One custom in this holy month of Elul – in this month of introspection – is to visit the graves of our deceased. To give honor. To draw strength. To learn. All that was true and good, noble and honorable, wise and loving, their Torah and their mitzvot, are meant to inspire a deep desire for repentance and return. For those with difficult pasts, this can be tough, if not impossible. I hope you find someone from whom to draw inspiration and comfort.

Today I visited mom and dad in my heart. My father z”l is buried more than 6,000 miles from here, my mother z”l by his side. My father died 38 years ago. My mother less than six months ago. Today, in that rare alignment of lunar and solar calendars, Dad’s Gregorian and Hebrew dates of death align, August 30/Elul 17. Today his yartziet and evel for mom — the first year of mourning — coincide. This day feels unique, the only one during which evel for mom and yartziet for dad meet. Half-moon, kaddish for two, I sent mom and dad my love and believe they sent back their blessings.

I’ve forgiven my parents’ flaws, much as I hope my daughters and I will continue to build, grow, and flourish in healing from my faults and mistakes. In Elul we journey to right relationship with God, self, and others. Forgiveness is the doorway. Love, the key. Prayer, repentance, mitzvot, the path. And you, me, all of us, are gifts to God and to each other.

The fall semester at Hebrew Union College has begun. Those of us slated for ordination in the spring are in a class called “Senior Seminar.” The purpose: to help each of us integrate our formal studies, fieldwork, pastoral care experiences, and personal work into a vision for a future rabbinate. Our first topic: ‘The Call.’ Why did you want to become a rabbi?

There are so many real, tangible, true answers. Love of Torah. Love of the Jewish people. A desire to serve. But really, it was a sense of knowing without knowing, like making Aliyah with faith and trust in whatever might come.

Our assignment: think about four texts that include the word ‘Hineni’— ‘Here I am’ – the ultimate response to God’s call. I was surprised that Isaiah 6:5-8 spoke to me:

I cried, “Woe is me; I am lost! For I am a man of impure lips and I live among a people of impure lips; Yet my own eyes have beheld the Sovereign God of Hosts. Then one of the seraphs—who had taken a live coal from the altar with a pair of tongs—flew over to me, touched it to my lips, and declared, “Now that this has touched your lips, your guilt shall depart and your sin be purged away.” Then I heard the voice of my Sovereign saying, “Whom shall I send? Who will go for us?” And I said, “Here am I, send me.”

Immediately after reading the Isaiah passage, I wrote this:

Burning Coal
When the angel
Took a burning coal from the altar
And pressed it to my lips,
The smell and the sizzle
Surprised me
Even more than the pain
That set my life ablaze.

When God asked,
“Whom shall I send? Who will go for us?”
My answer surprised me even more
Than the taste of the coal
That still flavors my breath,
That still flavors my speech,
That still keeps me awake
In the small hours of morning
Wondering if there wasn’t
Some other way
That the Holy One
Could have summoned me
To service.

“Burning Coal” stands in stark contrast “Calling,” written about a year ago:

Calling
When your star
Falls to your feet
And you pick it up
You have been
Blessed
With the burden
Of carrying light.

I’m thinking of ‘Calling’ as reflecting the moment, as a teen, when I had that sense of knowing. I’m thinking of ‘Burning Coal’ as representing the journey from being a teen without a vision for himself, to becoming a liturgist forged by in the coals and on the altars of tragedies and traumas, my wife’s z”l mental illness and her suicide.

Why did I want to become a rabbi? Simply this: it’s how God wants me to serve.

I spoke about “Forgiving God” with Rabbi Neil Amswych on “Soul Searching” on KSFR Santa Fe Public Radio, which he read on the program. He challenged the theology and its surprising conclusion, the only interviewer who has pursued understanding the heart of a particular liturgical offering.

Forgiving God
It is not
In my power
To forgive God
For the pains and heartbreaks
Suffered in my life,
Or the traumas
Suffered in the world.
For war and destruction.
For plague and terror.
For brutality and evil.

It is not
In my power
To pardon God,
For all that is callous or indifferent,
For all that is heartless or unkind,
For all that is baseless or random,
For all that is violent or cruel,
For all that appears unwanted, unbidden,
Without hope or blessing.

God’s ways are hidden,
God’s judgments are secret.
God’s plan is veiled.

When I accept
That I cannot conceive
Of God’s designs,
I surrender
Into the mystery
Of life.
Only then
Can I forgive
Myself.

The second to last stanza — beginning “God’s ways” — brought to Neil’s challenge. He rejected the intimation that October 7 was part of a “grand plan.” Together we interrogated the prayer’s meaning and the nature of forgiveness. The discussion begins about halfway through the podcast. In the first half I speak intimately and vulnerably about my writing life.

As Elul begins and we enter the gates of t’shuvah, I invite you to begin the journey with me, with this volume, with this prayer. “Enter These Gates” is available in in print and electronically from CCAR Press, as well as Amazon Books. It was a 2024 Finalist in the spirituality category of the Next Generation Indie Book Awards.

I was student rabbi at the furthest North synagogue in the world, Or HaTzafon, Jewish Congregation of Fairbanks, AK. I was married at the furthest South synagogue in the continental USA, Congregation B’nai Zion, Key West, FL. My two homes this past year are separated by 11 time zones, Jerusalem in the East, Fairbanks in the West.

In two semesters I will turn 70 and will, BE”H, become a rabbi. The questions that loom large for me: What will my rabbinate become? Where will I serve? What difference will I make? What will I write? Will I find – and attach myself to – a partner after nearly two decades? What adventures are yet to come?

This I believe: Every moment we stand at the brink of holiness. Right here, right now. My question, my real question, is this: Am I ready to go wherever God leads?

I have no answers. I have faith. I believe good answers, true answers, will appear.

Time for boarding.

It’s a special feeling to daven in ‘my own’ sanctuary. Writing now, I realize that I’ve been in Fairbanks attending the IKAR morning minyan for the majority of this first half of my year of mourning for mom z”l. The IKAR minyan is a warm and welcoming. Tefillah is led by an eclectic, rotating team of rabbis and lay leaders, with designated e-gabbiim to take care of tech support and other behind-the-scenes support. I daven, facing my laptop and the ark, in the only place I’ve consistently led tefillah.

I’m excited to return to Denver and to get back to Israel. Yet, I’m deeply saddened to leave here without a concrete plan to return. I take with me a profound love for the people, a deeper understanding of the community, and a strong sense of what can be done to support and grow this congregation. I leave with dear friends and a surprising variety of ‘rabbinic formation’ experiences.

If I get through what will be two hard semesters of rabbinical school, I will – בעזרת השם, with God’s help – turn 70 in April and be blessed with smicha, ordination, in May. Lots of hurdles to get through. I’ve been thinking about what my rabbinate might become starting a new decade as both a ‘baby rabbi’ and an older, seasoned poet-liturgist. (I’m open to ideas, as well as blessings for safe travel.)

Fare thee well for now, Fairbanks. The adventure continues.

Once per month, a family brings Shabbat dinner for the community. This was our Friday night “Shabbat of Blessings,” another first. At services, we blessed a newlywed couple, a family leaving the community soon with tefilat haderech, and we welcomed a new baby. Being Shabbat Mevarchim, we blessed the upcoming new month. I also blessed the entire community as bonei kehillah, builders of the congregation. The evening included a tot Shabbat service.

The elk cholent was rich, flavorful, unlike any I’d ever tasted. Elk is a kosher species, along with moose and reindeer. Traditional kashrut, however, requires ritual slaughtering, known as shechita. Tza’ar ba’alei chayim – “suffering of living creatures” – forbids inflicting any unnecessary pain, harm, or cruelty on animals. The belief is that ritual slaughter assures that an animal’s death for food will be humane.

Industrialized shechita does not convincingly prove it’s more humane than hunting. One horrible practice: live-shackle slaughter. Another practice generally considered humane – which sounds no more humane than hunting – is stunning before slaughter. Stunning renders the animal unkosher because of damaging the animal before death.

In 2022, the UK Reform Movement opined that animals should be stunned before slaughter. A related news article quoted Rabbi Mark Goldsmith, senior rabbi of Edgware and Hendon Reform Synagogue: “In every generation we have to define kashrut including what we know about animal welfare, environmentally sound practices and labor practices and combine that with traditional Jewish understandings and then work out what kashrut means for each individual.”

According to a Central Conference of American Rabbis responsa on sport, “the subject which occupies most space in the responsa is hunting.” It continues: “Jews from ancient times fished and trapped animals. In medieval Europe, where game was plentiful and hunting was the dominant sport among the nobility, this occupation found its way into Jewish life and there are references to it in almost every century.”

Hunting for food is part of life in Alaska. As is fishing. Both are necessary to keep many from food insecurity. Both are part of the indigenous cultures. If asked as a future rabbi whether I’d consider hunted elk kosher to eat, I’d ask about the method of hunting being used. I’d ask if the individual had all of the proper equipment for draining the blood and butchering in the field. I’d ask how the hunter was prepared to handle wounding, but not killing the animal.

My position is this: hunt only for food, not for sport. Take every precaution to make a clean kill. A kosher species is a kosher species. Drain the blood thoroughly. Do not hunt with dogs. Perhaps unrealistic but, if the kill isn’t clean, donate the meat to a food bank. Truly, however, if asked, my first answer is that I need to do more study.

I’m also thinking about the traditional prayer recited before a ritual slaughter. Perhaps my Alaskan Hebrews need a ‘prayer before hunting or fishing for food.’

My Alaska adventures now include both elk cholent and moose casserole. My youngest daughter would solve kashrut issues with veganism. As for me, I’ve reduced the amount of red meat I eat and keep a pescatarian home in Jerusalem.

A week earlier, I led Or HaTzafon’s first ever Juneteenth Shabbat. I read my own “The Preacher Said” from This Grateful Heart, also from CCAR Press. We recited “Mi Shebeirakh for a Sick World” and “Kaddish for Black Lives.” We read a “Prayer for Our Country,” excerpted from “The Hill We Climb” by Amanda Gorman. My sermon was on the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King’s signature verse: “But let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream” (Amos 5:24). It was a blessing to be able to bring the service to our community.

A week after Pride Shabbat, on July 3, we held Or HaTzafon’s annual “Jews in Canoes” float on the Chena River, followed by a barbeque and a service. We sang prayers to Americana, including ‘Hineh Mah Tov” to “Oh! Suzannah” and ‘Lecha Dodi’ to “This Land is Your Land.” The first half of the float was sunny and warm, then we enjoyed the second half of the float and BBQ ignoring rain and a drop in temperature.

Each of these Shabbatot deserved their own ‘Torah Borealis’ column, as does last night’s ‘Shabbat of Blessing’ but writing beyond papers for rabbinical school has eluded me. No essays. Precious few prayer-poems. I’ll write about that in a future ‘Torah Borealis’ dispatch. Meanwhile, apologies, friends and readers, for my absence.

Seventeen years ago, my wife Ami z”l died on Shabbat HaGadol, the Sabbath before Pesach. We had two days of shiva. Passover arrived. I led the two Seders, moving mechanically through the Haggadah in an emotional fog. The next year was worse. No longer numb, the Seders – on the heals of Ami’s first yartzeit – were burdened with fracture and loss. Unconsciously, I decided never again to lead another Seder. Ever.

I was thrilled to be invited to serve as the visiting student rabbi for Passover. I didn’t know that – on top of this being the difficult period of Ami’s yartzeit – I’d also be in shlomshim for my mother Ada z”l, compounded by trauma from the war with Iran. (I made it from Jerusalem to Chicago via a US State Department evacuation flight.)

Since then, I’ve struggled. Days went by unnoticed, in a fog. I’ve fallen behind in my school work. The Monday and Tuesday before Seder, I sat at my computer still unable to work. In the nick of time – finishing Wednesday morning – I put together the Seder outline. By brute force. Thankfully, some of it was done before mom passed away.

Wednesday evening, I put on a Rabbinic Game Face, the face rabbis use to gracefully hold space for others while facing their own life crises, in the midst of their own grief, feeling inadequate to the task.

The Seder went beautifully. Leading was healing. We blessed, sang, ate, and told the tale. My RGF yielded to joy. It’s good to know that I can summon a ‘game face.’ The tikkun – the repair to my love of leading Seder – was unexpected. I’d like to do it again.

I’ll arrive in the midst of shloshim for mom z”l, the thirty-day mourning period following burial. Although Or HaTzafon typically doesn’t hold Shabbat morning services, they’re gathering a minyan for me to say kaddish, the mourner’s prayer. I’m honored by this show of love. This coming Shabbat – Shabbat HaGadol – will also be my wife Ami’s 17^th yartziet. I’ll say kaddish for them both.

Seventeen years, and less than 30 days. When it comes to love and loss, they’re not much different. At least not today, not in this moment.

The thought brings me tears: saying kaddish for two of the most important women in my life. Perhaps there’s a lesson for my future rabbinate. Fierce love of Torah, with a tender heart for one another. Love in the precious time we have on earth. Without hesitation. With this in mind, I’ll introduce this song to our tefillah:

הריני מקבל\ת עליי את מצוות הבורא ״ואהבת לרעך כמוך.״ / Behold, I accept upon myself the Creator’s commandment, “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” (Lev 19:18)

Here are links to two prayer-poems: “To Seek Your Love” – about loving God – and “Let Love,” about loving each other.

I cannot claim a long personal history with her. Others will eulogize her with more knowledge of her life and work. Others will remember her conferring their smicha. Others will speak to her profound influence on the body of Jewish learning, including her central role in the creation of the Women’s Torah Commentary.

Here’s what I offer: testimony to the power of a single moment of her teaching. Testimony to the power of a single conversation with her. Testimony to the fact that once you became one of her students, you’d be forever in her heart.

We learn the ‘stuff’ of being a rabbi in seminary. Mishnah. Talmud. Philosophy. History. Parshanut. Just for starters. We learn the ‘way’ to be as a rabbi from watching the rabbinic heroes of our generation, like Rabbi Weiss.

Here in Jerusalem, these past few days under rocket fire, I’ve been thinking about rabbinic heroism. How rabbis – facing their own personal issues, traumas, and crises, here and, really, anywhere – still minister to others. We learn the way to be in the world as a rabbi through our role models.

I didn’t get enough time as Rabbi Weiss’ student. My goal is to do justice to her legacy.

According to my daughters, I’m now a nomad, a man without permanent residence. They say I’m brave. I don’t believe them yet. They also said it when I sold our suburban Chicago home, and everything in it, 14 years ago to make Aliyah. Back then, I brought three duffel bags, a suitcase, and a carry-on bag… more than I’ve kept with me now.

In the next year I’ll be in Fairbanks as Or HaTzafon’s student rabbi three times and LA twice, once for my daughter’s 40^th birthday, once for an HUC learning intensive. I’ll visit Chicago several times, including my mother’s 100^th birthday (poo poo poo). We have a family vacation to Mexico in the works. Why do I need a permanent address when I have places to go?

When in Jerusalem, I’ll be in a small, sweet two-room, AirBnB in Baka, where I’ll return between my travels, the place where I just completed my first Shabbat. My home in Alaska is Or HaTzafon. In Chicagoland, I’m a ben bayit with dear friends. The rest of the time, well, I’ll wing it. Through it all, I’ll keep up with my studies online.

I’m excited. I feel lighter and freer than ever. Not brave exactly. Willing to embrace adventure. An adventure that leads, b’ezrat Hashem, to a life serving the Jewish people — and the world — as a rabbi.

My struggle: Medieval Jewish Philosophy. Saadia Gaon. Yehudah Halevi. Maimonides. The Kuzari twisted my mind. The Guide to the Perplexed nearly broke me.

So much was going well. I fell in love with the Jews of Fairbanks. My tefillah leadership and Torah skills were pushed in new directions. Leading services at Kehillat Birkat Shalom on Kibbutz Gezer was thrilling. I did some of my best writing in the Textual Interpretation class. Working with a mentor, a spiritual director, and a fieldwork supervisor brought new layers of depth. I just couldn’t see it.

Those Medieval philosophers felt impenetrable. They were obtuse and I was obtuse. I doubted my ability to understand or learn. Only one thought kept me going: leaving the learning would mean losing my student pulpit in Fairbanks.

The reading turned to Maimonides’ analysis of the Book of Job. In two stunning chapters, Rambam disassembles the arguments made by Job’s friends to explain his fate. Job stays stalwart in his faith in God, receiving as reward a prophetic understanding: God is fundamentally unknowable.

A story: One Shabbat morning – six months after my wife died of traumatic brain injury – my mother was on the edge of life with her own traumatic brain injury. In synagogue, telling the rabbi that my mother was near death, he put out a hand and said, “Nice to meet you, Job.” I was furious. He quickly added: “I don’t mean Job at the beginning of the story. I mean Job at the end of the story. Here, on Shabbat, with your mom’s life in the balance, you’ve come to pray to God. You still have faith.”

From that moment on, I embraced a simple theology: I don’t get to understand God. What I get, instead, is the choice of what to do next. ‘God is unknowable’ was my retreat from the question of God’s providence. In the shadow of my lived experiences, I found a way to avoid challenging my faith. It was too dangerous, too threatening. That safety lasted a decade and a half: until Medieval Jewish Philosophy.

Medieval Jewish Philosophy was relentless. Confronted again and again with theological challenges, I could run no longer. My resistance to the class, my instinct to flee, was a trauma response to Ami’s death. I resisted with my entire being questioning notions of God’s benevolence and providence.

Part of me is mad at God. I will need to face that. I’m still a man of faith who loves God, Torah, and the Jewish people. I still believe we don’t get to know God’s ways. Yet, as a future rabbi, I’ll need to talk about why I believe what I believe, which means finally, finally, wrestling with questioning God.

As hard as it was spiritually, emotionally, and intellectually – and as many times as I thought about walking away, which was almost daily at one point – I’m convinced that I’ll remember this semester as a turning point in my rabbinic development, from Fairbanks to Medieval Jewish Philosophy

I have work to do. And, good news: our new semester begins this week. The opportunities to question — to let go of my resistance — will surely come.

On Friday night I led Kabbalat Shabbat for the first time since leaving Fairbanks.

The invitation to lead at Birkat Shalom on Kibbutz Gezer came from one of my dearest friends and the president of the congregation. His response to my admission into Hebrew Union College was enthusiastic. The invitation was an act of faith. After all, I had no experience leading from the Israeli Reform siddur, Tefillat HaAdam. And my Hebrew is barely adequate for giving instructions and welcoming people.

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So different and so very much the same as leading in Fairbanks. Different siddurim, but the same core prayers. Different spoken languages, but the same core intent. Quirky differences in some of the tunes, yet a shared love of the music. Both show deep affection for their communities. Both made it clear that an hour was the desired length of services.

My highlights: reading two of my Shabbat prayer-poems in Hebrew. I worked primarily with my friend Avital Ordan on the translations, going through close to 15 rounds of translation and retranslation. Another highlight: teaching a Reb Zalman kirtan that I learned from Rabbi Marc Soloway.

At the end of services, I realized that it was the first time that I’ve ever led Kabbalat Shabbat in Israel. Of course, I said sheheychiyanu. From Or HaTzafon to Birkat Shalom, we bless each other.

.בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה ה’ אֱלהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, עוֹשֶׂה מַעֲשֵׂה בְרֵאשִׁית

Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech haolam, oseh maasei v’reishit.

We praise You, Eternal God, Sovereign of the universe, who makes the works of creation.

That was six weeks ago. I confess to being more than a little jealous of all the folks in North America who saw the Northern Lights last night. The photos posted on social media were amazing. More than that, I’m yearning to be back in Fairbanks for the ongoing show.

Did you say a prayer when you saw the Lights? If not, as your Northernmost rabbinical student, let me suggest that it’s not too late. Take out your photos, better still, conjure a memory. Then, find your own words to thank God for witnessing beauty and wonder in the skies. Or use the traditional prayer.

Here’s the point. Express gratitude. Invite the Divine into your experience of God’s creation. Yes, Jewish law and custom calls for us to say blessings of gratitude in the moment. That said, this student rabbi says. If you missed the blessing, make the blessing. It’s never too late for gratitude.

Note: Please share your Aurora prayers of gratitude as a comment on this post. Also, check out my book, “This Grateful Heart: Psalms and Prayers for a New Day.”

More than 1,400 delegates and alternates from 43 countries are meeting to determine the policies of the World Zionist Organization for the next five years, ultimately deciding how the budget of roughly $1 billion will be spent. Among them, some of the most influential leaders of the Jewish world, some of them my teachers and friends.

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Meanwhile, a band of cyclists are fundraising-on-wheels for the Arava Institute for Environmental Studies, a leading environmental academic and research institution. Located on Kibbutz Ketura, it’s dedicated to training the next generation of environmental leaders, bringing together Israelis, Palestinians, Jordanians, and students from around the world. The ride is still shy of its $1 million fundraising goal.

At the Congress, big questions about antisemitism and the future of Zionism, with increasing tensions between the voices of liberal Judaism and the right-wing agenda for Israel. On the road, a few folks trying to help out one organization dedicated to the environment and co-existence.

My prayer for the ride is the same as my prayer for the Congress. Be bold. Be brave. Push yourselves beyond your assumptions and preconceptions. Connect across differences. See us all as one under the One who has challenged us to make this land a place of Torah and heart, of beauty and love, of humanity and peace.

Postscript: Please support our Fairbanks Israel Ride representatives Miranda Miller or Randall Miller. (Dad/daughter ride, so cool.) Or support one of the ride organizers, the man who rescued me from Logan Airport when I missed my El Al flight, by donating to either David Eisenberg or his son, Benji. (Father/son ride, so cool.)

My day began with tefillah at Hebrew Union College, the first day of the Israeli rabbinical program academic year. The new students received an aliyah ‘l’Torah and a faculty blessing. Then they said sheheciyanu. We said, ‘Amen.’ Blessing beginnings.

Walking through the Old City, standing at the Kotel, I placed an envelope of prayers onto the stone ledge. Two weeks ago, the Or HaTzafon community built the world’s Northernmost Sukkah. Folks were invited to write private prayers that I promised to take to Jerusalem. Unsealing the envelope, one-by-one I tucked each folded blue slip of paper into a crevice. With each new prayer in its place, I added: ‘Amen.’

As I climbed the stairs into the Jewish Quarter, I saw a young man use a razor blade to unsteadily cut his shirt placket, marking himself as a mourner. Reaching him, I recited the traditional Hebrew blessing: “May God comfort you among the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.” He answered: ‘Amen.’ Blessing endings.

This is who we are. We bless beginnings. We bless endings. We tuck secret prayers into holy places.

Amen, Amen, again and again.

The library is fabulous. Large, spacious, open stacks, comfy chairs, rocking chairs, carrels, couches, a computer bank, a café, conference rooms, a fireplace room, a large renovated young adult and teen space, fabulous collections in philosophy and religion, an exciting collection of Alaskana. I applied for my library card my first week in town.

I dropped in on Bryan because he missed services that Friday evening, the first since I’d arrived. I was concerned for nothing. Everything was fine. We had a lovely chat. Bryan took me to the reference desk to introduce me to Josh – who is responsible for philosophy and religion collections – where I also met Hope. Three reference librarians and me! Nice.

Hearing that I’m a student rabbi currently studying medieval Jewish philosophy, Josh’s curiousity took over. I can’t reconstruct what turned into a half-hour conversation on rabbinic names and personalities. I remember telling him that he’d enjoy learning about kalam.

Then vanity kicked in. I asked him to check if the library held any of my books. Nope. But no surprise. The surprise came next. Josh said, “Now that you’ve told me about them, I’ll have to order them.”

“Really. You can just do that?” And he did, right there at the reference desk, ordering all five of my CCAR Press solo books, plus one in which I’m a contributor. I hope I was gracious enough in my thanks. I offered to do a reading when I return.

When the books arrive, the Noel Wien will be up there with the major libraries that have collected all of my CCAR Press volumes, including the National Library of Israel and the Abramov Library at Hebrew Union College in Jerusalem.

What a fun moment in Fairbanks, watching Josh purchase my books real time!

Best. Library Experience. Ever.

Last night, heart was in three places. Part of me was with Or HaTzafon in Fairbanks at a Shabbat Chol Hamoed Sukkot backyard bonfire. Part of me yearned to be in Israel as the nail-biting ceasefire and hostage release process grinds slowly, hopefully, forward. Part of me was – and is – in Denver for a family Bat Mitzvah.

Last night, in her sermon at Temple Emanuel, Rabbi Elizabeth Sacks used the upcoming liturgical switch from מוריד הטל – ‘who causes dew to descend’ – to משיב הרוח ומוריד הגשם – ‘let the wind return and rain fall’ – as a metaphor for the arrival of hope and healing, the potential arrival of a life-sustaining and soul cleansing force as we wait nervously to see if the ceasefire and hostage deal holds.

Rabbi Sacks’ sermon reminded me that I wrote a prayer poem on October 8, 2023, already my second after the Hamas attack, using the same metaphor. I wrote:

‘We prayed for rain /And we got tears / So many tears /Flowing like rain / That would not relent / Tears for the dead /Tears for the wounded/ Tears for the kidnapped / And tears for the captive…’

I cried a lot that first year. I wrote poems about crying, songs about tears. I told Sue Radner Horowitz that ‘I have nothing left but water, I must be made of tears.’ She said, ‘That’s a song. Go write it.’ She composed Nothing Left but Tears. I described my writing urgency to Rabbi Barry Leff who said that war had become my muse.

Last night, after Rabbi Sacks sermon – singing ‘Turn! Turn! Turn!’ by the Byrds as the closing song – I cried. The moment touched a place that trauma locked away.

As a rabbinical student, I’ve said that congregants need to see our emotions and our vulnerability, but also need to know that we can contain our emotions in a healthy way, that our emotions are not our masters. We role model both vulnerability and bounded self-awareness. That it’s safe to be around a rabbi showing vulnerability. When my tears turned to sobs, I used a skill taught in the ManKind Project, to ‘contain’ an emotional moment for later processing.

Now, prayer-poetry is returning to me, not with the same urgency, but with renewed passion. Soon, I’ll share new works on ToBendLight.

I miss Fairbanks. I miss Israel. Turns out, right now, Denver is where I need to be.

In Fairbanks in 2023, it wasn’t yet Simchat Torah when Hamas attacked. Two years later, the evening of October 6, 2025, it wasn’t quite the start of Sukkot.

In our sanctuary, a small but mighty band of us remembered together before the start of Sukkot, three of us Israelis. We lit a yizkor candle; we shared thoughts and memories about the atrocities, the murders, the hostages, the displaced, the heroism, the failures, and the shock; we recited Acheinu in Hebrew and English; and we held a moment of silence.

Then we stood and sang Hatikvah.

The Jews of Fairbanks remember you, dear ones — our friends and family — in Israel.

We moved our Sukkot Ma’ariv service outside and into the Sukkah, creating a gentle separation between our sorrow and z’man simchateinu, the season of our rejoicing, which is the spiritual energy of the festival. There, of course, we also lit candles, made kiddush, and had our oneg.

Two moments of prayer. Sorrow and joy juxtaposed. In between them, our song of hope. Hatikvah in Fairbanks.

In the kitchen, board chair Aviv led a community challah bake – including the bracha of taking challah – where our education chair Jeri led the younger kids in making sukkah decorations. It was also the drop off point for non-perishables for our food drive. Estimated mitzvah count: including all families with fresh, homemade challot for Sukkot, and all of the food donations, at least 25.

In the library, we set a up spot where people could write their own private prayers that I’ll take to the Kotel when I return to Jerusalem. Counting each private prayer, raise the Mitzvah count estimate to >50.

Outside, under a glorious sky, we built the Sukkah. Jack, an 11-year-old hockey player who came straight from a game to build the Sukkah, was first to arrive, driven by his mother Sarah, one of our choir members. (I really hope to be here again to teach him for his Bar Mitzvah.) Luke arrived next as we carried the pre-fab parts outside. We fumbled with the instructions, available only via a Mitzvahland QR code. Yes, our 10’x10’ Sukkah came from Mitzvahland.

Folks around here are well-versed in building, assembling, and making things. It’s a point of pride and necessity. Luke, Teri, Yuval, Leah, and Thad arrived next, joining the ‘we can do it without the instructions’ conversation. At that point I lost track of who continued to arrive, although Solomon’s height came in handy. He arrived to help secure the walls to the top of the frame. We encouraged everyone to have a hand in the construction. Estimated Mitzvah count: >90.

When it was built, we gathered outside for a brief teaching on the etrog and lulav. Knowing that only a few folks would return for our holiday services, I offered the opportunity to waive the lulav with a bracha. At least 10 people hadn’t waived before. Parents held their children as they waived together in the Sukkah.

Mid-afternoon, Janet and Jerry brought a meal spread from Siam Square. A feast feeding the shul. More mitzvahs. (Is this one mitzvah, or one for each person fed?)

There are, I suppose, ‘lies, damned lies, and statistics.’ I’m doing the count. I’m counting expansively, like a large Sukkah. I choose to count each bracha as a mitzvah, both the blessing on the waiving and the sheheciyanu. I count each first-time waiving as a double-mitzvah. Estimated mitzvah count: North of 170. (Get it. North of 170.)

One more mitzvah to mention: The donor** whose contribution provided our Sukkah, the centerpiece of the Northernmost Mitzvahland in all the world.

*According to Google AI, we are the world’s northernmost congregation. “While some sources historically cite the Trondheim Synagogue in Norway as the northernmost, newer and more northerly houses of worship in Fairbanks and Arkhangelsk, Russia, have surpassed it.”

**I wouldn’t name a donor in my personal musings, but I’ll be sending a note.