To have arrived at the momentous occasion, therefore, the zchut of participating in this simcha – the tears flowed freely, as my husband benched our dear granddaughter at the kabolat ponim.
Along the way I started to feel literally drugged. It was different than feeling tired because my thinking process felt different. I wasn’t aware of this at first.
It made a profound impression on my husband and he decided he was going to call up some of his relatives and maybe even long lost friends whom he’d barely spoken to in years – not for any particular reason but because they’d just lost touch.
I calculated on my fingers. She was now up to week 27. Yehuda hung up, but he sounded very upset. I wished I could help, but I had no idea what to do. So, I turned to my Tehillim.
I ask for her name and where she is from. She tells me her name is Orit and that she comes from Israel.
Our son understood that Aviv, up until this point in his life, had failed in everything. The army was his last chance to succeed.
Peeling paint and mismatched chairs were not the only signs of deprivation in the Cohen’s Yerushalmi home.
Last night, my late uncle appeared to my sister in a dream and said that the reason our father is ill is because he didn’t sit shiva for my uncle.
Hearing the argument, Reb Chaim jumped out of his seat and ran to the front of the bus. He withdrew some cash from his pocket, gave it to the driver on behalf of the anonymous fellow, and then returned to his seat.
How he finally managed to find his way home, albeit bedraggled and sleep-deprived, on Friday morning, she never did find out definitively.
I guess none of us were completely surprised when the jeweler said that most of the “diamonds” were not in fact diamonds at all and were worth very little.
Saba, as we called him, was absolutely, hands down, my favorite guest. He loved to help in any way he could.
Rafael looked up at the heavens and asked, “What am I doing here? Why do I deserve this? I am not even being helpful. I want to be able to have a Seder.”
Consequently instead of receiving the coveted call from the program organizers, we found ourselves fielding one call after another from our own children, eager to join us for Passover in the Promised Land.
It wasn't until ten years later I found my own place in Yiddishkeit. For the first time I had an inkling of what Pesach was.
In the midst of my misery it hits me. I am going about this wrong. I take a deep breath and try to control my sobs.
It was so crowded and confusing that one father, who was there accompanying his eighteen-year-old daughter, was assigned the responsibility of determining everyone’s place on the queue and then seating them in that order.
The water got warm, then hot, and then boiling hot. This was going too far. To pretend to myself is one thing. To feel like the water was hot is quite another.
Though my father lives in another area of Staten Island, he has been intermittently involved with this synagogue since its inception.
My family always found an open and warm welcome when they flew in for a family simcha, but now due to Hashem’s goodness and kindness I am now living in close proximity to several of my children.
They were genuinely thrilled, but tempered their enthusiasm somewhat with a sobering reality check, “You know he’s flying right into a winter blizzard, right?”
She told me, pointing to a blue and orange set. It wasn’t exactly a color scheme that I appreciated, nor was it especially fancy for yom tov, but having shlepped out and waited this long, I wasn’t ready to head home without something to show for my time.
I decided to unplug my phone before davening to prevent any distractions. Finally after one on the most intense prayers I have ever experienced I went to plug in the phone. It immediately rang.
After being checked by a doctor, my father needed to undergo some minor surgery. It was clear to his two children in Israel that my father could no longer live independently.
For all the good we hopefully do in the world, we often come up lacking; our prayers are distracted, we're a bit short with the beggar, we sometimes slip with our tongues.