This past Sunday, I took the kids to our synagogue’s tashlich at the beach where we threw bread into the ocean to symbolically cast off our mistakes of the past year. At the beach, we saw several of our friends, so after the ritual was over, we took the kids for lunch. When the kids sat down to eat, I realized that there was no place nearby for them to wash their hands, and my hand sanitizer was in the car. I asked the other parents if they had any hand sanitizer with them.
This question launched us into a conversation about how hand sanitizer didn’t exist when we were kids, and how we worry now about a whole range of issues about which our parents were not concerned. Were our parents too lax? Are we too strict with our own kids? Not strict enough? Why is it so difficult to get parenting right?
This Friday night, on Yom Kippur, we will recite the Kol Nidre which cancels “all vows.” The Kol Nidre is puzzling. The most sacred prayer of the year is not actually a prayer at all, but rather a legal formula to cancel oaths. Oddly, rather than cancelling vows that we made and didn’t fulfill in the past year, the traditional formula cancels vows that we’ll make in the coming year. Why do we need this formula in advance? Perhaps, we’ll promise properly in the coming year? Maybe, just maybe, we’ll get it right.
At the holiest moment of the Jewish calendar, the Kol Nidre forces us to confront the impossibility of perfection. The prayer asserts that we will inevitably make mistakes next year, as we did last year. This realization is heartbreaking but strangely liberating at the same time.
When my son was an infant, I composed my own Kol Nidre, admitting all the mistakes I would make with him. I wrote:
God has entrusted me with a precious soul to raise. This task is both amazing and overwhelming. I wish for you, my sweet child, that you should know no pain or discomfort, but we don’t live in this kind of world. I can’t prevent all hurt, and sometimes I may even be its cause. I want to admit to you upfront that I will make many mistakes, large and small, with you, my darling, for I am merely human. Even with the best intentions, I will stumble along the way in parenting. I’ll occasionally lose patience and perspective. I’ll be overtired and frustrated, and at that moment, I won’t be the parent you deserve. Although I wish I could care for you myself every minute, you will have to share me with others and be cared for by others. In advance, I ask for your forgiveness. Yet I can promise that I will do my best every day to care for you in mind, body and spirit. You will know without a doubt that you are loved because I love you beyond measure.
Love, Mom
What is your Kol Nidre for the year? What mistakes do you need to admit upfront that you’re going to make?
May we go into this new year with clean hands and clean hearts, whether or not we can find the hand sanitizer.
The Phone Call
Last week, I received an extraordinary phone call from an acquaintance with whom I attended elementary and middle school. She had run into my father on a recent visit to my hometown. He told her how I was doing, so she looked me up and gave me a call.
We had a pleasant conversation, catching up on the last 25 years or so. About ten-minutes into the conversation, she said, “I actually have an ulterior motive for calling you.” “Okay,” I replied, wondering what would come next.
She explained that my father had reminisced with her briefly about the school that we’d both attended. He said I didn’t like the school very much because of a clique that had given me a hard time, and he mentioned the name of the group.
However, my father didn’t realize that she was part of the clique that he mentioned. In the fifth grade, a number of girls formed groups. Each group staked out different parts of the playground, and no one who wasn’t part of that group was allowed to walk in their territory. I wasn’t in any of these cliques, and therefore had only one or two friends during those years.
“I wanted to call and apologize.” She said. She explained that now that she is a mom, she looks back with regret at the way she had behaved as a child. “I don’t believe in a retributive God,” she said, “but with the High Holidays coming up, I figured that I should call and say that for everything I know I did, and anything I didn’t know that I did, I’m sorry.”
I was blown away by her words, which were entirely unexpected. I certainly would never have anticipated that I’d receive such a phone call. “We were kids,” I said. I offered my forgiveness, and told her that I appreciated her words. We agreed to keep in touch.
Although I hadn’t thought about that school in years, her call did give me a measure of healing. I felt like my childhood feelings were honored in retrospect — even if they weren’t at the time. My pain had been heard.
In this week’s Torah portion, Moses approaches his death, and he offers a poem to the people as they are poised to enter the Promised Land. The portion is called Ha’azinu (Give ear). The poem begins:
Give ear, O heavens, let me speak;
Let the earth hear the words I utter.
May my discourse come down as the rain,
My speech distill as the dew.
Moses compares words to precipitation that bring life to plants. The poem’s theme is that repentance can ultimately lead to reconciliation between God and the people. The reading is appropriately read on Shabbat Tshuvah — the Sabbath during the ten days of repentance between Rosh Hashanah (the New Year) and Yom Kippur (the Day of Atonement).
Like Moses’ poem, this phone call reminded me of the power of words to bring healing — even many years after a hurt. Imagine how much renewal would result if during these ten days, each of us made just one phone call to ask for forgiveness.
We had a pleasant conversation, catching up on the last 25 years or so. About ten-minutes into the conversation, she said, “I actually have an ulterior motive for calling you.” “Okay,” I replied, wondering what would come next.
She explained that my father had reminisced with her briefly about the school that we’d both attended. He said I didn’t like the school very much because of a clique that had given me a hard time, and he mentioned the name of the group.
However, my father didn’t realize that she was part of the clique that he mentioned. In the fifth grade, a number of girls formed groups. Each group staked out different parts of the playground, and no one who wasn’t part of that group was allowed to walk in their territory. I wasn’t in any of these cliques, and therefore had only one or two friends during those years.
“I wanted to call and apologize.” She said. She explained that now that she is a mom, she looks back with regret at the way she had behaved as a child. “I don’t believe in a retributive God,” she said, “but with the High Holidays coming up, I figured that I should call and say that for everything I know I did, and anything I didn’t know that I did, I’m sorry.”
I was blown away by her words, which were entirely unexpected. I certainly would never have anticipated that I’d receive such a phone call. “We were kids,” I said. I offered my forgiveness, and told her that I appreciated her words. We agreed to keep in touch.
Although I hadn’t thought about that school in years, her call did give me a measure of healing. I felt like my childhood feelings were honored in retrospect — even if they weren’t at the time. My pain had been heard.
In this week’s Torah portion, Moses approaches his death, and he offers a poem to the people as they are poised to enter the Promised Land. The portion is called Ha’azinu (Give ear). The poem begins:
Give ear, O heavens, let me speak;
Let the earth hear the words I utter.
May my discourse come down as the rain,
My speech distill as the dew.
Moses compares words to precipitation that bring life to plants. The poem’s theme is that repentance can ultimately lead to reconciliation between God and the people. The reading is appropriately read on Shabbat Tshuvah — the Sabbath during the ten days of repentance between Rosh Hashanah (the New Year) and Yom Kippur (the Day of Atonement).
Like Moses’ poem, this phone call reminded me of the power of words to bring healing — even many years after a hurt. Imagine how much renewal would result if during these ten days, each of us made just one phone call to ask for forgiveness.
The Anniversary Celebration
This weekend, my husband and I went away for a night to celebrate our ten year anniversary. I was initially apprehensive about going. It would be our first overnight outing away from the kids since our first child was born six years ago. My son had been on sleepovers before, but my three-year-old daughter had not. We reserved a hotel room near my in-laws, so that if the kids refused to sleep, we could pick them up and bring them to the hotel.
When the day arrived, the kids seemed excited about their first joint sleepover. They packed their favorite sleeping bag, sheets, pillows and my daughter’s baby doll. We brought the kids to my in-laws, kissed them goodbye and hoped for the best.
This week’s Torah portion also describes an anniversary of sorts. As the Israelites approached the Promised Land, Moses summoned all the people “to enter into the covenant of the Lord your God.” However, the people had already entered into the covenant at Mount Sinai. Why was this ratification necessary?
Rabbi Shneur Zalman (of eighteenth century Russia) explained that:
Just as husband and wife need to reaffirm their commitment to each other when the early days of romantic attraction have given way to the day-to-day struggle to overcome accumulated disappointments, so too God and the people Israel need to reaffirm the covenant at this later date.
Tell me about it! When I read those words in the Etz Hayim Torah commentary this weekend, they immediately resonated with me.
Luckily our anniversary plans worked. We had a delicious dinner and walked around the hotel grounds (which included a beautiful waterfall). When we called to check-in, my in-laws reported that the kids were fast asleep! My husband and I had a chance to reconnect — and get some R&R by the pool the next day. When we returned, my in-laws remarked that even though we were gone less than 24 hours, we seemed like new people — with a relaxed glow on our faces. Although it was challenging to leave the kids, it was good for us to have some time as a couple.
The Torah portion reminds us that our relationship with God likewise needs periodic renewal. The portion is generally read on the Shabbat before Rosh Hashanah (the Jewish New Year). The timing is more than mere coincidence. Perhaps, the message is that Rosh Hashanah should be understood as akin to our wedding anniversary celebration with God — where we spend a few intensive days together talking and reconnecting, reflecting on the year that has passed and sharing hopes for the year ahead.
The High Holidays are often conceived of days of judgment, with the predominant metaphor of God as a judge who is evaluating our every deed. This imagery imbues the days with a stressful aura. By contrast, the anniversary metaphor creates a joyful atmosphere — which is appropriate to festively usher in a new year.
Our “anniversary” get-together with God may inspire us to try to spend more time together during the year and to be more present in the relationship. In this sense, we may be prompted to tshuvah, to return our hearts to God.
So instead of wishing you a Shana Tova, let me instead wish you a happy anniversary to you and yours!
When the day arrived, the kids seemed excited about their first joint sleepover. They packed their favorite sleeping bag, sheets, pillows and my daughter’s baby doll. We brought the kids to my in-laws, kissed them goodbye and hoped for the best.
This week’s Torah portion also describes an anniversary of sorts. As the Israelites approached the Promised Land, Moses summoned all the people “to enter into the covenant of the Lord your God.” However, the people had already entered into the covenant at Mount Sinai. Why was this ratification necessary?
Rabbi Shneur Zalman (of eighteenth century Russia) explained that:
Just as husband and wife need to reaffirm their commitment to each other when the early days of romantic attraction have given way to the day-to-day struggle to overcome accumulated disappointments, so too God and the people Israel need to reaffirm the covenant at this later date.
Tell me about it! When I read those words in the Etz Hayim Torah commentary this weekend, they immediately resonated with me.
Luckily our anniversary plans worked. We had a delicious dinner and walked around the hotel grounds (which included a beautiful waterfall). When we called to check-in, my in-laws reported that the kids were fast asleep! My husband and I had a chance to reconnect — and get some R&R by the pool the next day. When we returned, my in-laws remarked that even though we were gone less than 24 hours, we seemed like new people — with a relaxed glow on our faces. Although it was challenging to leave the kids, it was good for us to have some time as a couple.
The Torah portion reminds us that our relationship with God likewise needs periodic renewal. The portion is generally read on the Shabbat before Rosh Hashanah (the Jewish New Year). The timing is more than mere coincidence. Perhaps, the message is that Rosh Hashanah should be understood as akin to our wedding anniversary celebration with God — where we spend a few intensive days together talking and reconnecting, reflecting on the year that has passed and sharing hopes for the year ahead.
The High Holidays are often conceived of days of judgment, with the predominant metaphor of God as a judge who is evaluating our every deed. This imagery imbues the days with a stressful aura. By contrast, the anniversary metaphor creates a joyful atmosphere — which is appropriate to festively usher in a new year.
Our “anniversary” get-together with God may inspire us to try to spend more time together during the year and to be more present in the relationship. In this sense, we may be prompted to tshuvah, to return our hearts to God.
So instead of wishing you a Shana Tova, let me instead wish you a happy anniversary to you and yours!
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