The anecdote to my last post and my sermon from Shabbat Chol Mo’ed Sukkot.

To every thing…turn turn turn
There is a season…turn, turn, turn…
And a time for every purpose under heaven…
A time to be born, a time to die…

We know this book. Ecclesiastes, Kohelet. We just read excerpts of it. We know it from popular literature—and music. Shakespeare. Lincoln. Tolstoy. The Byrds. Thomas Wolfe. There is nothing new under the sun, so says Kohelet.

But read on Sukkot? Surprising, no? Here comes this book that seems like such a downer, right in the middle of “the time of our joy.” Why?

They say that every rabbi writes the sermon they need to hear. Since we have been working on Joy for all of the High Holidays, for 40 plus days maybe this is the culmination. See what you think.

The book’s name in English comes from the Greek ekklesiastes, a translation of of Kohelet, meaning something like “one who convenes or addresses an assembly”. In fact, the book’s opening verse tells us that it was written by Solomon in his old age. The rabbis agreed that it was Solomon. This is not the Solomon of his youth when tradition says he wrote Song of Songs. Here, he sounds like an old, cranky, bitter man.  (My husband, older than I am disagrees with that analysis)

Of course, this is Judaism, so there is an alternative reading. That this was written or edited by Hezekiah. The same king who may have also written Isaiah, Proverbs and Song of Songs. Because of the Persian loan words and some Aramaic it cannot be “really” be earlier than 450BCE and since Ben Sira quotes from it in 180 BCE it cannot be later.

And while I get fascinated by the linguistics, I am not sure I really care. This is beautiful and important poetry. Poetry and wisdom we need to wrestle with the meaning.

Why is it read during Sukkot? I think it is like why we recite Yizkor during the Pilgrimage festivals, Sukkot, Passover, Shavuot. At the times of our greatest joys we are keenly aware of those we miss. At a wedding we break a glass to remind us of the sadness we feel, that our world is not yet complete. The Israelites picked up the shattered pieces of the tablets of the 10 Commandments and put them In the Ark to remind them of their dreams not yet fulfilled. Kohelet is like that. We need to remember not to get too caught up in the joy, in the festivities and to carry over the joy we do have to the rest of the year.

We want that sense of joy. We crave the sense, the knowledge that we are loved. Part of the reason this seems like a bitter old man is the translation we use. We just read, “Futility, futility, all is futility.” Other translations, including the one Thomas Wolfe used is “Vanity, vanities.” That doesn’t sound very encouraging.

But what if we go back to the Hebrew. Hevel. Breath. All is breath. That is much more encouraging. Sure, breath seems to flutter away. It was a cold morning. Who saw their their breath today? I hope so! It’s a good thing. My mother, she had COPD, a chronic lung disease. Every breath was precious. She even had a t-shirt, “Remember to breathe.” Breath is life. Breath is G-d. Breath is everything. Without breath, there is no life. No ability to praise G-d.

Our liturgy is filled with these connections to breath. Elohai neshama… O my God, the soul which You have given me is pure. You breathed it into me.

Kol haneshma, Let every living soul, everything that has breath praise G-d. Nishmat kol chai, The soul of every living being shall bless Your Name,

So we are going to take a couple of minutes and do something different. We are going to concentrate on that breath and the sukkah. I have taken a guided meditation by Shimona Tzukernik who writes for Chabad.org and expanded it to emphasize breath. So sit comfortably.

Close your eyes. Breathe in deeply. Breathing in, breathing out. It is a cold morning. You can see your breath. Notice it float away. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in love. Breathe out stress. Everything is breath.

U-lekachtem lachem ba-yom ha-rishon pri eitz hadar, kappot temarim, va-anaf eitz avot, ve-arvei nachal

“You shall take for yourselves on the first day of Sukko) the magnificent fruit of a tree, the fruit of a a goodly tree, what we call an etrog, together with the leaf of a date palm, fragrant boughs myrtle and willows of the brook.” (Leviticus 23:40)

Imagine that you are sitting in a sukkah. Its walls are panels of fragrant wood. On the floor beneath you dance patterns of light and shade, cast by the sechach, the scented roof of leaves above your head. Take another deep breath. Imbibe the peace within your sukkah’s walls. Ufros aleinu sukkat shlomecha. God spreads over you a gentle sense of peace. Breathe in that peace.

The sechach, the roof through which you can see the sun, the moon, the stars, is a shadow cast by a heavenly tree. It is ancient, wide, alive. Nestled within the inner branches, you notice a fruit—a citron, an etrog. It is the heart within the heart of the Tree of Life, and pulsates with G‑d’s infinite love—for you.

You long to internalize this love. Breathe in deeply. Feel your spine stretch and open. Sit up straight and tall. It is the shape of a palm frond, a lulav. Its pointed tip tapers beyond you, transcending your rational mind, reaching above you, beyond the sechach, into the heart of the tree. Feel the point quiver as the lulav and etrog make contact. G‑d’s love begins to flow down your lulav-spine: downward between your shoulder blades, down, down to its base of your spine, Breathe in that love.

You feel the warmth of that love at the base of your spine. The love begins to rise up. Radiating. Filling you. It reaches your heart. Look inward at the ventricles of your heart, the corners you reserve for love and hatred, forgiveness and grudges, abundance and stinginess; surrender your need to control the myriad emotions of life to a Higher Being, to the Divine Being, to the Shechinah. Feel the love of the lulav penetrates your heart, as it pieces your heart, your very soul. It awakens you to your higher self. It allows you to let go of the pockets of darkness you use in defense of your ego-I. The darkness gives way to light and love . . .

Your heart has become one. Whole. Complete. It too is an etrog pulsating with love—for G‑d, for the G‑dly spark within your soul and for the world. Joy surfaces as this hidden, innate love is released. Breathe in that wholeness, that sense of peace

The love and joy flow outwards, filling your lungs, enabling you to breathe deeply. Rising upward toward your mouth. Your lips are the shape of a willow leaf. Silent leaves fluttering on the winds of love and joy. You have no need to speak; simply being bespeaks the loftiness of your soul.

The energy flows ever upwards, entering your eyes and seeping into the center of your forehead. Illuminated myrtle eyes. Take a moment to envision your life through the lens of abundance and joy. Observe the way you awaken in the morning, interact with others, the way you pray and play when drenched in love and joy.

Elohai neshoma. The soul that You, O God have given me is pure. You breathed it into me.

Sit in your sukkah, spray of etrog, palm, willow and myrtle. You are in a circle of love; you are a bouquet of joy. Breathe in that sense of love, joy, peace, hope. Everything is breath. It is not futile. It is not vain.

Last Sunday I started a blog post that I didn’t yet share. I will now, with some edits since then. For 40 days and then some we have written about joy. For 35 years I have tried to find joy during Sukkot. This is yet again not that year.

The sukkah is up. It is quiet in the house. Sukkot has begun. The quiet is a welcome respite.

This Sukkot is unlike any other. It always comes just 5 days after Yom Kippur, barely giving rabbis and congregants a chance to catch our breaths.

This year was no exception to that. Since taking off my white robe on Wednesday, we’ve had two Shabbat services, Hebrew School out at Pushing the Envelope Farm with 3 other synagogues, Sukkah building and brownie baking. Even a baby naming, definitely one of the best parts of my job as a rabbi.

Then the Crop Walk together with local churches to support our soup kettles and food panties, Church World Service and American Jewish World Service. I was asked to pray at the beginning of the walk.

It was a nice honor. I talked about the walkers being our harvest, our crop and I tied it into Sukkot. I reminded people that the harvest starts with a seed, some sun and water, a little hope. And I taught Ufros Aleinu Sukkat Shlomecha. Spread over us the shelter, the sukkah of Your peace. One of my favorite songs. Because peace, like a sukkah is so fragile.

Then we walked. Mighty humid for a mid-October day. The car thermometer read 79 when I got back to it. This is the kind of work I do all the time. Build bridges between people. Create safe, non-judgmental spaces. This is the kind of work I love to do.

When I finally got home it was time to get our own sukkah up. But shalom bayit, peace in the house is hard to maintain. It’s up. But not without some fights at the house. This may seem odd to you who know me.

On Friday morning I was honored with a Partner in Peace award by the Community Crisis Center. It seems like a lifetime achievement award. For 35 years I have worked for peace and for safety of women everywhere. The fact that it is almost Sukkot adds to the joy and pride that I feel with this award. Listening to my own biography brought me to tears and I was speechless when I began to make my speech. I speak in public all the time. It is part of the job of rabbi and teacher. So I was surprised when I forgot what I was planning to say. I wanted to tell people there that while I received the award, I don’t do this work in a vacuum. It represents the work so many of us have put in to make the lives of women better, safer. And I really mean that. This award is a group award.

Instead, I told a piece of my story. And why I do the work that I do.

You see, 35 years ago, on the very day I received this unexpected award, on the 2nd Night of Sukkot, which would be Monday this year, I became one of the 1 in 4. One in four women who are sexually assaulted at some point in their lifetime. That was me.

I have read this past week that every woman has their story or one or two or three. And it is not OK.

• It is not OK that I was gang raped on a kibbutz while celebrating Sukkot, the harvest festival, known as the time of our great joy.
• It is not OK that as part of this election cycle we have been subjected to discussions of “locker room banter” that is anything but locker room talk, having spent lots of time in locker rooms as a woman athlete and as a sports journalist.
• It is not OK that men in power think they have the right to do anything to any woman they want, because they have power or money or celebrity.
• It is not OK that some worry about transgender people will attack some unsuspecting woman in a bathroom, when in fact, the statistics are precisely the opposite. Trans people worry that they will be the ones attacked. I was attacked just outside a bathroom because I went into that bathroom.
• It is not OK to joke about sexual assault.
• It is still not OK.

I have spent the next 35 years dealing with it. And sometimes not dealing with it. And I still deal with it. And it is still not OK.

I have worked on it by working for women and girls everywhere.

• I have been a domestic violence and rape counselor in Boston.
• I have worked to end gun violence, all the way back to the Million Mom March
• I have worked for peace in the Middle East
• I have served on the Jewish Domestic Violence Taskforce in Massachusetts.
• I allowed my story to be told as part of a film made by Bimah at Brandeis students about Mayyim Hayyim, the Community Mikveh and Education Center in Boston which has been instrumental to my healing.
• I chair the Faith Committee of the Family Violence Coordinating Council for the 16th and 23rd Circuit Courts here in Illinois.
• I have partnered with the Community Crisis Center and the Long Red Line—One Billion Rising.
• I even wrote part of my rabbinic thesis on domestic violence.

And none of it is enough. If people continue to joke about sexual assault, none of it is enough. If people will not believe survivors, then none of it is enough. If people continue to think that rape culture is funny or isn’t real, then none of it is enough.

When this first happened to me, I was told not to talk about it, because there was shame attached with being a rape victim. Newspapers didn’t print victims names for that reason. That is slowly changing by each individual the survivor’s choice. We, as survivors, get to choose how we tell our story and when. And I know that for me there is always a personal risk and cost, that I have learned how to manage over the years.

This past week has been brutal. I thought I had worked through most of it. Over and over and over again. I have had very good counseling and a very good network of friends and a wonderful support team at home. The news this week about sexual assault has been troubling at best. Triggering at worst. It has no place in the election. The worst, for me, was a high school classmate claiming, joking on Facebook that he was assaulted by Hillary. He may not be a Hillary supporter. He may support Trump. As I told him, those are his rights in this democracy. But joking about sexual assault is not funny.

There are now 9 women as of this writing that have come forward to claim that Donald Trump made unwanted sexual advances. He claims he didn’t know them or that they fabricated their stories or that they were put up to it by the Clinton campaign or that they simply were not attractive enough. Those are not acceptable responses. Those responses are a blame the victim (or anyone else) stance.

Some have never told their stories before. They are not unlike Holocaust survivors or army veterans. They wondered who would believe them and if they would they be vilified in the press.

I am like Michelle Obama. These events have shaken me to my core. This is not the world I want for my children and grandchildren. This is not the world that I have worked tirelessly for.

I can no longer remain silent. I cannot be silent.

I liked the meme that was posted by a friend who is a Church of the Brethren pastor months ago.
“They came for the Mexicans and I didn’t speak up I wasn’t a Mexican. They came for the Muslims and I didn’t speak up because I wasn’t a Muslim. They came for the disabled and I didn’t speak up, I wasn’t disabled.” It is based on a Niemoeller quote that I used as part of my Yom Kippur sermon on the power of speech.

I didn’t post it at the time, because I am a congregational rabbi and I am not allowed to tell people from the pulpit who to vote for. I worried about each of those groups and worked quietly behind the scenes. I couldn’t find my voice. I felt paralyzed. Then I felt ashamed for being late to the debate. As I type those sentences I realize that is the feeling that many sexual assault victims have.

I can no longer be late to this debate. I can no longer feel paralyzed. I can no longer remain silent.

I have watched the election get more and more heated. More and more bizarre. I live in a neighborhood with Confederate flags, one nearly on my block that I see every day. I wonder what they are teaching their children in that house. I helped take down a Nazi flag at a flea market that was being sold as “war memorabilia” by a documented white supremacist. I spoke up quietly and behind the scenes.

But now, they came for the women and now I have to speak up. I cannot remain silent any more. I am one of the one in four.

There have been moments of peace this Sukkot. We have enjoyed warm weather, lots of meals in our sukkah and guests. But this is not yet the time of my joy.

I pray that the taste of blood disappears again but fear it will not until after the election. I pray that one day I can truly sit in my sukkah and none will make me afraid. Unfortunately, that night isn’t tonight. This is not yet, the time of my great joy.

Our next guest blogger, Ken Hillman, has become a dear friend. He had a student in our religious school. He now teaches in that very religious school, serves on the education committee, the prayerbook subcommittee and chairs our tikkun olam committee. He and I often spend Sunday mornings on our way to the synagogue, debating the issues of the day—global, national or very local. Recently he attended a KickStart training session where he had the opportunity to study with master liturgist and poet Alden Solovny. What Ken’s poem is really talking about is finding joy in belonging, in having friends:

I’m in.

I am here and I am in.
This was just not some arbitrary accident of birth nor rationalizing my sense of worth
Nor a flimsy tentative act of faith shaken by scientific evidence of the age of the earth.
Taking action for a friend who wants me to transcribe the reasons why even though I know not what tribe…

I’m in.

I’m in
the stories I’m in the  book
Im in the history
I’m in my goodly tents
Chosen and blessed
And blessed and Cursed

I’m lost but I know where I am

I’m here.

I’m here.
I’m here and it’s quiet

The outside quiet broken up by the staccato sounds of life and ritual, The musical cacaphony quietly blanketing The insanely loud sound of nothingness… it is the quiet of the nothingness that I fear. Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow nothingness I will fear no nothingness… but I search for somethingness something something I cannot concentrate/it’s just too quiet in here

It’s quiet
It’s quiet and I am afraid.
I am afraid that my nothingness speak up and expose me. I am afraid that might unmask show itself to be emptiness. I am afraid of emptiness.

I am afraid
i am afraid but I am not alone
I open my eyes and I see it is always light.
I look around and see my fight

To keep my nothingness from turning into emptiness

I find myself surrounded by those with whom I share
My journey my searching my soul to bare
I adorn myself in ritual and find myself rising above the din

Nothingness.

I’m in

I’m here and I’m in

Ken Hillman

Yesterday the Rev. Denise Tracy spoke about the unending joy she feels from when she first met each of her three adopted children. Frequently someone will say to a new mother, “Don’t you just love them when they are an infant, or one or two.” Or something like, “Enjoy them now. Just wait.” My husband usually argues with the speaker saying that he enjoys each of his children at whatever age they are right now. He would never want a child, any child but especially his children (now adults) to not develop into their full potential. He enjoyed each stage.

• Diaper changing, middle of the night feedings and those first smiles
• The terrible twos and all those nos.
• First moments of school and the excitement of learning new things
• Early morning battles over what to wear and getting out on time for a bus
• Growing independence, the ultimate goal
• Reading books that the child loved
• Long discussions in the car on important topics
• Off to college and coming home to celebrate holidays
• Sharing articles and photos and quick notes via Facebook or email
• Spending time hiking or cooking

Perhaps the greatest thing has been watching the now adults want to make the world a better place. Earlier this week you may have read our daughter Sarah’s take on that. And we are so very proud of her real desire to match her career with wanting to help others.

We raised them that way. It is probably fair to say that I married my husband because of his strong commitment to social justice. Which is something he got in his household and at his temple, Congregation Sinai in Chicago. The Reform Movement has been known for its commitment to ethics and social action. This commitment is my husband’s passion. It is not uncommon for us to serve at a soup kitchen, run a children’s program at a family shelter, build a house with Habitat for Humanity, be leaders of a Girl Scout troop, rebuild a hiking trail, build a playground. Almost everything we do “for fun” has been one kind of project. Even starting the Merrimack Valley Project, a community organizing model, on our dining room table was fun. And it provided a group of lifelong friends, laughter and a chance to do real advocacy on issues we were passionate about. Jobs, hunger, homelessness, fire protection, grocery stores and food deserts.

Sometime during rabbinical school there was an article that came out in Time or Newsweek about the spirituality of America. Turns out about 90% of America believed in G-d. But how we acted out our spirituality differed greatly. One way on the list was serving at a soup kitchen. I had never thought of it as spiritual. It was just something we did because it was the right thing to do. I never thought of serving at soup kitchen as something that brought me joy. It was just something we did because it was the right thing to do. But it does. Time after time after time.

Today’s guest blogger is the Reverend Denise Tracy who is the president of the Coalition of Elgin Religious Leaders (CERL) and a retired Unitarian Universalist minister. She has consulted with the Alban Institute and is active in many local social justice causes. However, her greatest joy came from the first meeting of each of her children. Here is her story:

I have traveled to:

•  Egypt, where I climbed one of the small sister pyramids and did Tai Chi as the sun rose and the moon set,
• Israel, where hidden in waving grasses of Capernaum, the foundation of an ancient church hid in the meadow,
• Delphi, where the mist rose as we climbed and temples appeared and disappeared in a hush of mystery.

But of all the mountains I have climbed and countries I have visited, I have found unending joy in the meetings of the three creatures who became my children.

Our first child was born in Thailand and we had to wait two and half years to travel to fetch her.  Our gestation was longer than that of a whale. When we went into the adoption agency to meet her for the first time, after years of pictures and reports, they led us down a flight of stairs, and there she was, dark hair shining, playing with a set of plastic vegetables, placing them on a pink plate ready to feed her baby doll. I stood on the stairs, quietly, viewing the child that I had waited so impatiently to meet. I realized in that moment that for this I had hungered my entire life.  I was to be her mother.  When I sat next to her and she climbed into my lap, I breathed in her hair, my spirit rejoiced. When she turned the crank on the little music box that played “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” and I began to sing to her, her eyes opened wide and she hugged me, I thought I would never again feel such joy.

Our second child was waiting for us in a crippled children’s home. She was 14. Hands, feet and legs crippled by DDT ingested by her field worker mother.   Beautiful face and the report said adaptive skills- excellent.  We went to Thailand to meet her and bring her home.  She had 600 brothers and sisters, in the orphanage that had been her home for 12 years. When we arrived at the Crippled Children’s home, all 600 children were gathered in the courtyard to see the people who were taking their sister away to America. 600 children. Some were missing arms, legs, faces. Some were lying on little wheeled platforms, using stumps of arms to support themselves. Crutches, wheel chairs, all varieties of handicaps. When we entered the doorway, all of the children rose as high as they could, if they could and each one bowed to us, showing us tender respect. We were adopting one of their family, giving a home to their sister. I started to cry. Our daughter stepped into the courtyard across from us and shyly walked toward us, as the other children bowed and watched. When our daughter reached us, she placed her hands together and bowed. We bowed in return. Love abounds. Alleluia!

Our third child was a relative’s child. The mother was a crack addict and prostitute, who had given birth to a crack addicted baby boy.  She failed drug tests and lost custody. We received a call asking if we would like to adopt him.  We said yes and asked if we could meet him, before making the final commitment. We put our daughters on the school bus and drove three hours to meet this13 month old boy.  We played with him, fed him green beans. He was woefully behind developmentally. Hardly crawling, no words, hands crunched into fists because of the cocaine in his system.  He was all blond hair and blue eyes…After three hours the social worker was to take him back to his foster placement. As she reached for him, he shrugged her off, grabbed my husband’s pant leg, pulled himself to almost standing, let go with one hand, reached up, looked at my husband and said in a voice clear as a bell, “DaDa”.  In the silence our tears fell. “Looks like he is yours.” And he was. Whoopee!

The moments of meeting our children are those minutes that imprinted in me a sense of unending wonder and joy.  When they were teenagers or when we were called to school for some disciplinary issue or when we were creating some plan for each of them to overcome their unique handicaps (for they all were considered special needs), I would remember the moment of meeting, that wellspring of wonder and my heart would ease.

There is so much to be happy about. But true joy sits quietly in the heart and waits until the weight of the world can be born no more. Then it quietly rises like the light of the sun at dawn.  Joy appears from the corners of our lives and heals us and gives us hope.

There is so much to be happy about. But true joy sits quietly in the heart and waits until the weight of the world can be born no more. Then it quietly rises like the light of the sun at dawn.  Joy appears from the corners of our lives and heals us and gives us hope.

Our next guest blogger is my own daughter, Sarah Klein. She is a corporate trainer, a Jewish educator, a great writer and deep thinker. She loves to run…and I love running with her. I can’t begin to say how very proud of her I am. Here are her words:

A couple years ago I came across a project called 100 days of happiness. It helps you to track things that make you happy as well as being conscious that there is happiness in every day. The goal is to find something that makes you happy everyday for 100 days and document it through pictures. I’ve tried it from time to time a few times now and I have never completed the challenge.

But, there are still important things that I have learned from it. First and foremost, there is happiness in the everyday. I love the smell of crisp fall air or leaves crunching under my feet on a long walk. Many people love their pumpkin spice lattes, but I think there is nothing better than taking a sip of the first salted caramel mocha of the season. Clearly, my happy thoughts are in autumn right now. But, they can be anything. A beautiful flower can brighten my day. My sweet sister making me a special breakfast puts a smile on my face. My niece looking up to me and wanting to spend time with me is truly a gift. I love the silly faces my puppy makes when he is on a mission to hunt a squirrel or a fly or in desperate need of a belly rub. The list could go on and on with what makes me happy. And I hope that is true for all of us. I challenge everyone reading this to try 100 days of happiness. In fact, writing this is making me want to give it another go.

For me though, joy and happiness are very separate things. Joy is much deeper. It’s not the fleeting moment of my salted caramel mocha or laughing at Jimmy Fallon on the Tonight Show. That is happiness, but I don’t think it’s joy. Joy is more than a moment; it’s a way of life. And I think unfortunately many people miss it. Joy can be different for everyone and I am lucky I know what it is for me. The way I find joy is through helping others. Between my happy moments that is what fulfills me, satisfies me, keeps me going. For me that is joy. I am lucky enough that I get to experience that in a few ways.

When I was in high school, I started teaching religious school. I’m not going to sit here and pretend I had a great passion for teaching at the time. That’s not to say I didn’t like it, but at the time it was a way to make money while in high school. I had friends who worked at local ice cream shops, others who had retail jobs. I taught. Over the year, I became a better teacher and I really started to love teaching. I love when my students get that “ah-ha” moment after they’ve struggled with something. I love being able to help people grow and change and learn. It’s something that developed over time. And, it is something I bring into my professional life as a corporate trainer. In training, I get to help people learn and achieve their potential. It’s a great feeling at the end of the day to know I have made a difference in someone else’s life. When training or teaching, I get to do that. And that is my version of joy.

There are so many ways to help people. Helping makes me feel as good as the people I’m helping. Even if that is a clichéd sentiment, it still reigns true. Another way I have been able to help people is through my running journey. My running path started with my first half marathon, the Disney Princess Half Marathon. Anyone reading this who knows me knows Disney makes me happy so this race was a natural choice.

But, I’m not talking about happiness right now; I’m talking about joy. The joy of this race for me was running this race with my mother as we raised money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. For me this was a perfect example of joy. I was able to do things that make me happy –running (endorphins and all,) spending time with my mom, doing something healthy, and completing a challenge. But, I also was able to make a difference in the lives of people with Leukemia and Lymphoma and that was the most special part for me as I crossed the finish line. Since then I have crossed many finish lines including one for my first full marathon. Did I have fun at all of those events? Sure. It’s been a blast completing some of my personal fitness goals.

Lately, there has been something missing on my running journey though. It’s the helping people. So now, I’m back at it again. This year my mom and I are raising money for an organization extremely close to my heart, Children’s Miracle Network Hospitals. We are again running the Disney Princess Half Marathon as well as a 5k and a 10k that weekend. For anyone out there keeping track that’s 22.4 miles for Children’s Miracle Network Hospitals. So why is this so special to me and why does it bring me joy?

I was a patient at a Children’s Miracle Network Hospital (Boston Children’s Hospital.) As part of my battle with chronic daily migraine, I was diagnosed with Lyme Disease at BCH in 2002. Having a constant headache and Lyme Disease is not something I talk much about, but both are an important part of my story. CMNH is very personal for me not only because I was a patient, but also because I have friends and family who have been patients. There is a quote that really stuck with me recently I found on Pinterest of all places. Stephanie Sparkles says, “I love when people that have been through hell walk out of the flames carrying buckets of water for those still consumed by the fire.” I’ve been a sick kid so I understand how children and families going through similar things feel. I still struggle with my illness as an adult, but there is never a day that I let it stop me or beat me. I want to be a light for sick kids, a sign of hope that there can be a bright future. I want to show kids that are in CMNH that they can do anything including running 22.4 miles and get their happily ever afters. That brings me joy. So check out my fundraising page, considering donating. Maybe it will bring you happiness or joy, but at minimum it will definitely help others.

http://princesshalfmarathon.childrensmiraclenetworkhospitals.org/index.cfm?fuseaction=donorDrive.participant&participantID=2756

Having our dear friends here for part of the weekend was wonderful. It provided a Sabbath of the soul which was all too needed. We laughed, played, had deep conversations late into the night.

One of those deep conversations was about work. What is it about work that we like? That is fun? That brings us joy?

Rabbi Jeffrey Salkin wrote a book, Being G-d’s Partner, How to Find the Hidden Link between Spirituality and Your Work. I always keep an extra copy in my office. It is that good. I love the story in his introduction about the moving men who packed his house with such care, with such joy. They had found the spirituality in their work. The book is like a What Color is Your Parachute for Jews, for anyone really.

He addresses finding a career that is right for you. He addresses how to be spiritual at work. Balancing the work-life in this modern world. He addresses Leviticus 19 as the ultimate business ethics exam.

I am fortunate. I have found a job and a career that brings me joy. Yet I struggled to express it in that conversation. So here is my answer.

• It brings me joy when the house is full for dinner on Shabbat, when there is good food, good conversation and singing. When people can experience the joy of Shabbat.
• It brings me joy when I can help a family celebrate a life cycle event, meeting them where they are, whether it is welcoming a new baby, studying with a Bar/Bat Mitzvah student, planning a wedding, or visiting someone in the hospital.
• It brings me joy when I teach our young students and their eyes light up and they put the pieces together.
• It brings me joy when I teach on Shabbat morning or at adult study, when people see the connections between our ancient tradition and our modern world.
• It brings me joy when I reach out to one of our “senior-seniors” and listen to what they are reading and make them a little less lonely.
• It brings me joy when I am able to reach out beyond the synagogue and work on the issues illustrated in that business ethics exam. When I welcome the widow, the orphan, the stranger. When I feed the hungry, clothe the naked, house the homeless.
• It brings me joy to hang out at a local coffee shop and have more of those deep conversations, with congregants or those interested in learning more about Judaism.

I am not sure that it is a full list. And it is a complex job that it is fair to say is not always fun. However, I am, indeed, very very fortunate. How does work bring you joy?

The next guest blogger is Suzy Zemel, our Sisterhood president and good friend. She works tirelessly on behalf of the synagogue. She is on the board, the education committee and sings in the choir and house band. She coordinates our book group. She is always willing to try something new. This is her first (recent) attempt at poetry:

The Many Sources of Joy

Joy, so many ideas come to mind…

A baby’s laughter makes us smile,
So contagious to hear,
We laugh at the baby’s delight.

Singing, brings delight and joy,
A beautiful piece of music,
Marveling at the teamwork,
Composer and lyricist created.

Cuddling my grandsons,
Laughing and reading together,
Sharing their secret thoughts,
An impulse hug and kiss.

Enjoying a great book,
Not wanting to stop,
Needing to turn to the next page,
Finding out how it ends.

Spring: everything comes alive,
Daffodils and tulips opening,
Such a great source of joy.

Isn’t it amazing,
Year after year,
Plants and animals wake,
Knowing how to proceed,
After the long winter months.

The many colors appear in the sky,
The majestic sunrise,
The sun setting in a grand finale for the day,
The sky turning different shades of blue,
With an abundance of clouds,
Passing and changing formation.
The beauty of a rainbow,
Which seems to just magically appears.

Loving and being loved,
What a great joy.

Giving and helping others,
Support for mankind.

Watching our children graduate,
Joy for them and to us,
As they move on to their next phase of life.

Creating a delicious meal,
Tantalizing smells throughout the house,
Beautiful colors and display,
Mouth watering in anticipation of the taste.

Feeling a baby kick for the first time,
Becoming a parent,
Excitement,
Then sleep deprivation.

Enjoying the company of friends and family,
Laughter, good times,
Making memories that stay in our heart,
The friends that becomes our family.

The feeling I have,
As Shabbat begins,
The peaceful feeling,
Enjoying Shabbat service,
Feeling more peace and joy.

And my list goes on…

Suzy Venetianer Zemel

Sometimes joy seems to be elusive. Sometimes joy seems to be impossible. This can be particularly true after a death of a loved one. In our congregation, we had a number of members lose close relatives this year. A mother, a father, a spouse, a grandchild. All the deaths were painful. There is no timeline on grief. It affects people in different ways on different days. It is an ongoing process. And despite Kubler-Ross’s excellent work, it is not linear. You can go into grief and come back out and go back in again. Maybe further down the path, maybe not. Two steps forward, one back.

But sometimes, slowly, step by step we return. Eventually to joy. This poem expresses that:

To Alyssa, Whose Mother’s Funeral Was Yesterday

“When will I be myself again?”
Some Tuesday, perhaps,
In the late afternoon,
Sitting quietly with a cup of tea
And a cookie;
Or Wednesday, same time or later,
You will stir from a nap and see her;
You will pick up the phone to call her;
You will hear her voice – unexpected advice –
And maybe argue.
And you will not be frightened,
And you will not be sad,
And you will not be alone,
Not alone at all,
And your tears will warm you.
But not today,
And not tomorrow,
And not tomorrow’s tomorrow,
But some day,
Some Tuesday, late in the afternoon,
Sitting quietly with a cup of tea
And a cookie
And you will be yourself again
Lewis Eron

Sometimes joy comes in doing things again and again. That is part of the function of ritual. It provides structure and tradition. A sense of the possible. A way of doing things that is familiar. They comfort us. Ground us. Provided roots. Connect us to our past and our future.

As we approach Rosh Hashanah there are many traditions in our family. Picking apples so we can make applesauce for Chanukah tying the seasons together. Inviting guests for dinner. Blowing shofar on the second morning of Rosh Hashanah at sunrise, preferably on a beach. Spending the second afternoon outdoors contemplating Thoreau’s statement, “I went to the woods to live deliberately.”

These simple things add a richness and meaning to the observance and I look forward to them. Yesterday we had the opportunity to return to a place here in Illinois that brings us joy. We went back to Anderson Gardens, where we had been earlier in the month. We got to share this very special place with our friends Dave and Betty.

And we were treated to some new things. A heron. Two turtles. A bald eagle soaring high overhead. A closer look at the guest house. Such attention to detail. Good conversation. A sense of peace and contentment. A return to joy.

Maybe that is what teshuvah, return, is about. Not repentance per se, but return to joy, return to wholeness.

Today’s guest blogger is the Reverend Doctor David R. Ferner. He and his wife Betty trekked out to Illinois to celebrate part of the holidays with us and to help us prepare. We go way back. Their daughter babysat for ours. We celebrated all sorts of holidays together. We played volleyball together. Now, we pick up conversations now exactly where we left off. Oh, yeah, and usually I say, it is because of Dave’s words to me once, that I actually did become a rabbi.

Here are his words:

JOY . . . A MATTER OF ATTITUDE AND ORIENTATION

I’m certain that I am being arbitrary and playing semantic games, but the challenge is to write about joy or happiness, but I don’t see them as the same. For the sake of argument, I would define happiness as being a momentary and probably fleeting feeling. Joy, on the other hand, is a deeper orientation toward life. Happiness can emerge from an incident, an expression of love from another, a feeling of satisfaction, or any number of experiences. Joy has more to do with a spiritual depth of overall contentment with one’s place in the cosmos and a sense that setbacks or hardships are momentary or situational and have no or simply passing effect on an overall stance toward life.

We seek happiness in all sorts of ways, often unsatisfactory in the long run. In our society we are encouraged to always seek the bigger and better. We need to have the most or, at least, more than whoever we are comparing ourselves to. More love, more toys, more prestige, more power, are all part of our striving. Achievement along this often insatiable path brings fleeting happiness resulting from our accomplishment. When asked if we are happy, it often depends on our current mood or recent events we have experienced.

Joy needs to be cultivated. If we awaken in the morning and are grateful for a new day, even when we know it might be challenging, we are cultivating joy. If we understand ourselves to be children of a Creator who loves us even more than a healthy mother loves her children and that love brings us an overall sense of well-being, we are cultivating joy. When we stop comparing ourselves with others and, rather, cheer the accomplishments of all – that is, in a non-competitive fashion – we are cultivating joy. When we are viewing the world, not in either/or but in a both/and fashion, we are laying the groundwork for being contented with the ‘what is’ rather than the ‘the way I think it is supposed to be’ and joy is being cultivated within us.

There is no ‘joy’ pill we can take. When I observe children with their sense of awe and wonder I see expressions of enormous joy – of heartfelt expressions of amazement and absolute exhilaration at discovery. Before we leave the primary grades in school, intense competitiveness and disappointment at failure saps joy from us. But some I know seem to have cultivated an attitude of joy – found it or, rather, re-found it. When I’ve asked about this attitude, one friend told me she doesn’t see how any other orientation would serve her well. “I take what comes, make the most of it, and give thanks for my blessings”. Another told me “I awaken thankful for a new day and pray that I might find a way to make someone’s life better today.” I might add that he has had a rough bunch of health challenges in recent years with no change in this orientation.

Those who exude joy – have such an attitude and orientation – seem to consider life to be a gift. They seem ‘other’ oriented – God, the mysterious and holy Other, and other humans. They often mention prayer, especially the quiet and reflective sort, as significant. Joy requires some reflection and some discipline, it seems to me. To have such an orientation is so much more deeply rewarding than chasing after fleeting happiness. It is such a gift to others to be around those who have cultivated joy.