On Sunday, my family and I went mini-golfing at a place called the Magic Castle. My three-year-old daughter Hannah had never gone golfing before. Nonetheless, she insisted on swinging the club herself and had a great time hitting the ball as best she could. On one of the holes, she took about ten strokes and then got tired of trying to hit the ball. She simply picked up the ball, put it in the hole and cheered with delight, “Yeah! I got a hole in one!”
This week’s Torah portion also deals with celebrating a moment of victory. Moses explains to the people that when they reach the Promised Land and settle in it, they should bring the first fruits of their harvest in a basket to the Temple and make a declaration. However, the declaration they are to make is not as simple as “Yeah! We won!” Instead, it’s fraught with both joy and pain. The people recited the words which since have become central to the Passover Haggadah:
My father was a fugitive Aramean. He went down to Egypt with meager numbers and sojourned there; but there he became a great and very populous nation. The Egyptians dealt harshly with us and oppressed us; they imposed heavy labor on us. We cried out to the Lord, the God of our fathers, and the Lord heard our plea and saw our plight, our misery and our oppression. The Lord freed us from Egypt by a mighty hand, by an outstretched army, and awesome power and by signs and portents. He brought us to this place and gave us this land, a land flowing with milk and honey. Wherefore I now bring the first fruits of the soil which you, O Lord has given me.
Rabbi Nancy Wechsler-Azen noted that this elaborate declaration not only expresses gratitude but also acknowledges the pain entailed in getting there. Our tendency in victory is to forget our struggles. Like Hannah, if it took us ten strokes to get the ball in the hole, we would prefer to cheer and pretend it was a hole in one. However, the portion encourages us to remember the challenges and thank God for surviving those struggles.
As we creep ever- closer to the New Year, this week’s portion calls on us to ask questions which can help evaluate the year that has passed. What dream has been realized for you this year? What object would you choose to put in your basket as a symbol of gratitude? What adversity have you experienced this year and how has God helped you survive that suffering?
In life, as in golf, many failed attempts are often required before success is reached. Yet, even when we get a hole in ten, we can celebrate as much as if we had achieved a hole in one.
The Right To Grieve
“I miss Gan Edna,” my three-year-old daughter told me this morning at breakfast. Gan Edna was the nursery school Hannah attended two years ago, but out of the blue, she decided she missed it. We spoke about it, and I assured her we could go back and visit it if she’d like. She loves her new school, and I was surprised to hear that after so long, she still missed her former school. As the new school year approaches, meeting new teachers and classmates and getting to know a new space will be exciting; but at the same time it also means a loss of past teachers, classmates and cherished space.
“I’m a little bit big,” Hannah explained. Becoming big inevitably entails the loss of being small.
In light of this experience, a troubling part from this week’s Torah portion resonated for me in a new way. This week’s parasha, Ki Tetzei (when you go out), begins with a difficult passage. The text stipulates: if you go out to war and see a beautiful woman among the war captives who you want to marry, you shall first bring her to your house and she shall shave her head, trim her nails, and sit in your house for a month so that she could cry for her father and mother. Only afterwards can you marry her.
The passage is disturbing. Why couldn’t it have simply said: you shall not marry war captives — or don’t take war captives in the first place.
Nonetheless, what struck me in reading this passage is how the Torah honors the most disempowered members of the community’s right to grieve.
The text asserts that mourning is essential to human dignity. Perhaps in the month of waiting, the soldier would get over his desire for the captive and release her, or maybe, seeing her in her distressed, disheveled state, he would come to care for her for who she is, rather than what she looks like. In any case, the Torah asserts that the right to grieve is integral to human self-worth.
Unfortunately, human life is chock-full of loss. The transitions of growing up entail a myriad of losses — from relinquishing a crib, diapers, or pacifiers, to saying goodbye to beloved teachers at the end of each school year. Some of these losses may seem trivial to adults but are profound for a child. Adulthood is likewise full of loss — from people we love to dreams that don’t materialize. For each of these losses, we need to give ourselves permission to mourn. This idea sounds simplistic but is extremely hard to do.
This past week, Mimi Strichard, a beloved member of my former congregation, passed away at the age of eighty-eight. Mimi was a rare, unique soul — sweet to the core with no edge whatsoever. She never said a harsh word about anyone and was the epitome of kindness. Her death was sudden; she had been in synagogue perfectly healthy a few days before her passing. I saw her close friend at the funeral. She said, “I’m okay; It was just such a shock.”
“You’re allowed to be not okay,” I responded gently. I remembered how difficult it has been for me to accept how not okay I’ve been in times of mourning.
From previous schools to dear friends and dreams, the losses of life are manifold and profound. This week’s portion teaches us to honor the sanctity of grief.
“I’m a little bit big,” Hannah explained. Becoming big inevitably entails the loss of being small.
In light of this experience, a troubling part from this week’s Torah portion resonated for me in a new way. This week’s parasha, Ki Tetzei (when you go out), begins with a difficult passage. The text stipulates: if you go out to war and see a beautiful woman among the war captives who you want to marry, you shall first bring her to your house and she shall shave her head, trim her nails, and sit in your house for a month so that she could cry for her father and mother. Only afterwards can you marry her.
The passage is disturbing. Why couldn’t it have simply said: you shall not marry war captives — or don’t take war captives in the first place.
Nonetheless, what struck me in reading this passage is how the Torah honors the most disempowered members of the community’s right to grieve.
The text asserts that mourning is essential to human dignity. Perhaps in the month of waiting, the soldier would get over his desire for the captive and release her, or maybe, seeing her in her distressed, disheveled state, he would come to care for her for who she is, rather than what she looks like. In any case, the Torah asserts that the right to grieve is integral to human self-worth.
Unfortunately, human life is chock-full of loss. The transitions of growing up entail a myriad of losses — from relinquishing a crib, diapers, or pacifiers, to saying goodbye to beloved teachers at the end of each school year. Some of these losses may seem trivial to adults but are profound for a child. Adulthood is likewise full of loss — from people we love to dreams that don’t materialize. For each of these losses, we need to give ourselves permission to mourn. This idea sounds simplistic but is extremely hard to do.
This past week, Mimi Strichard, a beloved member of my former congregation, passed away at the age of eighty-eight. Mimi was a rare, unique soul — sweet to the core with no edge whatsoever. She never said a harsh word about anyone and was the epitome of kindness. Her death was sudden; she had been in synagogue perfectly healthy a few days before her passing. I saw her close friend at the funeral. She said, “I’m okay; It was just such a shock.”
“You’re allowed to be not okay,” I responded gently. I remembered how difficult it has been for me to accept how not okay I’ve been in times of mourning.
From previous schools to dear friends and dreams, the losses of life are manifold and profound. This week’s portion teaches us to honor the sanctity of grief.
The Downtime Day
This past weekend was packed with activities — Friday night dinner at a friend’s home, my father’s birthday celebration festivities both at synagogue and at his home on Saturday, and a barbeque with friends on Sunday. By the time Monday morning came around, my kids and I were pooped. I decided that rather than telling my children what we would do on Monday, I would instead follow their lead for a change. If they asked to go somewhere, we would go, and if not, we would stay home. I put in a load of laundry and waited to see what would happen.
I was surprised to discover that for most of the day, the kids didn’t ask to go anywhere. At 2pm, they asked to walk around the block to the Bagel store for lunch, and we went. In the meantime, they made tents out of blankets, and played in them. They cut paper chains, played Legos and generally kept themselves occupied. I had to mediate a few brief conflicts over toys, I played a few rounds of tickle-monster and Hullabaloo, but mostly was able to do the laundry and let the kids be. They seemed to relish the chance to do just that.
This week’s Torah portion contains one of the most moving passages in the Torah. Moses explains that God “set before you a blessing and a curse.” Moses explains that when the Israelites finally reach the Promised Land, they will stand on two mountains and recite “the blessing at Mount Gerizim and the curse at Mount Ebal.” What a stirring, visual image of blessings on one peak, curses on the other with a vast valley between them.
Yet, in life, the blessings and curses can often seem closer together, separated not by an abyss, but by a thread. Our blessings can often feel like curses. By over-scheduling, our lives can come to feel like an unending series of obligations, bereft of joy. By taking downtime, we can regain enthusiasm.
In her book, The Blessing of a Skinned Knee, psychologist Wendy Mogel identified over-scheduling as one of the major problems plaguing “too wired” families today. She wrote, “Treat daydreaming and fooling around as valuable activities. Being messy, noisy, silly, goofy, and vegging-out are as essential to the development of your child’s mind as anything else s/he does.”
Who knew?!
Well, I guess Mogel would have been pleased with our lazy Monday! By the end of the day, the house was a giant mess, but the laundry was done, and we were ready to face the world again.
I was surprised to discover that for most of the day, the kids didn’t ask to go anywhere. At 2pm, they asked to walk around the block to the Bagel store for lunch, and we went. In the meantime, they made tents out of blankets, and played in them. They cut paper chains, played Legos and generally kept themselves occupied. I had to mediate a few brief conflicts over toys, I played a few rounds of tickle-monster and Hullabaloo, but mostly was able to do the laundry and let the kids be. They seemed to relish the chance to do just that.
This week’s Torah portion contains one of the most moving passages in the Torah. Moses explains that God “set before you a blessing and a curse.” Moses explains that when the Israelites finally reach the Promised Land, they will stand on two mountains and recite “the blessing at Mount Gerizim and the curse at Mount Ebal.” What a stirring, visual image of blessings on one peak, curses on the other with a vast valley between them.
Yet, in life, the blessings and curses can often seem closer together, separated not by an abyss, but by a thread. Our blessings can often feel like curses. By over-scheduling, our lives can come to feel like an unending series of obligations, bereft of joy. By taking downtime, we can regain enthusiasm.
In her book, The Blessing of a Skinned Knee, psychologist Wendy Mogel identified over-scheduling as one of the major problems plaguing “too wired” families today. She wrote, “Treat daydreaming and fooling around as valuable activities. Being messy, noisy, silly, goofy, and vegging-out are as essential to the development of your child’s mind as anything else s/he does.”
Who knew?!
Well, I guess Mogel would have been pleased with our lazy Monday! By the end of the day, the house was a giant mess, but the laundry was done, and we were ready to face the world again.
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