On Rosh Hodesh Nissan, twenty five years ago today, there was a snow flurry. It was the first day of spring and I was getting married. I called the chair of the religious school to see if we were going to have to cancel school (and the wedding!). “No”, she answered, “Those are daisy petals from heaven.” Now, you should know that Margaret means daisy pearl, I would be wearing my grandmother Marguerite’s daisy pearl pin and my bouquet was daisies. Those flakes were a perfect greeting for the day.
This week to mark our 25th anniversary, we went to the Community Mikveh in Wilmette to immerse. While I have done a lot with mikveh, even before Mayyim Hayyim, Simon had never immersed. This would be something we would do together, for each other. When we were leaving there were those daisy petals again. A gift from the heavens.

We exchanged gifts that day. I gave him a engraved siddur. He gave me a kayak. Water has always been important to us as a couple.

Rosh Hodesh is the new month, the head of the month, a gift from G-d to the Israelite women who did not contribute their gold to the building of the Golden Calf. In recent years it has been reinvigorated and you can find Rosh Hodesh groups that meet monthly to explore women’s issues, women’s spirituality, to study and to daven. One such group meets at the Western Wall in Jerusalem. I have supported them since their inception in the early 80s. I am proud that one of my professors, Rivka Haut is a founding member. Every month they risk ridicule, bodily harm and arrest for the simple privilege of worshipping at the Western Wall, the holiest site in Judaism. This month I was given two gifts. One, I was chosen to be part of the speaker’s bureau for Women of the Wall. Wow, (pun intended) was I excited and honored. I already did my first engagement–on Rosh Hodesh Nissan for the Sisterhood of Congregation Kneseth Israel. The other is that NO WOMAN was arrested this month at the Wall. Hallelujah! There is much more I could say about gifts and Women of the Wall but I need to write something else, as a gift.

25 years is a long time. Especially in a second marriage. Many people did not think this would work. That I was marrying too young, to the wrong person, that we didn’t have enough money, that taking on his three kids would be too difficult. They were wrong. These have been 25 good years. Not perfect, but good.

My husband is the first person after my year living in Israel that enabled me to know I was lovable–something I still struggle with. He was the person who supported me physically, emotionally and spiritually. He was the one who allowed me to talk about G-d, most notably on a youth group ski trip we were both chaperoning. He was the one who insisted that the dream of becoming a rabbi was not dead or farfetched. He was the one who took care of our daughter while I was traveling on business or in New York at rabbinical school. He was the one who kidnapped me and took me to Bar Harbor, first to climb a mountain for his birthday, then once a quarter, (yes we even skied up Beehive Mountain one winter) then twice when important decisions had to be made. He was the one I sat with on the rocks at Ogunquit and walked the Marginal Way trying to decide how best to finish rabbinical school, whether to be the educational director at Congregation Beth Israel and whether we should move from his beloved mountains and my beloved ocean (and a host of friends and a condo we loved) to become the rabbi of Congregation Kneseth Israel. He is patient. He allows me to be angry. To scream and rant. (Yes, I have been known to do that at home). He allows me to cry.

Tevye sings to Goldie, “Do you love me?” She answers,
“Do I love you?
For twenty-five years I’ve washed your clothes
Cooked your meals, cleaned your house
Given you children, milked the cow
After twenty-five years, why talk about love right now?
For twenty-five years I’ve lived with him
Fought with him, starved with him
Twenty-five years my bed is his
If that’s not love, what is?

They agree that it doesn’t change a thing, but even so. After twenty five years, it’s nice to know. I never milked his cow, I still have to watch my mouth. I still struggle with the law of kindness.  But after twenty five years, I can say proudly and publicly that I love him. And thank you. On to the next twenty five years.

Driving home from the mikveh, there were more daisy petals from the heavens and a rainbow.