My address to my M.A. ED. Community:

This week’s parshah speaks of many different facmous biblical stories. It begins with the messengers visiting Abraham in his tent after his circumcision. From this event, we can derive the most basic sense of what Bikur Cholim, visiting the sick is. We visit those who need healing, hoping to lift their spirits. For Abraham, this event took place shortly after he made a journey to a new land, an unknown land. Abraham was experiencing the world anew, alone, and these visitors became his momentary community.

This section of the parshah speaks to me, I am like Abraham. 10 weeks ago, many of you spent the week getting to know one another on a new journey, making new community, experiencing and taking in this exciting new year. 10 weeks ago, while this was happening, I was sitting in my father’s hospital room. Raw after a month of mourning for my grandfather, scared. On July 22^nd, my papa passed away, a great loss to me. 4 days later, during his Shiva, my father lead mincha, what was to be his last conscious act, and then was rushed into the ICU in septic shock. 10 weeks ago, I sat at his bedside, waiting for the breathing machine to be taken away, praying for him to heal, and knowing he probably wouldn’t, I spent 60 hours at his bedside, watching him, talking to him, holding him and waiting. 10 weeks ago, while you were beginning this journey, coming back to a familiar place, my world was jolted and torn apart, I spent the week mourning the loss of my father, my teacher, my best friend.

9 weeks ago, I came back to LA, back to school, but to a new community, on a new journey. Many of you only know me as I am today, a mourner, broken, lost, scared. And with all that was happening in our world, life went on, and I went on carrying the grief in my heart. I want to share with you just a little bit about where I am at, and propose a few ways to help me.

I am a mourner, when my daddy died I not only lost my father, but I lost my teacher, my best friend. He was my partner, my pair in the family, my support when I needed help solving a challenge. I am here, but I feel alone. Many mornings, it takes all my energy and faith to get out of bed and make it to minyan and school. Some days, I just want to cry all day, but I don’t, because I have to go on. And then I learn all of these incredible theories, models, frameworks, and I pick up the phone to call my father, and then I remember, he won’t answer.

I stand here, and most of you only a few minutes ago began to hear just a sliver of what I was going through and continue to carry with me when I arrived here. 10 weeks is too long to not talk. We are here because we are going to be Jewish leaders, make a difference, educate. One of my father’s most important lessons for me is that I can learn and teach from every moment in life. This tragedy, this pain, this loss for me can help each of us.

In many ways, I feel alone because no one here knows me. So, here is your permission, and a request- ask me how I am, ask me about my father, about my mourning practices. If you want to know about my dad, what happened, anything, I am more than happy to share, the gifts of his life and the challenges of his health. I need a little pushing and pulling, and I need help. My journey through my father’s illnesses lasted 7 years, but throughout that time, He was my number one fan, my confidante and my best friend, He taught me so much about myself and the world, and It is so hard to go on without him.

I very much hope that this is not the end of the conversation, but the beginning. I hope to share with you my journey, and help each of us grow into the leaders we will be one day. My daddy always taught me to make the best of the situation, everything can be learned from, and most of all that his memory should be for a blessing. His life was about people, helping people, caring for people and talking with people. I hope we can talk. I hope I can share the blessings of his life, and my blessings of having him in my life with you.

Let us learn from Abraham and the messengers. Help me heal, grow and move forward so that I too can enjoy this wonderful journey.

My Address to the Rabbinical School Minyan:

Lech Lecha,

This week, we read about Abraham, the famous story. As Debbie Friedman puts it: “To a land that I will show you, to a place you do not know…” and it goes on. Every year as I read this parshah I am compelled to look at a journey, my journey, where am I going, why am I going there.

This year, the journey that I am on is very different than last, and much more difficult. As most of you know, My father passed away 60 days ago tomorrow. The journey that I am on this year is painful, is new, is lonely. As my dad blessed me two years ago on Shabbat lech lecha “As Avram is commanded to make his journey into an unknown future may you continue on your own journey. But unlike Avram you know that you do not travel alone – that you have the love and support of family, friends, so many people and clergy from shul and k’lal Yisrael.”

On all my other journeys, I went with the support of my father, my grandfather, who also passed away 28 days before my father, my family. This year, I am journeying without my pillars of strength into an unknown land.

And, although the place is familiar, the journey is new. And on this journey, I find myself experiencing new things, new feelings, and new spaces. Many of you I have just met, and only know me as I am now, a mourner, Many of you don’t know my story, don’t’ know about my father, the man I am mourning so very deeply. This community feels new, even foreign sometimes.

One of my father’s favorite Mishnayot in Perkei Avot states: SEPARATE NOT YOURSELF FROM THE COMMUNITY” and yet, here, I find myself on many occasions separating myself from our community, or unintentionally feeling like an outsider. So, I’d like to take just a few minutes to share with you some things I have been feeling, noticing, and needing to tell you. This is me, as I stand here today.

1. Kaddish: One of the hardest parts of my day is saying the kaddish. I often feel like the “Last Man Standing,” alone in the room. When I have thought about Kaddish before, I always envisioned being with a Kaddish Minyan, in a space where I would almost never be the only voice. I would have the support of a community, going through similar phases. Instead, I am blessed to say Kaddish in a community that is aware of the ins and outs of mourning, and a community where I am the only mourner, a special status. Some of you may have noticed that I often say it with my eyes closed. I do this for 2 reasons. The first is because I want to see my father’s face, my grandfather’s smile, and have a moment in time with them. Sometimes I am successful with this, sometimes I end up having flashbacks of my father’s last days in the hospital. The second reason is because I am uncomfortable. I often feel alone and as if a thousand eyes are staring at me, piercing me, and I just want to run. I know you probably don’t intend to make me feel that way. In fact, you probably look to show me you support me, but sometimes it just feels so off putting, It makes me feel so outside.

2. I cry, a lot, and it doesn’t necessarily mean that something happened. Most of the time, it’s just because I am grieving, and it hits me in waves. Some days I’m pretty o.k and most days, I struggle. You should know that I grew up in the shul, sitting next to my father and grandparents. So much of who I am, and why I want to be a rabbi is tied to these memories. I hear my father’s voice teaching me to be the Shatz, I remember conversations we have had about prayer, in fact the last coherent conversation I had with my father was about my feelings on prayer these days. To add to it, my grandfather’s literal last words were the shema, and my father’s last conscious act was leading Minchah at my grandfather’s shiva. This is the way of my family. I have always had a deep emotional attachment to prayer, and so, sometimes, I cry. I can’t help the tears, and I can’t stop them, they just creep up on me. The best thing to do is just support me, ask me how I am, smile at me, sometimes I just need a hug and let me cry

3. Talking. I love to share myself with others. But, sometimes I can’t start the conversation. I am finding it very easy to retreat to myself and my studies, and often separate myself out. What I’m asking is for a little support, if you want to. Ask me how I am, I won’t be offended. If I answer with “breathing” it’s because that’s the best I can do that day… just keep asking

4. Grieving: While Shiva lasts 7 days and my shloshim were cut off by Rosh HaShanah, I am still very much grieving. I never fully dealt with my Papa’s passing and then on top of it am forced to deal with my father’s death. I am still very much in the beginning stages of this process. And in many ways, I did not grieve with “my community.” My grieving was manipulated and shaped by my families expectations of me. As I journey down this road of grief and healing, I invite you to join me, help me, and support me as I create my own process of grieving here.

5. If you want to know about my dad, what happened, anything, I am more than happy to share, the gifts of his life and the challenges of his health. I need a little pushing and pulling, and I need help. My journey through my father’s illnesses lasted 7 years, but throughout that time, He was my number one fan, my confidante and my best friend, He taught me so much about myself and the world, and It is so hard to go on without him.

I very much hope that this is not the end of the conversation, but the beginning. I hope to share with you my journey, and help each of us grow into the leaders we will be one day. My daddy always taught me to make the best of the situation, everything can be learned from, and most of all that his memory should be for a blessing. His life was about people, helping people, caring for people and talking with people. I hope we can talk.

I know this is a lot to take in, but as part of this community, as a member of our journey, I wanted to let you in, share myself with you, welcome you into my journey.

Flashback: His face, smiling, Flashback: his hospital room, Flashback: calming him, Flashback: Dr-“he’s dying,” Flashback: the tubes are gone, Flashback: maybe he’ll wake up?, Flashback: hard, heavy, labored breathing, Flashback: 6:50am, her voice, “HE’S GONE,” she screams.
Flashback: his peaceful body, drapped in his talit, his look serene, his body-at peace, but his soul is gone. Flashback: his funeral, tears of despair, pain, grief. Flashback: Silence, no words, nothing can be said, nothing can comfort. Flashback: a flood of childhood memories. His voice resonates in my head, “sweetheart, I love you,” “Motek Sheli, My beautiful redhead, I miss you,” He says over and over again. “I miss you too, Daddy, I love you too!”

Only now, these are flashbacks, images and sounds that flood my mind, cloud my thinking, disable me momentarily from participating in the world. Flashbacks that hit me when i least expect them. Flashbacks that haunt my dreams. How do I move beyond these flashbacks, these moments that hurt so bad? How do I move forward, to a place where the memories are strong, pleasant, helpful? Flashbacks, of a time of so many emotions, so much healing ot be done, so much grieving, so many emotions trapped inside, trapped in my heart, in my head, afraid to come out, suppressed. Flashbacks that reveal so much of who I am and mark so many moments in time. Flashbacks, that are so real, so vivid, so promient that I feel them, feel what i fel tthen, see what iw as wearing, see who was thee, feel the feelings, smell the room, see his face. Flashbacks that feel more real than life itself; flashbacks that are my reality.

I want to remember, I want to smile, laugh, feel his warmth in my life. I want to forget the pain and feel the love. I want him back, but I know that will never happen. But, when do I get to feel his presence, feel like he is with me, when do I stop feeling alone and abandoned and start feeling his presence again, watching me, guiding me?

It’s like a bad detox, flashbacks, chills, nightmares, when have I passed the point of pain, of struggle, of withdrawl, when do I begin to heal?