I can’t speak, for I fear I’ll say the wrong thing. I know nothing. I’ll never learn anything new. These are the abilities I have and that will never change. I’ll just stay here quietly – shoes untied, paralyzed by a problem I’ve created myself. A home-made problem, all of my own. No one ever told me, “you can’t.” Other than myself, that is.
I'm not hysterical about Trump, and I don't worry much about anti-Semitism. Though I'm no optimist, the panic surrounding me feels unduly intense. Let's hope I'm right.
A series of dilemmas, for readers and for me, that reach towards profound questions of ultimate meaning.
“Mommy, next time you daven to Hashem can you please, please, ask for another baby?”
As the Rabbi continued chanting the Torah portion, Steven took the star-shaped paper to the back of the Shul, near where the coffee maker, the cheese Danishes, and the bottle of Slivovitz always were. He unfolded the paper and noticed first, that it was a hand-written note, and that whomever had written it had exquisite penmanship. ‘Dear Dr. Rice,’ it began.
‘I know you are upset...
Life has always been brutal and unfair, and we have always survived and even thrived. That won't change now.
We just came through Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur’s around the corner. And I can’t stop thinking of death approaching on the roaring winds of this ruthless and deadly storm.
A vast range of interpretive possibility makes religion both glorious and dangerous. September 11, 2001 clarified that for me, as it swept me up in a rare sense of communion with the larger world.
Open your arms wide and greet every struggle that has ever touched you.
