My God—one Jew’s Views: Autobiographical Thoughts And Poems 364l2w

MY GOD One Jew’s View

Autobiographical Thoughts and Poems

Joshua Katz

Copyright © 2015 Joshua Katz.

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ISBN: 978-1-4808-1852-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-1853-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015908014

Archway Publishing rev. date: 6/11/2015

CONTENTS

Chapter 1 My Religious Foundation

Chapter 2 Wendy

Chapter 3 Bonni

Chapter 3 The Conversion Debacle

Chapter 4 Florida

Chapter 5 Back in the Lion’s Den

Chapter 6 Mikayla Bess

Chapter 7 Jacob

Chapter 8 Zachary Solomon

Chapter 9 To , or Not to

Chapter 10 Convalidation

Chapter 11 Temple Politics

Chapter 12 My Law Partner

Chapter 13 On Sending My Children to Private School

Chapter 14 Andrew

Chapter 14 Tragedies and Miracles

Chapter 15 Final? Thoughts

PREFACE:

As I sit and ponder over forty-six years of learning, My eyes interpreting sights my ears have been fortunate in hearing, My mind storing wondrous quantities of facts, Making memories of now historical acts – But to what end? How will I know when I’ve achieved what I was placed on this Earth to tend? I will have succeeded in life once I have written my poem. May it live forever on a shelf in your home. To be sure, to be ed (with love) after I’m dead Is enough, but I want my poem to be read!

INTRODUCTION:

I believe in God; but, I am not religious. That is to say that I have little doubt of the existence of a higher being to whom I credit Creation and governance of life itself, and to whom I sometimes pray; yet I no longer consider myself a religious man. For me, this is an important dichotomy.

There was a time when I considered myself to be religious. I attended temple regularly on the Sabbath and even participated in temple politics – forgive me, I meant to say synagogue istration. I regularly performed multiple traditional rituals, simply because that is what I had been trained to do. Because my religion taught me that observance of particular rituals constituted proper behavior. In general, my life revolved upon my identity as a Jewish person. I was a Jew first, then an American, a boy, a son, brother, student, etc. None of this is true today, although it may become true again soon. In the meantime, I am good with my God. I love my God. I am a God-fearing man. I still identify myself as Jewish, although this is no longer central to my existence. I am first and foremost a father and husband, followed by lawyer, friend, man, tennis player, bridge player, clarinetist, etc. I’m not an agnostic; I have no doubt about the existence of God. I saw a bumper-sticker recently that read “I am not religious, I just love God.” That’s me!

How can I separate religion from God? I no longer accept as a given that God prefers any one religious tenet over another. I do not know that God hears my prayers any better when they emanate from the inside of a Jewish Synagogue as opposed to a Moslem mosque, Buddhist shrine or Catholic Church. I am far from convinced that the wearing of a yarlmukah on my head or fasting on the 10th day of Av brings me closer to Him.

What I know is that God wants me to fear Him. He (and I intend the use of this pronoun as gender neutral) expects me to act decently, to treat my fellow human beings with some modicum of respect, to strive to influence society, community and civilization in a positive manner. It is not that I necessarily fear a post-life sentence to Hell if I misbehave during my limited time on the Earth’s surface. Nor do I think there is a ledger scoring my good deeds against my bad. I do not flatter myself by believing my own good behavior might convince God to grant my Knicks a playoff berth (although I’ve been pretty good lately, and the Knicks suddenly discovered Jeremy Lin?), or that by holding the elevator door for a fellow enger I will be rewarded with a winning lottery ticket. In fact, life has repeatedly demonstrated to me that good things happen to bad people. Despite this, it is important to me, for my own mental balance, that when I lay my head upon my pillow at night I have strived to do good things in this world, and have not intentionally hurt someone else that day.

In this age of self-professed enlightenment, where we think of ourselves as an advanced civilization – the era of computers and the Internet, where toddlers learn the mechanics of joysticks almost before walking; where our great Nation, just five generations removed from slavery, has elected a black man as President, and where shuttle missions to repair space stations are mere back-page blurbs – we are yet religious Neanderthals. We continue to cling to centuries-old philosophies of deism. We struggle with the separation of Church and State, preach Unitarianism and tolerance, all while granting tax breaks to clergy and for religious contributions. Swastikas are still painted on synagogue walls by narrow-minded hate mongers; last week’s news showed bomb-sniffing dogs combing through New York metropolitan temples following the throwing of an explosive through a New Jersey rabbi’s home window.

Surely, we no longer offer sacrifices to gods of the sun and sea. Most now accept the existence of a single deity worthy of praise, though we commonly direct prayer to His son, saints or mother. Why does man still need religion today? Is it because inexplicable mysteries of the universe continue to astound us? We have yet to cure the common cold, nonetheless cancer, but we don’t create mythological gods of bio-molecular germs.

Personally, I don’t believe we will ever master the basic ability to create life. We can procreate, but only God can generate the spark that changes a complex mass of molecular cells into breathing life forms. The day our scientists can duplicate Dr. Frankenstein’s spark, I may cease to believe in God. Maybe.

As humans, we recognize these limitations. We are smart to thank God daily for making the sun rise, the daffodils bloom and the eagles soar. To recognize such absurd complexities we take for granted, such as gravity, oxygen, or that our hearts keep pumping, and our eyes can see when we separate our eyelids upon awakening. Each of these miracles is absolute proof to me of the existence of God.

We accept the invisible wind for we see evidence in the rustle of leaves; we must accept the invisible God for we see evidence in the birth of babies.

But, must we obey the same ritual observances of our ancestors merely because we were born unto their children’s children?

Chapter 1

My Religious Foundation

I am Jewish. I was brought up in a traditional, conservative household and attended a private Jewish day school from kindergarten through eighth grade. Without embarking on a boring autobiographical journey, allow me to begin with just a few relevant facts: my father served his sentence as president of a major synagogue, just as his father did before him.

Although I attended a public high school after my own bar mitzvah, I continued my religious training through high school, college, and beyond. I kept up my Hebrew language studies and was fluent by the time I graduated college.

I spent a summer in Israel during my law-school years to hone my Hebrew skills. That summer I became a true Zionist—and I cemented my own relationship with God. I also was inspired to write my first poems there.

A Day at Coral Beach, Eilat

In a miraculously rich blue sky floats one cloud. It is shaped like Australia: The darker spots in her middle are Aborigine jungles, While the soft, white branches melt easily into the surrounding sky.

A gentle, hot breeze moves her slowly but steadily across The mountainous horizon, And the distant purring of an airplane can be heard challenging the silence of the afternoon.

When I can stand the desert heat no more, I dive back into the sea, Reing the mysterious coral And varieties of unreal marine life Crayola could not draw. Then, refreshed again, I lie back in the sand And look up at my Australia.

On Visiting the Western Wall

Sun-baked stones! Ancient, beautiful, sturdy, dirty. A symbol of destruction—what twice Was here, so long since vanished. A monument: stuffed With dreams, hope, promises, confession.

Oh! To touch it! To be so near to Him, to feel His presence! To lean against the mighty wall and pray!

I regularly read the Torah on Shabbat and trained dozens of Jewish boys and girls to read from the Torah for their own bar/bat mitzvot. In short, I was a good Jewish boy—learned but not orthodox.

During my childhood, my parents kept a kosher home, but ate “kosher-style” out, which is a hypocritical practice I continued after I moved out on my own. I insisted on Shabbat dinner, with candles, wine, and challah, but was never shomer shabbos, as I would turn lights on and off, watch television, and rip toilet paper as the need arose. Religion was always an essential, inseparable part of my being. I surrounded myself with Jewish friends and was always active in my synagogue. I was extremely insulated within the Jewish community. I was a good, learned, conservative Jew.

As with most young boys, I fell in love with my first crush—with someone quite opposite of me. Someone not Jewish! Someone my family would never approve of. Someone I was not “supposed to” love. I weighed my own Jewish identity and core values against my puppy love, and my religion won out.

Two Roads

Two roads converged. Two different paths—far-distant pasts.

“Where did you come from?” asked the boulevard. “I have come through the Spanish village on the way from the sea.” “You’re beautiful,” said the boulevard; and it was true.

The single land was tree lined and smooth, Belying its frequent use. It had come through forests, crossed many streams, Randomly curving to avoid larger lakes.

“I came from the highway,” boasted the boulevard; It had separated from the interstate twelve miles back. Four wide lanes, Bordered by stores and shopping malls, Careful to point perfectly straight. Traffic lights marked ninety-degree crossroads, Big signs warned of coming landmarks, Blue squares in its center marked every accurate mile.

“Where are you going?” inquired the little lane in awe. “Why, to the city, of course.”

The two roads continued on for miles. Together they were as one. The little lane switched teasingly from side to side of the boulevard, Happy to able to able to twist and curve along the way. A traveler would be hard-pressed to know, Which was the boulevard, and where was the lane?

Suddenly, the little lane began to angle away, Preparing to turn toward the mountains. “Why are you leaving?” asked the boulevard. “I am going to climb those mountains,” the lane had decided. “I wish I could go with you,” groaned the boulevard. But the boulevard knew it could not turn— It must keep straight toward the city. Always straight.

So two roads diverged, wondering why they’d met. Two distinct paths, Such far-distant futures, Hoping somewhere they might converge again.

Then I got married.

Chapter 2

Wendy

I was still young and stupid, blindly following the path that had been laid out for me as a child—religious school, college, law school, marriage to a Jew, Jewish children, career as a lawyer, Jewish grandchildren, retire to Florida …

I was set up with Wendy on a blind date. She was a nice girl, came from a nice Jewish family—professional father, solid middle class, active in temple. She was exactly the type of girl I was programmed to marry.

It didn’t matter that we had little in common beyond our upbringings. She was pretty, friendly enough, got along with my family, and fit the predetermined plan perfectly. Wedding plans were made (after I invoked the tradition of asking the bride’s father for his daughter’s hand) and carried out like clockwork.

I liked Wendy, and I think she liked me; but we were never in love. The fights were inevitable and started early and often.

Last Fight

Anger seethes inside of me, A guard against the hurt I feel;

Yet now I long for her to see That I believe our love will heal. The anger will subside and die And free the hurt that lies inside, So I may speak and tell her why, That she might hear me swallow pride. We fought! I said such nasty things! The meanest, cruelest human beings Could not have hurt her any more Than I. And I know not what for! Can she forgive my angry fit And see the shame I now it? If not yet I’ll wait ’til when She’ll take me in her arms again, And smile happily, And say she loves me.

We reached a mutual understanding the first time something derailed our pathway to Floridian retirement. I had screwed up. I allowed my inner unhappiness to get the better of me, and committed a horrible act—something that nearly derailed my legal career and landed me in intensive therapy, but something a loving spouse is supposed to forgive, stand by her man, and for better or worse. Wendy and I both knew she would never forgive me. She distanced herself from me immediately, and we divorced after one year. No

children to split up, no real estate, no assets to be divided. We parted amicably, never to speak again.

I know that Wendy has remarried and has children and a good life. I wish her well.

Moving On

Here I sit, alone at night, Contemplating life’s disappointments, Watching memories through closed eyes, And opening rivers of tears.

Love has left me bleeding, hurt, Our hearts just barely beating; I’ve thought of crawling back to you, To save what were wonderful years.

Yet, we both know memories Are all that are left of our marriage. Now there’s nothing else worth saving. It’s rejection and failure we fear.

Fate brought us together once. I have no regrets at all, But destiny tears us apart— From this course we mustn’t veer.

Memories of times we’ve shared We share. Please never forget! Save the good and bury the hurt, Guilt you must never feel. For pain subsides, but guilt can grow. Understand that I am sorry. If you’re sad, I’m melancholy, And while you’re depressed, I can’t heal.

But when you find your matching soul And rediscover your smile, Once you encounter happiness, I’ll share that joy and I’ll cheer!

For even though we must move on,

Resuscitate the quest for our mates, Know that I will always love you— Forever I’ll be here. It was time to move on. I focused on my career as a young attorney, and I tried to remain close with my family, my friends, and my religion.

For me, this was a time of tremendous introspection. I had failed at marriage, which was really the first time in my life I’d experienced failure. It was a time to learn who my friends were—not my drinking buddies from high school who slipped away when I needed them most, never to be heard from again; not my temple acquaintances with whom I prayed regularly, who never recognized my sadness; not my family, who recognized my sadness but provided little . During this time, I realized that true friendship requires a deeper connection than people who are of the same religion or root for the same football team.

My clarinet was my best friend, and beyond technique, my musical skills developed a soul for the first time. I stopped attending temple, as I felt alone and out of place there, and I found my religion provided very little comfort.

There were few girlfriends after Wendy. I was, however, very fortunate to have two true friends who stuck with me, who were there for me, and who saw me through a very dark period. And I made new connections who became close friends very quickly and would stay friends.

For Elizabeth

I had a dream after crawling in bed.

There was a knock on the door; can you guess what was said? “Are you sleeping?” “No.” “Can we come in?” “I suppose so.” One was blond, one brunette, Alex and Elizabette. What are you dreaming? What’s the meaning? Is this real, or are you teasing? Smoke some weed, drink some wine, The conversation’s going fine; Snort some coke, cuddle close, Conversation’s now verbose, Because we’re on a different level. One goes up, one comes down, All around there’s such strange sound. I’ve sold my soul to the devil.

Next morning, feel no pain. Late for work? I couldn’t explain why I’m tired.

But actually, I’m wired. I swear to you: so real it seemed; But now I know it was all a dream, Because I got fired. This was real; I know the feeling. It’s been so long, but I belong! There are two of us on the same level— I’ll not sell my soul to the devil, Yet. Care to bet, Elizabette?

Then I met my soulmate.

Chapter 3

Bonni

My bride-to-be was Catholic. Bonni was married; in the process of separating from her first husband, but still married. And, she already had a child. She was from the wrong side of the tracks. She was … (gasp!) … overweight! My family hated her. But, I had fallen in love. She was extraordinary: highly intelligent, motivated, kind, adventurous, fun, funny, artistic, creative, caring, and an incredible mother to her adorable son. This was not teenaged puppy love, but real, soul-connecting love.

For the second time in my life I was forced to confront my religious identity. In short, after minimal internal deliberation, I told the love of my life that I loved Judaism more than I loved her, and that if she truly wanted to marry me she must first convert to my religion. For the second time in my life, I valued my religious identity above love. Amazingly, she agreed!

Steam Dream

A small stream, quickly running, Curving here and there, Makes a turn, a sharp bend, Heading who knows where; It finds a river, deep but cluttered,

Full of boats and fishes, Flowing in the same direction, Straighter than it wishes. The stream agrees to the river Giving it more power – So beautiful, unified, Like petals of one flower. Soon the river learns To cleanse itself, to bend, While the stream is straightened more, Toward a surer end. Then some streamlets, little brooks, Sprout and start to grow, Connecting ponds, lagoons and lakes, And oceans, too, you know! Stream and river turn once more Alone to run their quest: Flowing south, warming now, Fulfilled, contented, blessed. For the first time in my life, I was happy.

My family were miserable. How could I love a fat, Catholic girl with a kid? What was I doing with a woman whose family was poor, anti-Semitic, and had a history connected to gangs and violence? They “played nice” in front of me, but did everything they could behind my back to make my fiancée unwelcome. They tried to split us up. Instead, they made us stronger. Blood may be thicker than water, but love conquers all. I couldn’t wait to get married and start my own family.

Meditation On Seeing a Lunar Eclipse

As that curved, benign shadow intrudes on our moon, Creeps across and changes it from full to smiling too soon, Sitting on the streets of Earth so late in that night, Watching with my lover that marvelous, Godly sight, Think of the distance – shadow covers light?

Behold! In all that beauty lie the secrets of life: The rotation of our planet and its floating satellite, Or the lucky way a man discovers love, and soon a wife.

But, first she had to become Jewish.

Chapter 3

The Conversion Debacle

It is a fascinating concept that a person can so drastically alter their identity. My wife was born a Catholic. She was raised in the Catholic Church, attended Catholic school, was taught Catholicism. She was a Catholic. Her mother was a devout churchgoer. Her first husband and son were Catholics. Pursuant to Catholic teachings, if a person is born and baptized Catholic, the soul forever belongs the Catholic God and is incapable of conversion to another religion. The Catholic Church simply does not recognize defection.

Regardless, my soon-to-be wife chose to change her identity from a Catholic to a Jew. Bonni made an incredible decision – that she loved me more than she loved her religion.

We approached several rabbis, synagogues and Hebrew learning centers. Several turned us away, refusing to help a non Jew to their clique. Others offered their services for extraordinary fees. One orthodox rabbi in Brooklyn invited us to meet with him, as he would study Judaism with my fiancé – at no charge – until she was ready to be welcomed into the arms of Judaism. The meeting with him was fascinating. He barely acknowledged my fiancé, and spent 20 minutes quizzing me instead: “I’ll bet you don’t know the blessing to recite upon hearing thunder or seeing lightning,” he challenged. When I stated it correctly, he was flustered, but continued to grill me until he caught me with a question I didn’t know. At that point, he attempted to convert me to Judaism, condescendingly explaining that since I did not keep the Sabbath (and other orthodox traditions) that I was not truly Jewish. He would have to “convert” me to orthodoxy prior to addressing my fiancé. And, my conversion would necessarily involve large charitable donations to his tzedaka box.

Another rabbi and respected teacher at a conservative Jewish school nearby offered to take my fiancé under his wing to teach her about Jewish laws and customs, and to oversee her conversion process. He had previously converted several souls, and promptly got started on my fiancé’s. But, he suddenly reneged after two sessions because he had heard a rumor from a friend of a friend that my fiancé was not a good person. Huh? (Subsequently, I discovered that someone I loved and trusted – a brethren Jew – had started a vicious, false rumor about my fiancé – presumably out of jealousy of me for finding my soulmate. It would take years and years to quell these rumors, and to this day my closest family still harbor doubts stemming from them.) Regardless, the rabbi dumped us unceremoniously without explanation. Guilty by association with rumor. Not worthy of the effort to make you Jewish.

Ultimately, the rabbi at my own congregation agreed to supervise Bonni’s studies, and recommended several texts. She worked for a year learning to read and write the Hebrew language, and studying biblical texts. She had lived with me, in my Jewish home, celebrated Shabbat weekly and survived two full-year cycles of Holidays. Throughout, she shopped and cooked and learned to keep a kosher home. She attended prayer services at the synagogue, and met regularly with my rabbi, until she was finally declared fit to become Jewish. She had proven her commitment.

The rabbi arranged a “bet din” – a Jewish tribunal court -- to determine her fitness for Judaism. She successfully appeared before the bet din, and was granted her certificate of conversion. From there, we proceeded directly to a “mikvah” – a ceremonial baptismal pool for soul (and post-menstrual) purification. Of course, the mikvah was located within an orthodox synagogue that charged an exorbitant fee for use by non-.

My fiancé stripped naked and bared her body and soul before God and the rabbi, and she was baptized. Following two full years of study and proving her devotion, dedication and comprehension of the Jewish religion, after three full-

body submersions, she emerged from the mikvah with a new Jewish soul.

Perhaps an even greater show of devotion, my fiancé also converted her 6-year old Catholic son from her first marriage. Although her son didn’t have to study Judaism or the Hebrew language, he did have to make a knowing and voluntary commitment to the rabbi to live out his life as a Jew. He not only had to endure the same naked baptismal near-drowning ritual, but he had to undergo a ceremonial circumcision as well. Fortunately, he had been circumcised at birth. But this didn’t spare him from the obligation to face the urologist and be pricked on his prick – literally, to draw blood. For a six-year old boy, this was the ultimate show of devotion.

My family, friends, congregation and religious brethren were now ready to accept my fiancé, and her son, as of the Jewish religion.

Except that in the judgmental eyes of hypocritical synagogue-goers, these newest Jews, who had devoted themselves, who made conscious selections of Judaism as their religious identities, would forever be converts, and never “real” Jews. My wife gradually came to resent the religion she had worked so hard to ; my stepson grew up to resent all religion. Eventually, I, too, began to question the righteousness of the Jewish community.

My wife, God bless her, had a terrible childhood, infused with poverty and gangrelated murders. Her first marriage resulted in a son, but was otherwise very unhappy. I knew her background. I knew the pains she’d endured. I witnessed her nightmares and visible suffering. And, I respect and worship her for overcoming it all and remaining “normal.”

With Open Eyes

A bluebird cried in pain … in vain, While I sat nearby listening. Her desperate caw, She’d caught her claw, And I just sat there thinking, Such sweet, sweet song! I sensed no wrong – But the pretty bird was dying.

Today, with open eyes, I wisely realize That you are smiling. I sense your moods, Read subtle clues, And know that we are thriving.

We’ve come so far, To where we are Our wedding’s but legality. I’ll never leave,

“I Still Believe!” Our fairy tale’s reality. Our wedding was beautiful. Our families behaved for that one day. We married in my temple in a traditional, religious Jewish ceremony performed by the same rabbi who had supervised her conversion to Judaism. Finally, it was official.

Not that we didn’t have our share of rough patches along the way:

So Alone

When I think you may have gone, I wonder what it is I’ve done To make you run away and leave me so alone. How I’ve tried to make you see And I’ve longed to know you feel My love for you is real, And you can trust me. But that trust will turn to dust While my tears my face will rust – I must know why you must go! What have I done to make it so? Is your anger over-blown?

I’m so alone.

In your eyes I see I’ve died, In your pain I feel such shame. Yet I know how hard I’ve tried – I’ve no excuses, they’d be lame, There’s no winners in this game. You’re my best friend in the world, And I’d kill to have you curled Up in my arms. Will you please give me the reason? Won’t you ease my rainy season? Oh how I need you. I’d do anything to keep you! Like a grave that’s overgrown, I’m so alone. But, we always got past our problems, and our love conquered all. We were smart. Well, my wife was smart. The day after our wedding, we packed up and moved 1,000 miles away from all known family, and moved to Florida with her son.

Chapter 4

Florida

In-laws are much easier to stomach from long distance. None of my family ever embraced my convert-wife-with-a-shady-past. But, my parents at least visited us. My brothers each visited once (over the three years we would spend there). My wife’s family forgot we existed.

Our three years in Florida were pretty good. We ed a temple, and I became active in it. I served on the board of directors, and the ritual committee. My wife helped with fund raising and other activities. We attended services as a family.

Ultimately, when our rabbi was indicted, I served on the rabbinic search committee to hire our new rabbi. And cantor. I helped draft new bylaws for the temple.

During the interim period between rabbis, I led Shabbat services – including taking on the duties of reading from the Torah and giving the weekly d’var Torah, or sermon. When we, ultimately, hired a new rabbi, my wife became close with him, and my family was firmly entrenched in synagogue life and the Floridian Jewish community.

After three years, marred only by multiple miscarriages and the inability to have a child, my job brought me back to New York. My wife and stepson returned with me back into the lion’s den of in-laws.

Chapter 5

Back in the Lion’s Den

Times were difficult. The New York sales force I’d help build and train in my company for most of 2001 lost spouses, and lost confidence. We shut down in the aftermath of 9/11, and I returned to the full-time practice of law.

I was fortunate to land a position with a prestigious firm, and managed to keep a roof over my family’s heads; but, to be affordable, that roof had to be a long commute outside New York City. I worked long hours, and missed my wife and stepson during those hours.

My hot tub and koi pond in the back yard gave me the therapeutic peace and tranquility on weekends to get me through each week.

My Little Fish Pond

One lone petal drops Like a feather from atop. Gliding, sliding, flying freely, To the surface of my sea – My little fish pond.

There’s not a breeze From windless trees Not a sound around. Birds are sitting on a ledge, The cat is sleeping by the hedge. The only motion from my ocean – My little fish pond. We continued to struggle mightily with infertility issues. My wife struggled with lack of acceptance by my family, and by the Jewish religion in general – never able to fit in. I struggled with trying to appease my relatives, while being ive of my wife. Our marriage was never easy … but each new struggle made us stronger.

I questioned my religion, but my faith in God never wavered.

Until my daughter was born.

Chapter 6

Mikayla Bess

My wife and I had been through Hell and back through eight miscarriages over six years trying to make a baby. It seemed each time we suffered a miscarriage, there was another story in some newspaper about a newborn infant’s being abandoned in a public toilet or trash bin. How could God permit crack-abusing teenagers who don’t want babies to carry them to term, while good people who are desperate to be loving, providing parents can’t do so?

This is a question I asked regularly in some form or another. I asked rabbis and religious people; I asked friends, family, co-workers. Nobody offered an acceptable answer. Still, it was incredibly clear to me that God exists. Perhaps He is a cruel God, maybe even sadistic! I was angry at Him; but, I never doubted His existence.

I prayed a lot during these years. I found less and less comfort in my temple, and less and less meaning in the written prayers and communal worship services. Yet, I prayed silently to God more frequently. I made bargains with God, and promises to improve my behavior if He gave me a child.

Something else I experimented with during this period was the exploration of other religions. Maybe the “Christian” God was more merciful? I read the New Testament, studied Christianity, and even attended masses. I had always been intrigued by Zen teachings, and found myself drawn to Buddhist philosophy. Zen poetry was a therapeutic distraction, while stories of monks finding enlightenment were interesting and instructive. Yet, I could never see myself as

anything other than Jewish.

Finally, one (non-Jewish) doctor solved the hormonal puzzle that was my wife. Mikayla was conceived practically under his watchful eye.

When this pregnancy extended beyond the first trimester – something none of the previous eight had done – the obstetrician declared us to be out of high-risk. There was no medical reason this baby wouldn’t survive. At 18 weeks the amnio ruled out any genetic disorders, and we began to breathe easier.

We sat together every night in our bedroom with a fetal heart monitor loaned to us by the obstetrician, and listened to the miraculous rhythm of Mikayla’s heartbeats. At 30 weeks, a three-dimensional ultrasound showed a viable human life. At 36 weeks she was flourishing – fully developed and growing strong. Every night, before sleep, we listened religiously to the fetal heart monitor’s rhythmic, reassuring thumping. Every single night. Shwish shwish … shwish shwish. How I loved falling to sleep to that miraculous shwishing.

Pregnant

Life’s growing inside her, I’m glowing with pride for My son or daughter to be. I cannot sit still, My elbows are thrilled, Just knowing our family will build.

Now it’s eight weeks, She’s weak in the knees, As she sneaks in the bathroom each morning. The nausea, the bleeding, The mood swings and peeing, My wife is aglow and smiling.

Three months now have ed, Time’s moving so fast, The heart has started to beat. My wife won’t slow down, Happy as a clown, She must try to stay off her feet.

We’ve found out so early, Our baby’s a girly, The ultrasound gave her away. My wife bought a dress, For Mikayla Bess, And she hasn’t sat still all day.

In the fifth month she’s showing, Her belly’s a growing, Our baby is now fully formed. Mom’s tired and cranky, With back pain and hemorrhoids, Still four months more to be borned. I’m a father to be, It’s reality! The nursery’s all in flowers. The bassinette, car seat, Onesies piled neatly, Such fun, we had a baby shower! The day before her due date, the obstetrician assured us all was well, pre-labor had begun, and he expected to see us the next day at the hospital. Later that night, my wife’s water broke.

We rushed to the hospital with my parents in the car, ready to meet their granddaughter.

It wasn’t to be.

When we arrived, the doctor was unable to locate a heartbeat. No shwish.

At 2:20am on May 9, 2003, my wife gave birth to a dead baby girl. I held my beautiful daughter in my arms that day, and kissed her perfect face. I still carry a picture of her in my wallet with a black rose laid across her tiny chest. I love you, Mikayla Bess.

The funeral took place 2 days later (the next day was Shabbos, so pursuant to Jewish law, her perfect, cold body had to wait at the funeral home an extra 24 hours).

According to my religious teachings, a child does not possess a Jewish soul until it is given a name – for a boy, on the eighth day; for a girl whenever it is convenient to hold a baby-naming party. Mikayla had never taken a single breath on her own, and she would not be attending any parties. Despite the previous 200-plus days that I had listened to her heart beating, despite every kick her tiny legs gave to my wife’s uterus, Jewish law says that she was never alive. I was instructed by learned rabbis not to grieve for her.

Regardless, I insisted on a funeral, and a proper burial was done. The same rabbi that had converted my wife and son, and who had officiated at our wedding, officiated our daughter’s funeral. Another rabbi who had befriended my wife (and whom I had assisted in hiring at our new temple) traveled more than 2 hours to attend and co-officiate the funeral. My entire family attended.

Mikayla Bess Katz, May 9, 2003 Belief

Ever quieter the ocean roars, Attempting to quash my innermost wars. To reconcile the torturous, tumultuous hell That all too frequently has been ours. So now we question the existence of God, How a Supreme Being could allow such evil To continuously afflict good people, And why have we been repeatedly denied, When drug-abusing teens cry at the “Misfortune” to conceive?

Shall we sit back and smile at God, and pray That ours will come another day? And count the blessings on our head, And know life’s better than being dead?

To believe or not – that is life’s question. I think of my wife and smile with comprehension.

Until the waves stop crashing ashore, Together let’s be happy forever more! Then it was over.

I was instructed to forget about it, and move on. Surely there would be other children, I was repeatedly told. Not one single family member, not one congregation member, ever said another word to me about Mikayla. Not on the anniversary of her birth and death. Not on her yortzeit. Never. Many years later I mentioned my daughter in a ing conversation with my older brother. He had actually forgotten about her. He didn’t his niece’s name, and I’m not sure he ed she had been his niece. The only niece he’d ever had. He, like the rest of the world, forgot Mikayla existed.

The family I love, that had been the pith of my being, my identity – they don’t know my pain. They don’t my wife. Everyone jokes about difficult “in laws,” but it is an unavoidable reality that a strong marriage requires a herculean commitment to place your spouse above the entirety of your blood relatives.

Climbing Our Rainbow

Sitting in a row boat, Rowing, rowing nowhere. Flooding. Water rising. Desperately trying to stay afloat in a sinking row boat. Couples all around are drowning – I will not let us too.

How could Noah choose his twos – All his friends and neighbors lose? Though they were not righteous, Were they more evil than us? Was there not room for one more? Must I close the ark door, Leave the relatives I’ve adored? Hoist just my wife and son aboard?

Rain keeps falling, Falling, falling. Pounding our sinking row boat. How much more can we bear? Boring holes in our boat, While we’re rowing, rowing, Rowing to somewhere. Yet the robin of Spring Is singing to me now … A psychedelic ribbon of light, Lighting the way to go –

A dove above is flying, flying through the air, Like an Arabian mare. She’s showing me where to row!

Close the ark door! Hand me my oar! I know where I must row, row, row! Keep us dry, Stop the crying, I am climbing the rainbow to the sky. For the first time in my life, I questioned the existence of God.

How could any God allow such pain and suffering? How could my Jewish religion preach the impropriety of mourning the loss of one’s child? One synagogue member was overheard saying to another, inside the sanctuary during the Amidah – the central meditative and silent prayer: “that is what happens when you play with genetics – after all, she was a convert!”

I walked out of the synagogue in a fog, in the middle of the Amidah, leaving my coat hanging in the coatroom.

It would be a long time before I would return to any synagogue to pray. I was no longer able to laugh or sing, and found no comfort in performing religious rituals. In fact, I resigned my hip, and wouldn’t set foot inside another temple for a long, long time.

I don’t know how my wife and I survived this. They say that whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Somehow, we both, individually, survived, and our marriage grew stronger. They say that time heals, but I’ve found it only dulls the pain. Barely.

It helped that my wife got pregnant again almost immediately.

Chapter 7

Jacob

Jacob was born to us March 11, 2004. His pregnancy was uneventful, which itself is a minor miracle. Of course, my wife and I vigilantly listened to our fetal monitor every single night. Shwish shwish … shwish shwish. If, one night, he was turned in a difficult position, and it took some extra seconds to locate that soothing shwish, we panicked! Oh, would we panic! Our own hearts temporarily stopped beating! But, for carrying a living being inside of your body for eight straight months (he was induced at 36 weeks to prevent any risk of repeating the labor infections that had taken Mikayla from us), this was a relatively easy pregnancy for my wife.

His birth, however, was far from uneventful.

After 36 weeks and an amniocentesis to assure lung maturity, the doctor declared us ready. Once again, we packed the hospital essentials bag, the car seat and bassinette that had returned home with us empty just ten months earlier, and headed to the same hospital for labor inducing drugs. We insisted on a different labor room this time. This time, we avoided the middle-of-the-night, red-light running rushed drive to the hospital, and drove there leisurely. This time, my parents met us at the hospital.

The white elephant filled the room, as the fear in everyone’s mind remained unspoken. Every nurse was aware of our history. The induction seemed to take forever, and labor progressed in painstakingly slow motion, until finally, my wife was moved from the labor room to the delivery room. It was time.

My father, God bless him, was a pillar of strength. He had a history of heart problems, and I wasn’t at all sure his heart would survive another disappointment. My mother was nervously pacing. We were all glued to the monitors displaying the heart rates of both mom and baby. Why was the fetal heart rate monitor showing such drastic drops during contractions? Was this normal? My wife kept asking me to read off the heart rate numbers, while my father stood in the way, shielding the monitor from her view. Questions to the on-call obstetrician were met with reassuring words, but an overtly concerned expression.

I calmly asked the doctor to meet me outside the room, where I not-so-calmly instructed him to get our regular obstetrician (who was chief of obstetrics) here NOW!!! It was 3:00 in the morning, and our doctor was not on call.

He arrived 18 minutes later, and took control of the situation like the field general he was.

Within minutes, my wife was transported to the operating room. The umbilical cord had wrapped itself around the baby’s neck. While not suffocating him, it was preventing him from descending down the birth canal. I stood next to my wife and held her hand in the icy cold operating room. In addition to our doctor, his partner who had induced my wife 17 hours earlier was standing in the corner with a crash cart at the ready. The anesthesiologist was at attention with one hand on some dial to increase the epidural to an instant knock-out level. Doc warned me (not my wife) that if the baby isn’t born on the very next contraction, he would be performing a dangerous, emergency C-section that would not be pretty to watch. I refused to leave the room.

The pediatrician we had selected had been alerted and was present inside the operating room, as were at least four nurses. Another two nurses were across the

hallway with my parents, nitroglycerin pills in hand in case dad’s heart stopped.

The next 30 seconds are embedded in my mind so clearly I could describe every detail like individual frames in a film. The short version: my wife’s uterus started what I knew would be the final contraction. The calm, cool-under-fire and normally quiet doctor literally screamed at her, “PUSH!”

The baby crowned, and I watched the doctor expertly unwrap the cord as he yanked my child from his mother’s womb.

The cord was cut by the doctor in a single motion while simultaneously ing the baby over to the pediatrician. Everyone held their breaths, until the tiny, premature baby cried. The pediatrician smiled, and gave us the most reassuring thumbs up imaginable, at which time my wife screamed out “He’s alive! He’s alive!” I could hear my mother crying from across the hall through two closed doors. Jacob came home with us the next morning, alive and healthy.

Jacob Katz, November 2014 My Boobooberry

Boobooberry chop chop, Boobooberry chop, Yesterday you were but a babe, Drooling, gurgling and cooing nonstop, A smile so cute, what a babe!

My Boobooberry started kindergarten today, Nervous, excited, coy, So bravely he gravely waived me away, My Boobooberry’s now a big boy.

I’ll hold him tonight while he sits on my lap, I’ll read him a book, he’ll follow along, I’ll listen to him sing me a song, I’ll stare in wonder at my Boobooberry chop chop.

My little Boobooberry chop chop boy, May I still call you that?

Sure, Daddy, I’ll always be your chop chop boy, Why do you ask me that?

My Boobooberry started school today, Nervous, excited, coy, Wishing he could forever a baby stay, But how proud I am of my big boy!

- For Jacob, 9/2009 If you’ve ever witnessed the miracle of childbirth, you can never again question the existence of God. With all the things that can go wrong, and everything that has to happen for a sperm and egg to develop into a human being with precisely ten fingers and ten toes, there must be divine intervention. Science cannot create life, and scientists cannot duplicate the functions of a mother’s uterus.

Chapter 8

Zachary Solomon

One year later, my second son was born in the same hospital.

This time, thankfully, the birth did not take place in the operating room. Nor was he born in a delivery room, though. Zachary delivered himself in the labor room – literally slid out before the doctor declared my wife fully dilated, and was “caught” by a nurse. (He hasn’t slowed down since.) There was no time to transfer us across the hall to a delivery room.

This time, my mother cut the umbilical cord.

I do not doubt that God exists. I can be angry at God, though. I often question His ways and alleged mercifulness; but, I cannot hate Him no matter how much I try. God gave me two beautiful, healthy, baby boys, and blessed me with the best stepson a man could ever ask for. My career was taking off, and my family was perfect!

Five years later, I would consider ing a synagogue again, and I struggled mightily with a second decision – whether to enroll my two children into a private, religious school.

Zachary Solomon Katz, August 2012

Chapter 9

To , or Not to

Every major conflict throughout known history (except perhaps the Trojan War) was caused by competing religious beliefs, and nothing has changed in the 21st century. There is no more divisive force on Earth than religion. Racially, peoples mix. Slavery has been (predominantly) abolished. Extremist racial supremacists are rare, and mostly under control. International travel is commonplace.

World-wide collaboration to combat global warming is everyday fodder for the news. The worldwide Web makes geographic distance irrelevant. Borders are falling, and we are ethnically mixing. Our world is shrinking. Still, heavens forbid if our religions co-exist peacefully.

If you think about it, religion is silly. It is incredibly immature. Originally, religion was civilized man’s method of dealing with a world he didn’t understand. Before scientists unraveled the mysteries of a round Earth orbiting a sun, man worshipped a Sun God. Before man mastered the art of scuba diving and submarine travel, he worshipped a Sea God. Man still doesn’t comprehend weather, and to this day worships the Gods of Wind and Lightning and Thunder, but today we are far more sophisticated, and realize these otherwise inexplicable events are the workings of a single deity. Jewish people call this deity Elohim or Adonai. Other people use names like Allah or Jesus. The name used to refer to our deity identifies us as belonging to a particular religion, and acts to segregate us from all others.

As civilization grows ever more sophisticated on this planet, the number of

religions decreases. Each religion becomes better organized, more unified, and more isolated.

Why does mankind insist upon religious isolationism? Why is religious identity so important to us?

My first answer is social. Religion offers each of us a sense of belonging. It feels good to fit in with a particular group of people. A child, growing up, needs to find his clique – is he a jock, goth, or punk? Will he the baseball team, drama club or hang out with the dopers? ing a particular temple or church offers someone an immediate circle of friends and social activities – provided we subscribe to the right religious beliefs and practice appropriate rituals at the appointed times. Certainly, any good temple emphasizes the communal aspects of religion and utilizes that asset to attract hip. But, a health club hip, Elk’s Lodge or Starbucks card satisfy the same need. There must be a bigger draw.

Religion makes us feel good about ourselves. The rude driver, for example who cut you off yesterday and then cursed at you for being in his lane, can cleanse his soul of guilt by attending religious services tomorrow. He believes himself to be a righteous man, because he attends religious services once per week. It is ingrained in all of us from an early age that (1) being religious makes us “good” people, and that (2) attendance at our temple or church makes us religious.

(1) Being religious makes us “good” people. it it, you believe this: Rabbis and priests are good people. They are moral, and ethical, and by their chosen career path have elected to do good in the world. With very few exceptions, this is true. But, for the rest of us who merely and attend services, does this make us good people?

As a Jew, whenever I by a synagogue on a Saturday morning and see the “good” Jews entering or exiting the building, I feel a sense of inferiority. Surely, they are better Jews than I, but are they better people for it? Am I a bad person because I chose to sleep later and read the NY Times rather than the Siddur (prayer book) that morning?

(2) Does attendance at services make us religious? I submit that even regular attendance is not only insufficient to attain “religious” status, but is actually irrelevant. My relationship with God is personal. Whether I choose to pray silently from home or to gather with other good Jews and pray in the presence of a rabbi should be irrelevant to an omnipresent God. He will hear my prayers equally well, but the rabbi and congregation won’t know that I have prayed.

Praying silently vs congregationally:

I do pray to God silently. Sometimes in bed before falling asleep, or when I’m watching my son at basketball practice, I stop and think about God and how grateful I am for His love, and I pray. I find those moments to be very spiritual.

In contrast, I have found myself in the past sitting in a temple pew surrounded by hundreds of fellow congregants, rotely singing printed words of prayer that were long ago committed to memory, and feeling entirely disconnected. This was not devotion to God or religion. This was community choir practice, each person proudly singing to demonstrate his familiarity with the melody and mastery of the words to his neighbor, as if to prove himself a good Jew. I have quietly listened to myriads of sweet-timbred, cantorial chants, wondering how many congregants understand the Hebrew words being sung, and feeling more like a member of an opera audience than a person in the midst of devout prayers. Am I there to watch a show of others pretending to pray, or to commune with my God? Must I repeat the identical ages week in and week out, in concert with others, to constitute prayer?

I have attended Catholic masses, and found the pipe organ and acoustic sound inside the church to be incredibly beautiful and moving. Yet, I find organ or choral accompaniment to a Jewish cantor during services to emphasize the Broadway quality of the showmanship, and to completely de-emphasize any spiritual prayer aspect. Somehow the sound of an organ interferes between me and my God, adding an extra layer of insulation between us. Surely, it is beautiful sound. But, is it prayer?

And yet, I miss it. It is not just nostalgic yearning to re-live experiences from another chapter in my life. I may be ready to return to synagogue life. There are aspects of communal Jewish praying that are very appealing, for example:

The Torah:

There is something special about a Torah scroll. Sure, it contains the handscribed calligraphic words of the Old Testament in perfectly aligned columns on rolled parchment paper, and is covered with rich fabric and bedecked in gorgeous silver. It is more the reverence with which it is dealt, so carefully removed from its holy ark, paraded around the congregation and laid out upon the lectern before being re-dressed and returned to the ark each time. It is not because of the outrageous expense of each Torah (the cost of a typical Torah is approximately equal to the average annual income of that temple’s individual ), but rather its symbolic representation of our religion that commands its respectful treatment. The Torah is real. You can physically feel its history and spirituality when you touch it. There is nothing faux religious about a Torah.

No matter how close I feel to God when I take a moment to pray silently, I have no Torah in bed with me at home or at my son’s basketball practice.

The Sermon:

As a child, I would carefully plan my exit prior to the beginning of the sermon so as not to insult the rabbi. That was the time for children to play. As a young adult, I forced myself to stay and listen, to try to garnish some meaning.

Some rabbis sermonize about the weekly portion that is read from the Torah. I have read this book through more than once; I know what it says. Yet, these rabbis manage to find deeper meaning every year from the identical chapters and verses we read the prior year. They successfully relate the words of Abraham, Moses and Joshua to each year’s current events, and find a new moral lesson. Other rabbis go beyond the text and focus on modern issues affecting Jews and government, locally and in Israel, sometimes without infusing political leanings.

If you’ve never attempted to write a single sermon worthy of being heard by the community, I challenge you to write one. Then imagine trying to create a fresh one every week! I drafted at least a dozen during that interim rabbi-less time in Florida, and each time my respect for rabbis increased tenfold.

The Zionist for Israel:

I have been to Israel. I’ve touched the Western Wall and prayed there. I have friends and family who live in Israel. Every Jew, as well as every Christian and Moslem, has ties to this holy land. It is eternally linked to our religions, our histories, our identities. While the nation of Israel has been a constant battleground, epitomizing the warfare consequence of religious separatism, there is something undeniably unique about this land. Something that is easy to forget when I pray independently at home; something that is always brought to the surface when we congregate to pray in temples.

The sound of silence:

You don’t hear the silence when you pray silently. One thing every congregation has in common is the noise. Jews are noisy people when we congregate for prayer. And yet, there is a moment during every service, usually during the Amidah (the silent, first recitation of this central prayer before it is repeated communally), when a hush falls over the congregation. Like a “moment of silence” at a sporting event to honor a fallen player. It is very moving to me. One of the few spiritual moments for me in a synagogue where I am close enough to my God to truly pray.

My Children:

Then, there is another important reason I considered a return to the synagogue: my children. My parents raised me as a Jew, and brought me to temple. They gave me the gift of my religious identity. It is my duty to this on to my children, whom God has given to me. If I fail to give them the same education and religious backbone, they will never fully appreciate their own relationships with God.

My children cannot hear my silent prayers at night, and must experience congregational prayers. If they choose to leave their synagogue or shun their religious upbringing, it will be their own decision. While I struggle with my religious beliefs and frustrations with temple life, I am not vain enough to believe myself capable of making these decisions on behalf of my children. “L’dor vador.” From generation to generation. I owe it to my children to let them decide.

Chapter 10

Convalidation

My younger brother married a Catholic girl. Unlike me, he never insisted that his bride convert to Judaism. They married, first, in a non-religious ceremony on a remote, inaccessible island in the Caribbean that was attended by a privileged few family and friends. Then, two months later, they re-married in the Catholic Church. Technically, they “convalidated” their marriage in the Catholic Church.

Despite my new sister’s being a teacher who is wonderful with children (or perhaps because of that) they have denounced any intention of procreating, which relieves much of the anxiety brought about by mixed marriages. But then … why convalidate? For that matter, why marry at all?

Presumably, the decision was not rooted in any religious misgivings of my sister that she must marry before having sex, since they lived together in sin for a year prior to their wedding. (I know my younger brother well, and can safely assume they had sex before convalidation. Sorry, Mom; Forgive them, Father.) Unfortunately, it wasn’t to legitimize future children. Hopefully, it was not to enable the filing of t tax returns with the IRS, or merely to receive kitchenware gifts. This decision was most probably made to appease the bride’s Irish Catholic parents – clearly not for the groom’s Jewish parents who attended both the Caribbean Island wedding¹ and the more recent City Island convalidation,² despite their advancing age and declining health. God bless my parents, they are troopers!

As the priest sprinkled holy water on my brother’s shoulder and blessed the

union in the name of the Holy Father, then signed the half-Hebrew Ketubah (the Jewish wedding contract) as officiant on the altar, I tried to place some practical meaning on the ritual. Sure, it was a beautiful church, a beautiful bride, beautiful speeches and gospel reading, but why was it necessary? What purpose did it serve for my brother?

Why does anyone get married? Why do we feel a need to have our State recognize our relationship, nonetheless our church? As a matrimonial attorney, I appreciate that people still feel such a need, which keeps me in business. Considering 52% of marriages end in divorce, and the average marriage lasts barely more than 4 years, and considering society’s full acceptance of live-in boyfriends/girlfriends, homosexual LTRs and lack of scarlet letter degradations, all 50 State’s recognition of “no fault” divorces, it is interesting that people still marry at all!

Marriage is, in many respects, an outdated concept. Biologists will tell you that humans are not biologically programmed to be monogamous. Divorce lawyers will tell you that marriages are doomed to fail. It’s our job.

It was nice to see family and friends that have not been together in years, and it provided photo ops that will make a beautiful album of memories, and it was followed by a fun party. I’m personally glad they did it.

I hope my brother is able to reconcile his religious upbringing with his nondenominational wedding and Catholic convalidation. I hope my sister-in-law is satisfied with her ceremonial rites. I hope if they change their minds and decide to have children (or even if they don’t decide) that they discuss the upbringing of those children before they are born. I hope both sets of parents are appeased. And, most of all, I wish them a lifetime of happiness together.

INTERLUDE

Meditation: On Boredom

I’ve had nothing to do and savored, Been busy as boo and buried in poo, I’ve even had hours galore Insufficient to do my chores. But now time stands still. I sit and stare at nothing but air, Grappling to keep my will. My mind is blank, An empty piggy bank, Avoiding thoughts of void, Vacant, vacuous space, Alone with the human race.

Chapter 11

Temple Politics

At this point, I considered ing a synagogue once again, and began to investigate which one.

I have been to temples all over the US and Israel. I have prayed in ultra modernist reformed, egalitarian and traditional conservative, reconstructionist, orthodox, Sefardic, and Lubovitch Hassidic temples. I have had the privilege of conducting shacharit (morning services) outdoors at the rim of the Grand Canyon at sunrise, and maariv (evening services) lakeside at sunset. I have been to schuls where weekday minyans are a struggle to amass (unless a member dies), and sung with congregations in excess of 300 Jewish souls on Shabbat – and over 2,000 on Yom Kippur.

Almost all Jewish temples operate by charging annual hip fees. Unlike Christian churches, donation plates are not ed during prayers (except on the holiest and best-attended night of the year). In light of the fact that services are always open for attendance by all – and non- or even nonJews alike – this hip fee is a large turn-off. If I can go to services for free, why should I pay? The amount of this fee ranges, depending upon several factors, including geographic location, size and facilities of the physical building, clergy contracts, office and custodial staff. A typical Conservative temple’s annual fee for a family hip is $1,100.00 +/- $600.00. In addition, many temples charge a one-time “building” fee, often spread over the first several years’ of hip. A recent trend is to charge extra fees for the right to seats on the High Holidays, at a slightly discounted fee from that charged to non-.

There are, ittedly, certain benefits to hip: Discounts to templesponsored social events and Judaica sold there, and access to the facilities for weddings, funerals, bar/bat-mitzvahs, etc. I don’t know that any temple would reject an application from a non-member to utilize its ballroom and caterer for a party, but I’d imagine that get first dibs to reserve the facilities before opening up to non-. Pastoral services are available to , and the clergy are available to officiate weddings and funerals (for an anticipated, appropriate gratuity).

Perhaps most valuable of all benefits, receive discounts to send their children to Hebrew School at the temple. The value of this benefit varies greatly, as some temples offer professional curricula, classrooms, educators and principals, while others consist of the rabbi reading bible stories to disinterested groups of mixed-aged children. Again, non- offering to pay school tuition are rarely rejected in my experience.

To me, the single most fascinating aspect of synagogue life is temple politics. Every temple is, at heart, a business. It must operate within a fiscal budget to pay its overhead expenses and meet payroll. It must adhere to corporate bylaws, as well as clearly defined religious guidelines.

I have had the great pleasure to assist in the istration of several temples, i.e., participate in temple politics. In addition to executive board positions, I have served on such diverse committees as: Fund Raising (carnival and play planning), Legal, Social (see fund raising), Sunshine (mourning), Rabbinic searches/interviews/hirings/firings, Religious, High Holiday (honor doling), Building (see fund raising), hip and a few Ad Hoc Committees (see fund raising, emergency). Needless to say, I am far too familiar with Roberts Rules of Order.

Whenever I enter a new synagogue, I am struck by glaring similarities: the same melodies and rituals, like standing or bowing during certain prayers. Jews are Jews, no matter the denomination or geographic location. In fact, I’ve discovered that every temple has the same cast of characters:

The Rabbi:

No two rabbis are exactly alike. Some are old, others are slightly less old. Some are female, which is a subject for a whole other book. Some are smart, others highly intelligent. Many have excellent, trained voices, some are tone deaf, but irregardless every rabbi loves to sing and to be heard singing, loudly. Most are quite learned in Torah, Talmud and all things Jewish. Almost all share a surprising wealth of knowledge of baseball statistics and trivia, while very few are athletically gifted. Despite their elected calling, all are unabashedly human, and boast varying degrees of morality. Two quick examples:

Rabbi One: This rabbi served at a large, Conservative congregation for nearly 40 years, until being forced into “emeritus” status. He was happily married to the sweetest epitomic rebbetzin during his entire tenure. However, he was known to openly flirt with the ladies, and it was well-known that he preferred blondes. Nothing wrong with innocent flirting … except that I believe he had multiple affairs with congregants, and may have fathered more than one love child.

Rabbi Two: This rabbi founded his own temple. He was politically connected, and his original flock expanded, at its peak, to over 240 families. The fact he was never ordained by any rabbinical assembly was apparently unimportant to his flock, although it prevented the temple from utilizing any semantic denomination such as Reformed, Conservative or Orthodox, which created unique challenges for the hip Committee. The Religious Committee had no problems with this, because the rabbi chaired this particular committee and made all decisions regarding observances, leaning mostly toward orthodox traditions – although the rabbi was, at various times, spotted at a pancake house

eating bacon. There was never any question of his learnedness and Talmudic knowledge. He was rarely depended upon for chaplaincy, because most knew he was not a nice person. He was paid a handsome salary (rabbis are generally high-salaried employees) and a generous manse (his housing was provided in full by the congregants), yet still found it necessary to embezzle regularly from the Rabbinic Discretionary Fund and charitable donations.

The Cantor:

In contrast to rabbis, every cantor is cut from the identical cloth: they are large people with big voices, and egos to match. Often devout, they are dedicated to their professions and are, indeed, servants of God. As ordained clergy, they make quite capable chaplains, and are usually under-utilized in this capacity. The best cantors are flexible: they can adjust tempo. When hungry, services end early regardless of the length of the rabbi’s sermon; when performing to a full house, they suddenly develop a case of plural melismata, turning every syllable into an individual melody, and lunch can wait.

The President:

This is a local businessman, successful enough to balance a fine family with multiple children, a mayoral appointment to the Town Zoning Committee, a country club hip, a trophy wife and a girlfriend. And he still finds time to volunteer to serve as President – not a small time commitment, but well worth it for the publicity.

Fortunately, the office of president is durational and rotational, so no congregation is stuck with the same president for too long (unlike the rabbi, whose contract is expected to be repeatedly renewed and extended even as hip plummets and the budget doesn’t allow for repairs to the leaking

roof above the gymnasium.) Unfortunately, the pool of masochists willing to take over as president is limited, and the next president will be similarly unable to balance the budget.

The single most important task for the president is the Kol Nidre appeal. This is an annual speech combining the “State of the Union Address” with the “Just a Penny a Day Can Feed a Starving Child” commercial. It is traditionally made on Yom Kippur, the holiest of holidays, in the midst of what is supposed to be the most soulful and personal prayer time for the Jewish people. Of course, this is the only time the full congregation congregates, so it is strategically logical timing. However, it is hardly appropriate.

The Old Man:

A very old man who is quite friendly. He attends services regularly, and takes it upon himself to appoint aliyot (participation honors during services) when appropriate. This man never takes credit, and his presence is taken for granted. Most of the children are afraid of him, the adults feel uncomfortably inferior to him, and the clergy defer to him. This man is, more often than not, the most powerful figure in the temple.

The Janitor:

A hired hand (shabbos goy) who has been with the temple long enough to follow Jewish rituals, and often speaks some Hebrew words. The janitor at temples is most often Black or Hispanic, which makes it amusing to hear him using Hebrew expressions such as wishing you “Shabbat Shalom” or “Chag Same’ach” when you arrive. He is always friendly with the youth, and can be caught playing games with them while on duty, or sneaking them pieces of challah before Kiddush is officially ready.

The Troubled Youth:

This is a child of a religious member who is socially (and often physically) handicapped. He is regularly seen at services and temple events, usually being rowdy. During services, he is inappropriately loud and rambunctious, but his parent (always a single parent) is used to this and is beyond embarrassment.

The Angelic Youth:

This is the leader of the youth group. The young teen who always paid attention in Sunday school, and attended every youth event. This child can be seen at most Shabbat services, and can be counted on to lead Ashrei or Aleynu. Keen to please, she (sometimes he) often helps set up the Kiddush and generally brownnoses the rabbi and cantor.

The Oldest Lady:

Every temple has an oldest female member. This lady is beyond age. Her husband ed away several decades earlier, and she has developed quirky attire and mannerisms. Her hat collection is extensive. She has a permanent scowl, but somehow manages to smile at the rabbi. She is unable to stand during Kedusha, but is surprisingly sprite on the way to Kiddush.

The Israeli:

Usually, she is the Hebrew school teacher. She attends services regularly, and is easily recognized from her accent – and uncommon ability to pronounce the Hebrew readings. She is single, young, pretty, and can be found sitting in the center of the congregation.

Chapter 12

My Law Partner

It’s often said that opposites attract. This is true for me in both my love life and professional life.

I first met Mark as adversaries on two different cases several years ago. We managed to settle both cases. I was impressed by his professionalism, and his knowledge of the law. He was a straight-shooter, as honest as the day is long. Two years ago, he ed me out of the blue and asked if I’d be interested in ing him. I didn’t hesitate.

My partner is my polar opposite in many ways, the yin to my yang. I am a Democrat; he is a Conservative Republican. My strengths as an attorney rest in my ability to multi-task, and to relate to diverse people on multiple levels. I am disorganized, messy, and, too often, a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants, think-on-thefly kind of lawyer. My partner is the organized, scholarly type. Always overprepared, able to cite case law off the top of his head; whereas I retain vague memories of case holdings with no hope of ing case names or citations.

Religiously, he is my inverse contrapositive? Mark was born Jewish, but raised without much observance or religious teaching. He married, later in life, to a Jewish immigrant with a child. His wife and stepson were not religious. But, his stepson was enrolled in a private, Russian-Jewish school in an effort to help him “fit in” with American life. As a result, his stepson was segregated from Englishspeaking boys, and from non Jews. He was taught religion, and quickly became

Orthodox. Very.

Meanwhile, Mark decided to a temple for the High Holidays. I’m certain his decision was not too different from mine. However, he was unfamiliar with synagogue politics, having been raised outside such experiences. Mark ended up at an Orthodox temple, and was made to feel very welcome there. He enjoyed the experience. He was invited to return not just for Holidays, but for Sabbath services. He started attending alternate Saturdays, and discovered that he missed the Sabbath services on those weeks he didn’t attend. Soon enough, he was not only attending every Sabbath, but weekday minyans as well.

In the meantime, Mark’s stepson got married and moved to Philadelphia. He started making baby grandchildren, kept a very strict, kosher home, and observed the Sabbath.

Mark wanted to make his stepson comfortable whenever he returned to New York to visit, so he started keeping a kosher home, strict enough that his stepson would eat in his kitchen. He studied Torah and Hebrew with the rabbi, and started observing the Sabbath and other rituals. He discovered a great joy in being Orthodox himself, and gradually became more and more religious.

Today, Mark is a true Orthodox Jew. He wears a Kippah and Tzitzith everywhere, every day. He finds time in his busy day to attend prayer minyan three time per day. He washes his hands before every meal, and says grace after. He is recognized in the courtrooms by his costume, and respected for his beliefs. Today, he is immersed in temple politics with the misfortune of having been anointed president of a well-known Orthodox temple in New York – which takes a tremendous toll on him emotionally, and on his time in the office as my law partner. However, he is often referred business by rabbis, and he attracts clients to our firm from the Orthodox community.

In times of tragedy, Mark turns to God and finds comfort. In times of joy, he gives thanks to God. His path was very different from mine, and flowed in the opposite direction. And, he reached far greater levels of religious observance than I ever did. Mark found the acceptance and warmth within the religious community that I never did.

Mark would be the first to it that the rabbis he studies with are not perfect, and that his fellow congregants each observe different levels of devotion. His conservativism permits him to turn a blind eye to the hypocrisy, and blindly follow the rabbinic leaders – and he loves it.

Chapter 13

On Sending My Children to Private School

Now that I’ve digressed to share what I hope were amusing anecdotes from my true-to-life temple experiences, I was, also, faced with a second major decision. I attended private school from Kindergarten through 8th grade. That decision by my own parents provided me with educational opportunities and a solid foundation. Personally, I credit a large portion of my own success in life with that decision by my parents.

Am I successful? I have a good career and a solid family life. How do we define success? The Mishna says: “Who is rich? He who is happy with his lot.” By that definition, I am rich. I enjoy my chosen profession, and (most days) am happy going to work. I am definitely happy (almost every day) returning home to my wife and kids. I can afford to buy lunch every day, gas in my car (despite gas prices spiraling out of control) and simple luxuries. I’m not wealthy, but I am comfortable.

Anyway, I digress again. The question was, should I send my own children to private school? The other option is public school, with the addition of Sunday School. The choice is not purely religious, but financial and philosophical as well.

Public elementary schools in my neighborhood are quite good. There are no worries of gang warfare or drug dealers on the lunch lines until middle school, and the teachers are dedicated. Curricula are solid, and as long as we supervise homework daily, the children will learn. However, class sizes are far too large

and overcrowded, and teachers are forced to “teach to the lowest common denominator,” which holds back the brighter kids, with almost no enrichment opportunities. I consider the eclectic racial mix in public schools to be a plus. Exposing my children to every cultural background and skin tone, and to “less fortunate” children allows them to appreciate the simple luxuries I just referred to. I cannot consider the great minority of children who speak English as a first language to be a positive factor.

The particular private Jewish school I am considering is a wonderful school. There can be no question of the quality of education, teachers, s, ing and extra-curricular staff and programs. The facilities, equipment and opportunities are awesome. The daily immersion in the Hebrew language and Jewish religion is identifying, unifying. The kids can’t help but establish a sense of belonging, a pride in being … Jewish. Should they attend and graduate, the educational foundation would practically guaranty entry to a quality college, and most likely career of their choosing. So many doors would open.

Of course, the children would no longer assimilate with Spanish or Chinese speaking children, could develop a sense of entitlement being raised among the uber-wealthy, and might also grow to resent my own lack of ability to afford the same luxuries as their classmates. Suddenly, instead of being above-average financially, my children would be at the very bottom of their class financially.

The school is very expensive. My choice would not be available unless my children were offered a substantial scholarship. So, I applied.

The heaster of the school, who had been the principal when I graduated 30 years earlier, ed me personally. He told me that the school “needed” my children. He asked what I could afford to pay. He promised me that for as long as my children attended, he would guaranty a repeating scholarship for whatever portion I was unable to afford.

In my entire life, I had never been made to feel more welcome anywhere. My Jewish school enveloped my Jewish children. For the first time ever, my wife was not a “convert,” but a Jew; my children were not only accepted, but pulled into open arms. I was home. The decision had been made.

Chapter 14

Andrew

My stepson killed himself.

That same little boy I raised as my own since he was five years old. The child I helped convert to Judaism, yet who, a decade later, listed his religion with the US Army as Roman Catholic. Andrew took his own life at the tender age of 24.

Andrew left behind a lengthy suicide note. He told us how sorry he was. He told us he loved us. He told us he just couldn’t take the pain of his existence anymore. He put a bag over his head and pumped in nitrogen gas through a hose. He learned this “painless suicide bag” method from researching “painless suicide method” on the Internet. He assured us, in his note, that it would be painless.

He was so wrong.

Suicide is never painless! I couldn’t begin to describe the pain he inflicted on his entire family. The guilt we feel because we didn’t save him. The inadequacy we feel as parents because we didn’t recognize his pain. My wife lost her first-born child, and she will never be the same again. My children lost their older brother and best friend. They, too, will never be the same again. The life my family knew ended forever when Andrew left us.

Andrew was a lost soul, constantly searching for some ambition, for his life’s purpose. For years, I saw Andrew shun religion. He’d respect our faith, participate at times in Holiday observances, but always in the background. In retrospect, maybe I should have insisted that he participate? Perhaps, seeing his younger brothers attend a Jewish school, watching them learn Hebrew and develop an identity and be part of a community he never, truly had, was unfair to him. Perhaps he felt separated and alone within his own family. Perhaps he saw my own dichotomy – my unwillingness to commit to my religion fully, yet insistence on sending his brothers to a religious school – and, this confused him, or made him lose respect for me.

I shared many debates over the years with Andrew over the existence of God. For a young man, he waxed poetic and held deep, philosophical opinions on the subject. Within his last few months on Earth, Andrew discussed the physical form of the human body and what happens to it after death. If only I had known then what he was contemplating. Not just contemplating, but planning. In intricate detail. He was a tremendous actor – hiding his inner pain so well. Especially near the end, when (I know now) he had made his decision to end it, had come to with it, and he was “happier.”

I missed so many signs. I encourage every parent to look for signs, and take them seriously. Talk to your children! Reach out to suicide prevention experts and groups, like the only Jewish organization of this type: Elijah’s Journey.³ Instead, I wrongfully believed he was just a depressed young man searching for his purpose. Do not sit idly by and assume things will improve! Do not allow your children the privacy to plan their own suicide. Get in their faces! Ask them, daily, if they are okay.

I, also, wrongfully believed Andrew had stopped believing in God. I was certain my son was an atheist. I was very wrong.

Andrew’s theist beliefs were strikingly similar to my own! He was a staunch

believer. He simply resented religion. Interestingly, within his lengthy suicide note, he begged his brothers to pursue their Jewish education and commit to their bar-mitzvahs.

While cleaning out his room, I discovered numerous notebooks filled with Andrew’s writings, his musings, his most private thoughts – thoughts he never shared with me in life. Within them, I learned of his deep faith in God. I read aloud a poem, by Russell Kefler, at Andrew’s funeral, called “You Are Who You Are for a Reason,” which concludes with the following lines:

You are who you are for a reason, You’ve been formed by the Master’s Rod. You are who you are, beloved, Because there is a God!⁴ I found this poem within a book he had been reading about finding one’s purpose in life. The book was carefully underlined throughout, and Andrew wrote notes in the margins. Obviously, this poem, which was completely underlined by Andrew, had special meaning to him. Unfortunately, Andrew never discovered who he was in time, or why he was placed on this Earth.

Does God have a master plan? Did He take Mikayla and Andrew from us to serve a higher purpose in Heaven? Is he testing me?

Andrew’s funeral was a fascinating combination of religious mourning rituals. We held a wake – an open casket viewing – during which my own family, as well as Andrew’s father’s Catholic family, approached the coffin and prayed. We asked God to grant peace to his soul. The opportunity to see his body and say goodbye was surprisingly comforting. My two Jewish children, who had never

seen a dead body, kneeled before the coffin, held Andrew’s cold hand, touched his rigid shoulder, and cried for him. For hours.

The following morning, a priest gave Andrew his last rites, and sprinkled holy water on him.

Then, his casket was closed, and our Rabbi led a Jewish funeral service. The same Rabbi who had converted Andrew and his mother so many years before. The same Rabbi who officiated at our wedding, and at our daughter’s funeral. The Rabbi who, when I called him, came immediately to my house to comfort my family and to counsel my younger children with comion and wisdom. It didn’t matter that we are not of his congregation. He was there for us. He comforted us. He led a beautiful funeral service.

At the gravesite, I read a Kaddish in Hebrew. A friend led the Catholic “Our Father” prayer. Another friend recited a prayer in a third language. We lowered the casket into the ground of the Catholic cemetery, and pursuant to Jewish custom, took turns shoveling dirt onto it. The thud of dirt and rocks hitting the coffin six feet down is horrifying – yet an oddly comforting closure.

That night, we sat Shiva for one evening. Friends and family filled our house beyond capacity. Children from my children’s Jewish day school arrived to comfort and my children. Co-workers, and even clients, arrived to express condolences. The Jewish community swarmed around us. So many people who knew, and loved, Andrew, prayed with us that night in our house.

It was awful. It was awkward. It was extraordinarily … comforting.

Jacob had been away at sleepaway camp, for the first time in his life, when it happened. A Jewish camp. I had to drive up to camp to tell him that his brother died, and take him home for the funeral. My mother, who had rushed up from Florida to be with us, jumped from the airplane to my car to drive with me to camp to her grandson. Telling Jacob that day that his brother, his closest friend in the world, was dead, was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I knew it was going to hurt him so much!

The camp was so ive. The director and his counselors sat with us when we told Jacob, and they cried with us. Total strangers, who had become my son’s family in one short week of camp, hugged us and mourned with us. I cannot believe that a non-religious camp would have handled this catastrophe as well, or been nearly as ive and warm. Unfortunately, I doubt Jacob will be able to return to sleepaway camp ever again. In his mind, “sleepaway” is forever associated with the loss of his brother. For a long, long time afterward, Jacob would sleep in my bedroom, afraid to sleep in his own room – to sleep away from his parents.

I work with a of approximately 90 lawyers at Family Court, and participate with another 15 professionals in a weekly marketing group. Some of these 105 people I know well, some merely by sight; some I consider friends, others acquaintances. Nearly every single Jewish lawyer on the sent me written condolences – mostly via e-mail. Several Christian lawyers, faithful, observant Christians (and one faithful Moslem) reached out to me – by telephone or in person. I never hugged so many lawyers (or judges) before!

The relevant and fascinating part, to me, is that I would never have been able to predict which of these professionals would reach out to me. It was not my closer friends on the , but almost without exception, the more religious ones. Those who are religious – any religion – knew what to say to me, how to comfort me, how to act when they saw me. In contrast, the less religious but closer friends to me, were awkward, if they even made the attempt to speak with me.

What I discovered is that religion teaches more than mere ritual observances! It teaches people how to be human.

(My stepson Andrew, an angel in Heaven)

Chapter 14

Tragedies and Miracles

Not two months later, my childhood friend, Joel, was killed by a hit and run driver. A senseless accident. His body was found lying lifeless in a New York City street by a stranger. It took a week for his family to learn of the accident. By that time, he was in a hospital bed, unconscious and brain dead, with no hope of recovery. Joel’s parents waited another six days before he finally stopped breathing, then they generously donated every possible organ they could. What was left of his broken, emptied body could finally be laid to rest.

Joel was a good man who never harmed another human being in his life. He was a religious Jewish man. He rejoiced on the Sabbath and enjoyed dinner with his parents and brother nearly every Friday night throughout his 46 years. I pray that his parents find peace and comfort from their strong Jewish faith – or elsewhere, because I know the pain of losing a child. They are in for a long, difficult journey.

Why did God do this? How could He allow a good, religious family to suffer such inexplicably horrendously tragic death? Did God have a greater purpose for Joel in Heaven that He called him back so soon? If so, couldn’t he have taken him less spectacularly? At least have the homicidal driver be known and punished? Would it, for that matter, help our grief to have a target we can blame? And punish? Maybe God needed to punish that driver with the worst imaginable guilt, and my friend just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time? I have no answers for any of these questions.

But, I also have no doubt about the existence of God, and that God made the decision for this, and every other tragedy, to occur. I can’t blindly accept that He has some greater purpose which mankind cannot comprehend, and yet I want to believe this concept.

We must, then, marvel at the size of God’s awesome responsibility on Earth. Does it extend to other worlds as well? The magnitude of such a Master Plan!

The universe remains in balance. Somewhere, at the precise moment Joel was struck by this anonymous driver on that dark New York City street, a baby was born to someone in Belgium, or a person was miraculously saved from a tragic accident in Brazil.

The day after Joel’s funeral, another friend of min’s wife underwent surgery to remove multiple tumors. The “hope” was to delay her imminent death from cancer. The surgery was supposed to last two hours. Her surgeon exited the operating room, after five torturous hours, and declared, “Pathology was negative. It wasn’t cancer. She’ll be fine! Healthy! Full recovery!”

The irony of this is that her husband, my friend, Jim, died less than 3 months later. Jim was a firefighter who worked tirelessly during and after 9-11. The toxic chemicals killed him. It took 13 years, but chalk up another victim to Al Queda’s attack. You are a hero, Jim! Thank you for your service as a first responder. I am proud to call you my friend.

God juggles billions of ping pong balls, and keeps the universe in balance. It wasn’t his wife’s time; but, it was his.

Chapter 15

Final? Thoughts

It is ironic. My stepson’s and friends’ deaths forced me, thrice again, to examine my innermost beliefs about God and religion. I am, again, angry at God. And yet, I find myself turning more toward Him for comfort. But, now my children are turning away from Judaism.

It is my fault. I sent them to a Jewish school, but didn’t believe in what I was teaching them. They sensed the disconnect. I did them a tremendous disservice. Andrew’s suicide provided the impetus for them to express aloud their deep dissatisfaction with religion and God, and they now insist on leaving private school and entering public school next year. They tell me they don’t like being Jewish.

Now I’m ready to consider re-committing myself to my religion. But now my wife and children are, understandably, pulling back. For the past several years, had I requested that we spend our money to a temple, my wife would have been on board. She was interested, willing and ready. Today, she doubts the very existence of God, and she has zero interest in celebrating Him. To the extent she believes, she hates Him. She hates religion. My children don’t believe in God. Who could blame them?

I will be patient for them, and I know that God understands my continued hesitation to a temple. I’m still not yet ready to sing, or to pray out loud.

I’ve found myself attending several religious events – a bris for a friend’s baby, a wedding, a bar mitzvah. I participate in the prayer services, but I can’t sing out loud, and I feel out of place.

I still pray silently, when I’m alone. I pray fervently for the soul of my son to be with Him, Be at peace, Andrew. And, I pray for the eventual happiness of my living children. That Jacob and Zachary might know joy again some day. And that they might find peace with God, and participate in religion when and if they are ready. Amen.

Several people have asked me recently if I’m “religious.” My usual reply is “not at all!” since I don’t attend services on Holidays, nonetheless belong to a synagogue. Lest they assume I’m an atheist, I go on to explain that I believe in God, I love God, but I just don’t believe in religion.

There is no question it felt good to me when I heard my son sing the Four Questions in front of our entire extended family on over – in Hebrew. I cannot deny the pride I felt when my children started to recognize several Hebrew blessings – even if they were merely phonetically repeating syllables with no meaning to them. They understood they were being Jewish by sounding those funny syllables aloud.

Today, after four (4) years in private school, they can read and write Hebrew, understand basic conversational Hebrew, and have a grasp of Jewish holidays, rituals and Torah. At some point, if I should re- synagogue life, my children will at least have a head start and a sense of belonging there.

I pray often these days – but silently, and in private. Fellow Jews ask me if I keep the Sabbath, and I respond negatively, lest they accuse me of lying should they find me out driving to a non-Kosher restaurant on Saturday afternoon. But,

in truth, I believe that I do observe the Sabbath in a spiritual way. I leave work early every Friday. I spend the evening with my children. We say “Shabbat Shalom” to one another, and look forward all week to our Sabbath time together. I turn on lights and watch television. We almost always enjoy challah, which also makes Friday nights different from other nights of the week. Recently, I’ve insisted on reciting the Motzih (traditional blessing before breaking bread) together with my children, who now know the words to this blessing. It is, still, a rote ritual. It has meaning only in the very fact that we are saying and doing something Jewish.

Isn’t this a celebration and observance of the true spirit of Shabbat? Do these celebrations make me “religious?”

I want my children to be Jewish – to identify with the Jewish people, to share a sense of belonging. It pains me to hear my Boobooberry Chop Chop Boy tell me he does not believe in God, and he hates being Jewish. But, I’ve provided him with a foundation, and the ability to make his own choice. Perhaps one day his anger will subside. One day, my family may heal to a degree that we can handle the pains of our losses. On that day, we might our voices in song together with a full congregation in a prayer directed to a God we love. Just not today.

GLOSSARY:

Adonai – A Hebrew word for God. Literally “my master.”

Aleynu – A Jewish prayer often sung aloud at or near the end of most services.

Aliyah – An honor bestowed upon an attendee during Jewish services. Literally, to go up. (Also means to emigrate to Israel.)

Amidah – the central prayer of all Jewish prayer services.

Ashrei – A Jewish psalm written as an alphabetical, acrostic poem.

Av – The 11th Jewish month. The 10th of Av is a Jewish day of mourning memorializing the destruction of the Holy Temple in Jerusalem.

Bar Mitzvah – the celebration of acceptance into manhood of a Jewish male. The first time a Jewish male is called for an Aliyah to the Torah.

Bris – The ceremonial circumcision of a Jewish baby, celebrating the father’s acceptance of the covenant made by Abraham with God to raise the baby Jewish.

D’var Torah – a sermon, usually given by the rabbi at services, explaining or commenting on the weekly portion of the Torah.

Eilat – a resort, beach town in the southern tip of Israel bordering on the Dead Sea.

Elohim – A Hebrew word for God.

Kedusha – A portion of the Amidah during which the congregation stands.

Kippah – a skull cap worn by observant Jews full time, and usually required to be worn on the heads of male attendees during services in most synagogues. Also called a Yarlmukah (Yiddish).

Kol Nidre – The prayer recited (three times) at the beginning of the Yom Kippur Holiday.

Ma’ariv – The evening prayer service

Mikvah – ceremonial, baptismal pool for cleansing.

Minyan – A group of 10 adult, Jewish males. A quorum of 10 is necessary to recite certain prayers.

Mishna – A compilation of the Rabiinic laws of Judaism from the Second Temple Era.

Rebbetzin – The wife of a rabbi.

Shabbos – the Jewish Sabbath, celebrated from sundown Friday through sundown Saturday.

Shacharit – The morning prayer service

Shomer Shabbos – observant of the laws of the Sabbath, e.g., avoidance of work, money, driving, electricity, etc.

Torah – the first five books of the Old Testament, written by a scribe on parchment and rolled, usually covered in fine cloth and decorated with silver crowns.

Tzedakah – charity

Tzitzith – An undergarment with fringes that hang down.

Yarlmukah – a skull cap worn by observant Jews full time, and usually required to be worn on the heads of male attendees during services in most synagogues. Also called a Kippah (Hebrew).

Yortzeit – the memorial candle and prayer recited on the anniversary of the death of departed loved ones.

EPILOGUE:

Tomorrow’s Dreams:

High above the traffic, afloat in the sky, A tiny bird sings its happy lullaby. Below her stand tall buildings, concrete piled high, It’s all surrealistic, and makes me wonder why:

The bird looks down and sees these funny looking trees, With no branches, only ledges, and nothing resembling leaves, Is the bird above me laughing? Does she perceive how man grieves, And dreams of fields and oceans, yet clients to fading memories?

She could fly, visit forests, mountains or island keys, Yet she lingers in this city and sings sweet melodies. She must not share my dreams, so I wonder what she sees?

In my office down on Wall Street, Facing south beyond the land (Though the view is of my neighbor in his urban concrete can) I have come to realize: some dreams I must re-think. Some dreams are never clearly seen, Until the world around them sinks.

The time has ed to notice our funny looking trees, To break the ties with past, and dream tomorrow’s dreams. My heart was broken many times, and I might never understand Why the bird keeps singing. But, we must never quit the band. Thank you for reading my poem.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Joshua Katz, a practicing matrimonial attorney, earned a degree in English literature from the University of Michigan and studied writing at Columbia University. He plays the clarinet professionally, holds tournament rankings in tennis and bridge, and lives in Westchester, New York, with his wife and two surviving children.

ENDNOTES

1 This required a drive to the airport, 2-hour flight to Puerto Rico, propeller plane flight to a remote island and a ferry to the more remote island destination, followed by a bus/taxi to the resort – an 8 hour trip.

2 This required a drive to the auto train, a 17-hour train ride to Washington DC followed by a 4 ½ hour drive to New York – a 23 ½ hour trip (not including the 12-hour train delay they encountered).

3 Elijah’s Journey is a wonderful organization which helps to serve as a voice regarding suicide awareness and prevention in the Jewish community. Learn more at www.facebook.com/ElijahsJourney or www.elijahsjourney.net.

4 As printed in Warren, Rick, “The Purpose Driven Life,” Zondervan, 2002.