women and retired teachers; seasoned federation volunteers and professionals and first-time givers; mothers with adult daughters, real sisters – and best friends who wish they were. The most moving traveler this year was the survivor of the Shoah, who came with her daughter and grandson’s wife, a Jew by choice. Israel beckons you, everyone, to fulfill the mitzvah to be there.<br /><br />Begun in 2010, this whirlwind tour was designed to show donors “where the dollars go.” It is five days of fast-paced, intensive traveling, geared to introducing us to Jewish Agency and Joint Distribution Committee programs, funded in part by annual federation gifts. This was H2H’s second year, and I was a returning participant. Many of my fellow travelers were Lions of Judah, those who give at the highest levels; dozens of others were like me, women who work for community agencies, were new to the federation family or had never been to Israel. We came to be inspired by the energy and commitment of our local and national federations, 157 strong, who make a difference every day in the lives of Israel’s people. <br /><br />That initial trip was my first to Israel in 37 years. After a busy year, it was the small ad on the Combined Jewish Philanthropy Web site that beckoned. I was increasingly embarrassed to work in the Jewish community and say I had not been to Israel since the age of 15, so now was the time. I haven’t been the same since. <br /><br />What is it about Israel that moves one in such a powerful way? There is a force, a sense of purpose. Israel has such impossible dilemmas, yet you witness innovative solutions, many funded by American contributions. For instance, juvenile delinquency has recently been addressed with education and business programs that engage young people by boosting their sense of self-worth. We saw those initiatives, as well as others for new immigrant young adults, Ethiopian children and families at risk. <br /><br />The distinctive nature of the H2H trip is the opportunity for each woman to understand the power of one: <em>I am a philanthropist.</em> Whether you give $500, the minimum gift to participate on the trip, or $5,000, the initial Lion of Judah commitment, a woman’s gift makes an impact, first on her local community, such as for Jewish education, and then on, say, an Ethiopian youngster in the Carmel valley or an elderly woman in Jerusalem.<br /><br />At the day school where I work, learning about Israel and its people, language and culture is integral to the curriculum. After I returned, I found myself drifting toward the classrooms whenever our Hebrew teachers were speaking. It was a clarion call, a wonderful reprisal of all I had encountered the previous week. <br /><br />Why do I go back? For five carefully orchestrated, intensely moving 14-hour days, I am incredibly lucky to be offered a chance to see through the eyes of these extraordinary women. A view of the power of what we can do, alone and together. I will go again, with an open mind and a joyful heart, because to be in Israel is to be transformed.<br /><br /><em>First published in Boston's The Jewish Advocate, May 5, 2011<br />To subscribe, www.thejewishadvocate.com</em>Be The Menschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14332500865818261528noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3781410677598516988.post-78994153874280699212010-10-15T17:39:00.000-07:002011-11-21T19:08:02.265-08:00What a difference a (small) donor can makeTake a moment to imagine the birth of your favorite not-for-profit organization. <br /><br />Perhaps you are concerned about Jewish continuity so you support a Jewish day school. Or your cause is care for the elderly. Many families are devoted to their synagogue or youth group.<br /><br />Some of our beloved local agencies are decades old with dozens of employees and a myriad of programming. But they didn’t start out that way. How did they grow? Every agency begins in a similar manner: a motivated individual or group of passionate players decide that they can make a difference. They create a model of what they wish to accomplish and begin to collect like-minded individuals to help them.<br /><br />Of course, the next step is how shall they fund their endeavors? As they seek founding support, they realize they have no track record, only a noble mission. What will encourage donations and why should anyone give to an unknown cause? It takes chutzpah to ask and faith to give. And that’s where the “annual fund” makes the difference. <br /><br />A charity’s annual fund is the engine that drives its daily operation. And everyone can participate in the annual fund; no gift is too small. Often it is the small donations that make the difference in the early years of an organization. Sometimes it’s grants called “seed money,” the lifeblood of new organizations and a way for a donor to help who could otherwise not participate in philanthropy. Here is the perfect way to be A PART of your community, not apart.<br /><br />We are all mesmerized and incredibly grateful when someone donates a major gift to build a needed building or fund an important initiative, and certainly, these donors make a dynamic difference in our lives.<br /><br />But let’s suppose that your favorite group needs computers for their students, a van to transport their elderly clients, or support for an innovative program for new parents. In the early years of a non-profit, the difference between success and failure can sometimes be measured by whether this one program can find support. A small grant to a new organization is a catalyst for change. <br /><br />Ask someone you know who works for a social service organization: what’s on her wish list? Some might tell you grandiose visions of programs and parallel services. But I believe most would say they need something now which directly affects their constituency and your donation, whatever the amount, can help them get it.<br /><br />That’s something to think about the next time you receive a request for a contribution. While those who are blessed to give sustaining philanthropy are some of the pillars of our community, every donor matters. It takes individual bricks to hold up the pillars. Your donation will sow the seeds of the future.<br /><br />It is said that people give not because they have money, but because they have heart. When a cause moves your heart, give what you can – and know that your thoughtfulness and generosity will always be appreciated.<br /><br /><em>A version of this post was published in www.thejewishadvocate.com in Fall 2011.</em>Be The Menschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14332500865818261528noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3781410677598516988.post-27374801531240260032010-04-09T12:31:00.001-07:002010-04-28T00:02:22.203-07:00Struggling with GraceIs it possible to be a mensch all the time? Even as we strive to always do and be good, sometimes, despite our best intentions, grace eludes us.<br /><br />There are moments in everyone's life when external forces cause us great pain and we seem not be able to rise above our feelings of hurt and anguish. <br /><br />Rashi, the great Jewish Biblical commentator from the Middle Ages, suggests:<br /><br /><em>Receive with simplicity everything that happens to you.</em><br /><br />What does this mean? Shall we just go along to get along, as many would suggest? Shall we assume we have no ability to change what happens to us, so it is best not to challenge it? Perhaps the secret is in the grace implied by Rashi's statement.<br /><br />If things happen for a reason, as people like to say, then our acceptance of life's twists and turns allows us to walk its path with dignity and grace. This doesn't preclude us from making an effort to change life's direction or circumstances, like pursuing an education or having a child. Yet, with each decision, an outcome emerges over which we may have no control. The die is cast; we live with the consequences. We can accept the results or we can fight them. <br /><br />There's an inherent nihilism to this thinking. But this wasn't Rashi's intent. His was an exhortation to be graceful, to take what happens and find a way to live with it. To live in this fashion is to not be distracted by the dissent but to move forward; to use one's time and energy for good and not fight the fights we can't win. <br /><br />To be accepting of one's lot in life: that is to be a mensch.<br /><br />Is this truly possible? Can anyone do this? Can I?Be The Menschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14332500865818261528noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3781410677598516988.post-2221248765303740852010-04-08T19:25:00.000-07:002010-05-26T13:41:03.057-07:00The Broken and The Whole<div>I've been thinking about the portion in the Torah we read last month that describes Moses' assent of Mt. Sinai. During this time, Moses is commanded by God to inscribe His Laws, The Ten Commandments, onto stone tablets. These will be the laws by which Moses will lead and teach the people.<br /><br />After 40 days and nights, Moses descends the mountain with the tablets to find the Israelites have lost their faith during his long absence and are engaging in nefarious activity. Enraged, Moses impulsively throws and smashes the stones. This passionate display of his disappointment awakens shame in the people and they are remorseful.<br /><br />So Moses returns to the mountain top and asks if he can see the Face of God. What does he seek? Is he looking for a reason to be doing this work? His anger too is something to be dealt with, and knowing God will not absolve him from it. Perhaps he is looking for reassurance. Yet, it is only the fleeting vision of God's back that is allowed his view and after another 40 days, Moses returns to the people with a new set of tablets.<br /><br />It is so compelling that both the broken tablets and the second whole ones are ensconced in the <em>Mishkan</em>, the ark the Israelites carried through the desert. Why? Why did they bother to keep the first yet destroyed set? Why would they want something that reminds them of their indiscretions?<br /><br />There are many explanations for this. One is that these are both sides of human beings: we are whole and we are broken; we do <em>mitzvot</em>, good deeds, and we make mistakes. It's an incredibly powerful, and humbling, statement. We carry all of who we are along the path of life. <br /><br />Consider here the concept of <em>Tikkun Olam, Repairing the World</em>. Jews believe that the world was received broken, and while it is not our job to complete the work, we are commanded to make a difference, to do our small part to fix it. Maybe that means you help teach a child to read, or you make contributions to worthy causes, or your professional life entails helping people.<br /><br />Striving to make the world a better place, one person, one mitzvot at a time, is a daily reminder of the broken and whole. Today we can help someone; tomorrow, it may be we who need the help. In the giving, we also become recipients, because as we improve the world, it becomes the world we all inhabit...during the whole and the broken times. <br /></div>Be The Menschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14332500865818261528noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3781410677598516988.post-39529197135524091832010-03-26T13:50:00.001-07:002010-04-03T06:07:30.043-07:00Grace in the SkyRecently, I traveled to Israel for the first time in three decades. It was not for lack of interest that kept me away. Life happened...and I am a fearful flyer. But I wanted to go on this particular trip so much that I displaced my nervousness by focusing on the trip's comprehensive itinerary.<br /><br />Though only five days, my visit was an emotional experience. I have wonderful memories: the sights and sounds, of course, and the food, glorious food. The people I met, both my fellow American travelers and the Israelis, were unique, dynamic and passionate.<br /><br />Yet my first and lasting impression is of the flight there.<br /><br />It begins at the gate. El Al, Newark. Slowly, the passengers arrive and you notice: the Orthodox families with multiple children in tow; the young people, of all persuasions, with sandals on their feet, carrying heavy backpacks; the couples in their later years, going for a <em>bris (circumcision)</em> or a bar mitzvah; the Israelis going home.<br /><br />We board the plane and instantly, it is a beehive of activity. A family, the lot of us, going together to <em>Eretz Israel, the Land of Israel. </em> If you were to deplane now, you would have already seen one special aspect of Israel: a picture of Israeli society.<br /><br />It is 1:30 am and dinner is served. Soon, there is silence. For a few hours, a blanket of calm.<br /><br />What is amazing is how the flight attendants - young and seasoned, men and women - have been floating throughout the cabin, graciously tending to each person's needs expeditiously. They work the aisles, noting the passengers who need kosher meals, the children with air sickness, the praying gentlemen in their way. They are well-trained but there is more here: an ability to become one with the group. They, too, are family.<br /><br />Five a.m. and I wake to movement. We still have five hours to go, yet the Orthodox men are up, preparing to <em>daven</em>, to pray. I watch their intentional choreography - first their jacket, then the <em>tallit (prayer shawl), </em> and finally, the wrapping of the leather straps of their <em>tefillin (phylacteries)</em>. First one way, then the other. I am familiar with this routine, as my grandfather did it every morning. I sit in awed silence, remembering him some 30 years ago in the early morning light of his living room windows. It's daybreak once again, this time somewhere over northern Europe, and each man moves to the back of the plane, swaying and bending in unison with the congregation. The back of the plane, now sacred space.<br /><br />Witnessing this strange yet special "<em>shul</em> in the sky" elicits an equally unique thought. I am safe on this flight... these religious fellow passengers offer me a sanctuary. My fear of flying, which I've had most of my life, suddenly dissipates. It is, of course, all in my head, but what a very special moment.<br /><br />Leaving Israel five days later is incredibly bittersweet but I have no hesitation as I queue up at Tel Aviv's Ben Gurion Airport. Once again, the family is together and my anxiety is a thing of the past. Our group slowly moves through the winding rows. A quick hug, we say <em>Shalom</em> and we're on our way.<br /><br />I sit next to a young modern Orthodox woman, on her way home to New York after a visit with her grandparents. We chat and enjoy dinner. Two hours into the flight, my spirits soar as a beautiful young attendant hands out individually wrapped, large sweet dates and says, <em>boker tov, good morning</em>. It is a new day, and it's <em>Tu B'Shevat, Israel's Arbor Day</em>. Only on El Al. Only in Israel.<br /><br />Caring, understanding and <em>menschlikeit. </em>Grace at 40,000 feet.Be The Menschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14332500865818261528noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3781410677598516988.post-37328607841438216172010-03-25T05:39:00.000-07:002010-03-28T07:02:33.966-07:00Gratitude and Grace, The Passover ReminderThe Jewish concept of thankfulness is rooted in the feelings expressed by the signature song of Passover : <em>Dayenu, Enough</em>. Gratitude is incremental: if G-d had only done this one thing, it would have been enough. If only these miracles had occurred and not others, it would have been <em>enough, Dayenu</em>.<br /><br />Being grateful is a clear path to grace and ultimately, to happiness. If we are always searching for the next thing, if we don't stop to appreciate what we already have, how can we know happiness and gratitude? I've come to understand this as a way to stop the rush to acquire and take time to just be in the moment. Happiness and gratitude require time to explore and absorb.<br /><br />Passover arrives six months after the redemption and renewal of <em>Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement</em>. It is a reminder of the promises we made: to try harder to be better. The lessons of <em>chametz (leavened bread)</em> and <em>matza (unleavened)</em> are these: we have forgotten what we pledged. The fast of the fall has become hollow. We, like the yeasts of <em>chametz</em>, have risen - our image of ourselves is inflated. The <em>seder (the traditional Passover meal; order of the meal)</em> and <em>matza</em> are here to remind us, to remind me, that a year has passed: how have I changed this year, and now, at the half-way mark since <em>Yom Kippur</em>, where am I? What work do I have yet to do? We need to, if not endure the deprivation, feel the fast. The deflation of our egos as we imagine ourselves slaves serves as a potent and empathetic awakening: do the work.<br /><br />A good life entails finding meaning and purpose. The writer, Victor Frankl, eloquently wrote about the need to pursue meaning in our lives. I want to ask: in our daily lives, do we include civility, grace, in this pursuit? Today's social media networks allow us to reach out to others, to search for "friends" in an effort to create community and fellowship. But are we truly feeling that community? Are we grateful for what we already have or ignoring the present for some elusive future?<br /><br />Being a mensch is living up to our own expectations of ourselves.Be The Menschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14332500865818261528noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3781410677598516988.post-87098751135342921382010-03-23T17:25:00.000-07:002010-03-25T09:56:00.994-07:00Making Mitzvot My OwnI was blessed some years ago to meet, quite by chance, a wonderful couple. They were older than my parents and we seemed to enjoy each other's company. We began to speak and visit on a regular basis. They had lived an early life that was quite extraordinary and romantic before becoming emigres to this country more than 50 years ago.<br /><br />I felt a loving affinity towards the wife in particular and we discovered many connections in our lives. We soon came to greet each other warmly and I felt lucky to have her and her family in my life.<br /><br />Over the past two years, my friend's husband has had health challenges and recently, he faced the most serious illness yet. While I spoke to her a few times each week during this period, I was very sensitive to their wishes for privacy. I worried and prayed for him, and hoped that all would be OK. I understood his wish for dignity at this very difficult time in his life and I waited and cared from afar.<br /><br />Six weeks ago, he miraculously began to improve, and I started to visit them each week. It began as a mitzvah, a good deed, the right thing to do. I said it was to see him, but it was also to spend a little time with her, to share her stress and bring her some happiness from outside. As she was with him 24/7, it was the least I could do. I wanted to support her and share the difficulties and the small victories.<br /><br />But something happened along the way to being a mensch: I found that the visits benefited me, too. It seems obvious, but there's more to it than simple good feelings about doing the right thing.<br /><br />Each Saturday, I go to services and then visit my friends. It is what I do; it's become a part of my routine. I also visit my mother regularly on Saturday, but that isn't mitzvah, it's obligation. There's a difference here that I only now have begun to understand. When I see my mother, I fulfill my role as her caretaker. I want to do it but it feels different. When I visit with my friends, the mitzvah has gracefully morphed into something I want to do, that I can't imagine not doing. With G-d's grace, my friend will soon be well enough to be back home and I hope that I can continue our weekly conversations.<br /><br />There are 613 mitzvot in the Torah, 248 of which are "positive" deeds and thoughts that the Torah asks of us to perform and accomplish. In its wisdom, the Torah mandates us to give of ourselves in this way, giving service to our community. There is a higher purpose, but it's really a simple way of teaching us to be better people.<br /><br />When the Israelites received the Torah at Mt. Sinai, they said, "We will do, and we will hear." First the doing, then the understanding.<br /><br />I get that now.Be The Menschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14332500865818261528noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3781410677598516988.post-82042853636275893152010-03-22T04:35:00.000-07:002010-04-16T04:18:55.772-07:00An Historic MomentLast night, we watched the ugliness of politics work to the People's advantage. No matter on which side you stood, making universal health coverage for every person in our country the law of the land is a powerful message. Legislators had passionate feelings which were expressed in moving (sometimes tense) arguments. And in the end, they did the right thing. That is, 216 of them, all from the same side, voted for what they thought was the right thing.<br /><br />So it remains to be seen how we will understand what happened; do we believe that the side that didn't vote yes was not interested in being <em>Menschen</em>? Perhaps voting your conscience makes you a mensch too... they thought they did the right thing.<br /><br />I believe that many of these benefits (the most immediate of which are included below courtesy of the blog, Crooks and Liars) are the work of people who care deeply about others. Perhaps, sometimes, leading by example may also mean waiting to see. At least, I hope that will be true, because these are important changes. I hope that people will come around to see this was good, and what 31 million uninsured Americans also deserve.<br /><br />But most importantly, let's see if insurance companies will gracefully rise to the level of menschen.<br /><br />http://crooksandliars.com/karoli/what-you-get-when-hcr-passesBe The Menschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14332500865818261528noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3781410677598516988.post-71095651126882507202010-03-21T14:58:00.000-07:002010-04-11T12:40:58.719-07:00View of the WorldOur president campaigned on the empowering slogan, "Be The Change." I really liked its positive message: Go forth, and make a difference. You, not someone else, you.<br /><br />Some years ago, my rabbi gave a moving sermon on the occasion of his installation. He spoke of the need for "grace" in our lives. To act in a graceful manner; to treat others with grace; to understand and interact with those in your everyday life with grace. He pledged to always be graceful with us, his congregation.<br /><br />What is grace? It's often thought of as a prayer, as in the "grace" before meals. Webster defines grace, among other ways, as "...An act or instance of kindness or courtesy...."<br /><br />I have thought about that speech often these last few years...and often these last few days.<br /><br />It was just as powerful as the Be The Change message. Finding grace, doing grace - now that is a challenge. It encourages us to always think what someone else is thinking. They are vulnerable - like us; they are in need - like us; and perhaps, we can help them today.<br /><br />It says in <em>Pirke Avot, Sayings of the Sages</em> (a collection of revered rabbinic thought), "When all around you are behaving badly, be the mensch." So I have named this blog <strong>Be The Mensch</strong>. A "mensch" is a good person; someone who tries to do the right thing all the time. I want to think and write about this, to consider grace and being a mensch.<br /><br />Join me on this journey.Be The Menschhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14332500865818261528noreply@blogger.com0