I 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.
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.
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.
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!”
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.”
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.
Less dramatic but equally special times over four summers included:
• 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;
• 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;
• A first kiss at that social;
• The rainy days in the library;
• Color war, remembering the lyrics we sang to “Somewhere” (There’s a place for us, Laurelwood’s the place for us…);
• 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.
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.
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, Bei Mir Bistu Shein (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.
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!
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.
A version of this post appears in the CLW 75th anniversary tribute book, Fun, Friends, Forever, published by Camp Laurelwood, 2012. For more information about the book, and the 75th Gala on August 25th at CLW, go to http://www.camplaurelwood.org/. 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.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Monday, November 21, 2011
Remembering the Good in Ourselves
Today, 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.
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.
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.
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.
Joe, Ina, and Bernie - I didn't know them well - yet my life is better because of their efforts.
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.
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.
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.
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.
May their memories be for a blessing.
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.
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.
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.
Joe, Ina, and Bernie - I didn't know them well - yet my life is better because of their efforts.
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.
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.
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.
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.
May their memories be for a blessing.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
The Power of One
In a whirlwind trip, women discover the power of one
Heart to Heart shows their dollars at work
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
She looked up from her cup, and I took the opportunity to say, “Shalom.”
“Shalom,” she replied.
“Medaberet Ivrit? Do you speak English?”
“Yes.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
The distinctive nature of the H2H trip is the opportunity for each woman to understand the power of one: I am a philanthropist. 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.
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.
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.
First published in Boston's The Jewish Advocate, May 5, 2011
To subscribe, www.thejewishadvocate.com
Friday, October 15, 2010
What a difference a (small) donor can make
Take a moment to imagine the birth of your favorite not-for-profit organization.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
A version of this post was published in www.thejewishadvocate.com in Fall 2011.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
A version of this post was published in www.thejewishadvocate.com in Fall 2011.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Struggling with Grace
Is 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.
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.
Rashi, the great Jewish Biblical commentator from the Middle Ages, suggests:
Receive with simplicity everything that happens to you.
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.
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.
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.
To be accepting of one's lot in life: that is to be a mensch.
Is this truly possible? Can anyone do this? Can I?
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.
Rashi, the great Jewish Biblical commentator from the Middle Ages, suggests:
Receive with simplicity everything that happens to you.
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.
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.
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.
To be accepting of one's lot in life: that is to be a mensch.
Is this truly possible? Can anyone do this? Can I?
Thursday, April 8, 2010
The Broken and The Whole
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.
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.
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.
It is so compelling that both the broken tablets and the second whole ones are ensconced in the Mishkan, 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?
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 mitzvot, 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.
Consider here the concept of Tikkun Olam, Repairing the World. 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.
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.
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.
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.
It is so compelling that both the broken tablets and the second whole ones are ensconced in the Mishkan, 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?
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 mitzvot, 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.
Consider here the concept of Tikkun Olam, Repairing the World. 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.
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.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Grace in the Sky
Recently, 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.
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.
Yet my first and lasting impression is of the flight there.
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 bris (circumcision) or a bar mitzvah; the Israelis going home.
We board the plane and instantly, it is a beehive of activity. A family, the lot of us, going together to Eretz Israel, the Land of Israel. If you were to deplane now, you would have already seen one special aspect of Israel: a picture of Israeli society.
It is 1:30 am and dinner is served. Soon, there is silence. For a few hours, a blanket of calm.
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.
Five a.m. and I wake to movement. We still have five hours to go, yet the Orthodox men are up, preparing to daven, to pray. I watch their intentional choreography - first their jacket, then the tallit (prayer shawl), and finally, the wrapping of the leather straps of their tefillin (phylacteries). 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.
Witnessing this strange yet special "shul 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.
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 Shalom and we're on our way.
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, boker tov, good morning. It is a new day, and it's Tu B'Shevat, Israel's Arbor Day. Only on El Al. Only in Israel.
Caring, understanding and menschlikeit. Grace at 40,000 feet.
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.
Yet my first and lasting impression is of the flight there.
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 bris (circumcision) or a bar mitzvah; the Israelis going home.
We board the plane and instantly, it is a beehive of activity. A family, the lot of us, going together to Eretz Israel, the Land of Israel. If you were to deplane now, you would have already seen one special aspect of Israel: a picture of Israeli society.
It is 1:30 am and dinner is served. Soon, there is silence. For a few hours, a blanket of calm.
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.
Five a.m. and I wake to movement. We still have five hours to go, yet the Orthodox men are up, preparing to daven, to pray. I watch their intentional choreography - first their jacket, then the tallit (prayer shawl), and finally, the wrapping of the leather straps of their tefillin (phylacteries). 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.
Witnessing this strange yet special "shul 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.
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 Shalom and we're on our way.
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, boker tov, good morning. It is a new day, and it's Tu B'Shevat, Israel's Arbor Day. Only on El Al. Only in Israel.
Caring, understanding and menschlikeit. Grace at 40,000 feet.
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