From
time to time, I will be writing about my reasons for choosing "Pesach
Sheini" as the name for my blog. The more I have thought about
the name, the more I have felt that it chose me and not the other way
around. What follows is the second installation. To read the first
three, click here,
here
and here.
I can't sum up my trip to
Israel. Too much I'm still trying to figure out. It would be too easy
to fall back into listing the number of people I met and saw, places
I visited, miles run, or some other quantifiable fact that would
hide more than it would reveal. Instead, I will will share a few
experiences, without too much analysis. I suspect there's a common
thread here, but I'm too tired to figure it out.
How odd to begin a trip to
Israel at the cemetery followed by nichum aveilim. Eric picked me up
at the airport to be be Menchame avel by two friends whose father,
Herb Smilowitz z”l passed away. On the way, we stopped at the
cemetery where my father is buried. I have a hard time dealing with
visits to the cemetery. Not sure what I'm supposed to do there.
Think? Of course. I do that in spades. Do? Say? That's something
else. We follow that up with nichum aveilim. Done well, nichum
aveilim offers comfort to the aveilim. I've found that it also does
more. I learned about some of Mr. Smilowitz's greatness, his
humility, his achievements, why his children are the wonderful people
they are. The world has lost a special man. I left feeling inspired
having learned from him, and his children.
With the event for Team
Just One Life, the charity team I direct, coming so early in the
trip, it's almost easy to forget that this was a trip for work. I
love the race, I love the people who I meet through the team, I love
visiting the Just One Life
center and hearing from the amazing women who run the organization.
More than that though, I love when we hear from one of the mothers
who have been helped through JOL. Somehow, we are wired to better
understand one woman's story of hope, more than almost 14,000 babies
born. She does not disappoint. I suspect I wasn't the only one to
fight back tears. When she has to leave early to put her children to
bed, there is not a person in the room who doesn't appreciate what we
are running and raising money for.
After the pasta party, I
needed to go to sleep. I was tired and drained and my bed was
calling. The wonderful young man who was struggling with some serious
questions meant more to me than rest. We spoke for hours. I had no
doubt I had made the proper choice.
I'd forgotten just how
different things were during
the period I struggled. I hadn't thought about the fact that for
the first time in years, I could walk into a seforim store without
wanting to buy half the store. I realized it the morning after an
overnight trip in Alon Shevut, where Yeshivat Har Etzion (Gush) is
located. Needing to prepare for the shiur that I would be delivering
at Yesodei HaTorah later in my trip, I walked into the beis midrash
at the shul where I was davening. As I saw the many seforim on the
shelves, my heart skipped a beat. It was as if I was seeing a good
friend who I had never expected to see again. Later, I visited Gush.
I had once loved what it represented, then I stopped when I realized
they were on the “wrong” team. Now I was back. The kol Torah, the
Rashei yeshiva, the young men learning with such fervor. All of it
nourishes me once again.
Archeology, midrash and
peshat came together in the shiur I gave at Yesodei. What an honor to
share Torah at such a wonderful institution. What a pleasure to teach
a wonderful former student once again. The rashei yeshiva played a
big role in my finding my answer to my questions. I am grateful for
the opportunity to teach once again.
One night, I davened at
the shul in the Central Bus Station in Yerushalayim. Every type of
Jew was there. Not quite, but almost. Not being home, they all
davened together rather than with a room filled with people who seem
to be just like them.
Outside the bus station,
there was a drummer. Young and strong, with dreadlocks and some
backup music that is far from what I would ever listen to. I am,
nonetheless, drawn to the scene. Young soldiers with crew-cuts,
modestly dressed seminary girls, charedi men with the requisite
accoutrements and various other people, gather round for a free
concert, which is powerful, poignant and, somehow, redemptive.
There are great places to
run in the US. Races like the Boston Marathon are, for most people,
second to none. I have run on breathtaking trails. Why is it that I
feel envious when my friends in Israel discuss where they run?
Sometimes the grass really is greener on the other side, and more
beautiful and holy as well. A trail run with my brother and some soon
to be friends, was worth the exhaustion that would come from having
woken up after only three hours of sleep. As we ran through a scene
of uncommon beauty, we talked when our lungs allowed us to, and ran
silently when they did not. I met Chaim
Wizman, a man who helped build the Bet Shemesh running scene. I
hope he will forgive me for saying that he is a man of humility,
warmth and Torah in the best sense of the term. I also met Yarden
Frankl, whose writing has brought me to the verge of tears and
heartbreak. A few minutes of running together shows the depth of the
man who can write with such feeling and power. I savor the run
knowing that, in many ways, it is a special experience that I am
unlikely to get again, anytime soon.
I had almost given up on
the idea of reconnecting with davening, thinking that it was
collateral damage from my religious exploration. During this trip,
through the help of some friends and some new thoughts of my own, I
got it back. As I stood in the back of Rabbi David's shul in Bet
Shemesh, I decided to give Kabbalos Shabbos a try. I had long ago
given up on it for various reasons. Mostly, out of an arrogant and
misguided attempt to show how serious I was about talmud Torah. As we
sing sing a beautiful “Lecha Dodi” I look around the room. I see
friends, strangers, young and old, living one of my dreams. Although
I traded it for other ones, I still find myself thinking about what
might have been. As if, had I stayed, I'd be who I have become, and
be living and davening there. Emotions however, have a logic of their
own. I am davening and feeling and feeling close to God in a way I'd
thought I'd lost. Tears start to flow from a deep, deep place.
Naturally, (or is it supernaturally?) we are up to the words “Emek
HaBacha”.
