My best friends, Lily’s parents, and I shrieked with laughter. How could she not know? But on the other hand, how could she possibly know?

Lily was only a year and a half old when my husband, Barry, was dying from non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. She was blissfully unaware of the various chemotherapy tortures he had undergone or the gut-wrenching torture of watching Barry try to hold it together as he interacted with our children.

Carol would bring Lily to the hospital with her, and we took turns cuddling her and watching her smile and it was easy to channel her pure unadulterated sweetness.

“You can’t help but feel happy when you hold her,” Carol would say. It was true. Things were dire as could be, but when I held Lily, I could feel a hint of happiness for a moment and even that bit of joy reminded me that I was still human, a being capable of holding many emotions, often simultaneously.

Barry was my husband, but he was also Carol and Michael’s close friend. We all loved him so much. Once he was dead, he would be dead forever. But we talked about him often, so often that Lily assumed he was living somewhere off camera. Carol’s two oldest children have memories of Barry, but of course, Lily, her youngest, does not.

“He’s dead!” we all cackled, wiping away tears and not the sad kind.

“Oh my God. No one tells me anything!”

Barry had a great sense of humor and would have found this all hilarious.

Carol never forgets to call me on June 9th (the anniversary of Barry’s death). She has memories about Barry I don’t have and will tell me her own stories about him. Sometimes she asks me questions about things he did or said. Each year I struggle a little more to recall what it was like to be in his physical presence. I’m not sure I remember anything accurately.

Babies grow into children and children into adults. Lily is expecting her own tiny human soon. But memories don’t live or breath or grow. Memories fade. You can’t hold a memory in your arms or make it laugh or aggravate it.

We never did answer Lily’s question—where did Barry go? He’s not here, he’s not anywhere. But we remember him as best we can.

Please hit the ❤️ button at the bottom of this newsletter if you like it here! —Lori

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The parents of my generation grew up without seatbelts and we employed laxer safety standards than those of today’s parents. We’d always strap our kids in, but small children were perfectly welcome to sit in the front seat and we allowed kids to stop using a car seat whenever we decided it was no longer necessary.

I wrote this essay for the “Everywoman” section of The Cleveland Plain Dealer back when there was no such thing as an online newspaper—November 26, 1996. In it, I experiment with the line between my life as it actually was and as it seemed to me.

Diving into Carpool World

My station wagon is a seven-passenger affair, a big, sprawling trustworthy, kind of deal, littered with juice boxes, and gum, wrappers, leaving no doubt that the driver is your typical suburban housewife

Mundane? OK, but I have a purpose. Twice a week I turn my car into transportation for a seven-kid carpool. Factor in the challenge of leaving home at the last moment possible and arriving before the 8:30 AM bell and ma’am, you have got yourself a mission.

The carpool is composed of one 7-year-old boy, two 8-year-old boys, three 10-year-old boys, one 13-year-old girl and me, the driver. On most days we carry seven backpacks, four baseball caps, assorted baseball cards and comic books, forty pounds of schoolbooks, notebook paper, mechanical pencils, roller ball pens, some contraband grape bubblegum and extra-large jawbreakers, hopefully an ice scraper and hot coffee and a travel mug, and one time we had an unauthorized baby brother.

We need to travel three suburbs west to get to school and the trip normally takes twelve to thirteen minutes. My best time was just under seven. When the roads are bad, and they are today, I need to leave an extra eight minutes for traffic and potential ice slides. Simon has already put me seven minutes behind. After wedging himself into the one seatbelt he shares with his brother, he noticed his left boot had come off in the snow.

Everyone groans “Simon” simultaneously as he unbuckles and hops three feet across the snowy driveway to retrieve the missing boot. The kid is slow, and I know I have some rough driving ahead of me. It’s 8:19 when I get him back into place and push the button to raise the soundproof barrier shield between the front and back seats when the darn thing gets stuck only a quarter of the way up. I hate when that happens. The noise level is unbearable.

I suppose that had the barrier shield been in proper working condition, I may have missed the incident that caused Max to lob a grenade out the rear hatchback. Actually, I did miss it, but my 13-year-old daughter, sitting in the passenger seat next to me, tattles. “Mom, Max just lobbed a grenade out the back door.” He swears it isn’t real. “Geez, Mom. I’m eight years old. It’s just a stink bomb.”

13-year-olds tend to overreact at times. Punctuality means everything to Molly, and at 8:22 AM, she is intent on not walking into school thirty seconds too late in order to blend in with the rest of the crowd. “Mom, if I’m late, I need a pass to get into class and then everyone will notice my stupid curly hair.” She eyes herself in the visor mirror. “Hey, don’t miss that light! Oh yeah, I’m going to dye my hair purple.”

There is a garbage truck in front of us. It is easy enough to cut off and I slide through the barely red light. I hear a “Mom” coming from the rear of the car. The 10-year-olds are singing diarrhea songs. “MOM.” All right already. “What Max?” “I think you just ran over that garbage man’s foot.”

Molly: “Oh, Mom, I am definitely going to be late for school.”

I call for a second opinion. Philip has his nose buried in a comic book and is not a witness. Michael is facing the wrong direction. Jonah is literal and he’s reliable. He has his glasses on, saw the incident and thinks the garbage man was only acting like he got hurt.

Molly: “I believe Jonah. Don’t turn around, Mom.”

We stay on course. It’s 8:27.

We are not the last car to careen into the school driveway. There are at least two mini-vans and a sedan behind us. The kids exit from the car like an endless queue of clowns, tumbling from a tiny circus car. They are all running up the stairs toward the door except for Simon. I push the button next to my steering wheel. At least my ejector seat is working. Simon runs through the doorway and the 8:30 bell rings as he disappears behind it.

Originally published in The Plain Dealer on November 26, 1996

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As we were getting settled and arranging our belongings in the overhead compartment, Jimmy said hello to the handsome young man he recognized in the row in front of us. It was Rich Paul, CEO of Klutch Sports and LeBron James’ sports agent. At the time, LeBron was playing his second stint with the Cleveland Cavaliers.

Jimmy knew him from waiting on him in the men’s department at Saks. When Rich recognized Jimmy, he smiled and stuck out his hand. Jimmy introduced me and we chitchatted a bit about the things people on airplanes chitchat about. He was eager to talk about his daughter, who at the time, he couldn’t believe, was in high school. Rich inquired about me, and I told him I was teaching personal essay writing in a lifelong learning program. He told me he’d always wanted to write.

I teach and I like to give people homework that I think will benefit them, so I asked Rich if he wanted an assignment. He flashed me his dazzling smile and I took it as a yes.

“Here’s an assignment from Abigail Thomas, one of the best teachers I’ve ever had. Write two pages covering ten years of your life, using only three-word sentences.”

He chuckled. “Sounds fun. I’ll try it.”

Rich Paul, to his credit, ended up writing a book. I have yet to accomplished that, but I did get an essay published in the LA Times. It’s about nurturing hope and the possibility of a LeBron James return to the Cavs, and you can read it here.

Read my Los Angeles Times article here:

From Cleveland with Love, Some Advice on Losing LeBron

Dear Los Angeles,

We heard. We’re so sorry. We’ve been there — twice.

I’ve been reading your sentiments online. Half of you are mourning a maestro; the other half are muttering “good riddance.” We never had your ambivalence. In Cleveland, we worship him.

You had eight years and a title in a bubble. We had 11 eleven years, a betrayal, a homecoming, and a parade. I’m not gloating. I’m telling you the grief is survivable, and hope is damn near impossible to kill.

I get it. You knew it was his MO to leave, but it still hurts. I know the stages: the resentment, the relief, the forgiveness — and the strange discovery that you don’t find out what LeBron James meant to your city until he’s gone. We burned jerseys in 2010. You’ll probably just post on social media. Either way, it passes.

Then, last weekend, came the viral photo: LeBron back in Akron with his old high school teammates — one of whom, Brandon Weems, now happens to work in the Cavaliers’ front office. To you, that photo may have read as a jilting in progress. To us, it brought a familiar swell of hope. It’s irrational to expect that maybe this time it will be different, and yet I do. I can’t help myself.

The poet Emily Dickinson wrote that hope is the thing with feathers, a small bird perched in the soul. Ours is 6-foot-9 and wears a size 15 shoe. I know there are more important things to worry about — democracy, the climate, your uncle’s weak heart. And yet I’m giddy to be distracted by the fact that LeBron has told the Lakers he won’t be back, and that his agent, Rich Paul, another Clevelander, says Cleveland is in the running to become his new old home team.

This would be LeBron’s third stint with the Cleveland Cavaliers, and three is a magic number. Three is what you count to when you hold hands with your best friend and jump into icy cold water.

My son Adam cautions me to temper my expectations:. “Mom, figure that he’ll go with the Warriors. Then you won’t be disappointed if he doesn’t come back to the Cavs.” The only reason I got interested in LeBron in the first place is Adam. He was 14 fourteen in 2002 and talked me into the 45-minute drive to Akron to see a game he considered a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Seventeen-year-old LeBron James was being described as a basketball phenom. “Mom, actual NBA players go to his games. Just to watch him play.” This LeBron kid was “going to be the biggest basketball deal in the world.”

So, we went. GPS was not on a screen in our car, and our flip phones weren’t helpful, but we found our way to St. Vincent-–St. Mary High School, and we watched LeBron lead his team to a 79-47 victory over the neighborhood high school team. The losing players, it seemed, could not have been more thrilled to be on a court with LeBron.

Adam had to explain a lot about what was going on. He was more patient than I would have expected him to be, and some 24 years later, he’s still my go-to source for explanations about the game and its players. But I caught the LeBron bug at that game (and the basketball bug along with it) and haven’t lost it since.

The teammates in that photo are the boys from that gym, grown now and still at his side. The man has a streak of loyalty — but only LeBron knows to whom it’s owed and when it’s the driving force behind his moves.

While Adam might have a thing or two to teach me about basketball, I have something to teach him about hope. Los Angeles, you’ll learn this too. Hope isn’t something to suppress just because disappointment may be on the horizon. Hope is something to nurture and cherish. The dream of one more championship parade, on one of the dozen perfect-weather days Cleveland is allotted each year, lifts my spirits no matter how remote the possibility.

Whether or not LeBron comes home, hope has already done its work. My ever-rational son, who cautioned me to brace for LeBron to choose the Warriors, texted me the other day: The insiders are calling Cleveland the team to beat.

Adam and I are counting to three.

I had low expectations that he would like it. I’m a mediocre gift-giver at best. I often resort to Amazon suggestions for the “best gift for a 40-year-old woman” or a trendy magazine’s picks for what’s cool for the toddler or geriatric set. But I’m trying to step up my game.

Jimmy has a way of finding a gift that, like a good season finale, is both surprising and obvious. I’m trying to learn from him.

How My Husband Chooses Great Gifts:

1. He pays close attention to who you are and what you want and is very good at noticing and remembering. It’s uncanny that he will remember something I’ve casually picked up in a store, then placed back on the shelf. If I mention something in passing, he will take note. Oftentimes I don’t even remember that I’d mentioned it, but he does.

2. Jimmy has a professional retail background and a bit of OCD, so he notices every aspect of every purchase. If the purchase is online, he scrutinizes every detail. He’ll get out a measuring tape to sketch out the exact size of an object and look closely at the inseam and the rise in a garment. I’d never heard of a “rise,” before I knew my husband. He’ll look at color, fabric, whether there are batteries required and if they’re included. When you go to the description of the object and there’s a place to click “more,” he clicks more and reviews all the information carefully. For in-person purchases, he’ll examine every individual available piece of the identical clothing in the same size, because even identical items vary.

3. The surprise is part of the gift. When I buy someone a gift, I can’t wait for them to open it! I’m impulsive. My husband might buy me something for Valentine’s Day in December and keep his mouth shut for two months. On the day he’s giving me the present, he’ll place it somewhere obvious for me to find, but not too obvious.

4. Every gift is presented in the most exciting way. There’s always perfectly folded wrapping paper and hand-tied bows. Once, he concealed a jewelry box in a series of nesting boxes, so I had to keep opening box after box until I finally got to the tiny box holding a pair of diamond earrings.

So, how did I do this Father’s Day? I noticed when my husband said he was sick of drinking out of plastic water bottles and thought my Owala water bottle seemed like a good idea. It’s a dumb little thing, but I was pretty confident this was something he wanted and something he wouldn’t get around to buying for himself. He loves green, so that’s the color I chose for the bottle.

When the box arrived in the mail, he saw it, but I just nonchalantly grabbed it, hid it in the laundry room and pretended he didn’t see it. It was the best I could do. Then, in true Lori fashion, I wrapped the carton containing the water bottle in some old Christmas wrapping paper I found at the bottom of a closet. No bow.

Early on Father’s Day morning, I presented my gift. Even before he unwrapped it, he said: “I was wondering why you got another water bottle. I just figured you needed two.” So much for the surprise. But he was happy to receive this gift and thinks he will use it.

I think I did okay! Do you have any gift-giving strategies? If you do, share in comments.

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Please hit the ❤️ button at the bottom of this newsletter if you like it here! —Lori

My hometown paper, The Cleveland Plain Dealer, has published five essays that I’ve written about being Jewish. Many of my writer friends report the media outlets they’re pitching refuse to publish pieces from a Jewish perspective. Bravo to the Cleveland Plain Dealer. For those who didn’t see it, here’s my essay published on Cleveland.com.

If you read a newspaper like the Cleveland Plain Dealer that does publish articles from loud and proud Jews, drop a comment.

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Please hit the ❤️ button at the bottom of this newsletter if you like it here! —Lori

I’ve waited for babies to be born, for those babies to toddle their first steps, for those children to head off to kindergarten and then waited for the newly minted high school graduates to hear about college admission.

I’ve waited in the drug store line as the customer in front of me figures out how to scan their credit card, in the ATM line when the machine has eaten someone else’s card and in the department store line as the clerk struggles with an uncooperative bar code.

I’ve waited for the bread to rise, the water to boil, the butter to melt. I’ve waited for fever to resolve, knee pain to ease, headache to evaporate.

I’ve waited for the sun to set, the rain to stop, the fog to lift, the snow to accumulate.

I’ve waited in airport terminals for planes delayed by weather, mechanical problems, flight crew issues. I’ve waited for the train to arrive and the light to turn green.

I’ve waited on the telephone enduring the beatless thump of digitized music, the cheery computer voice entreating me to be patient and justifying the number of others waiting along with me, assuring me I will not lose my place in line.

I’ve waited for the spinning rainbow icon on my computer screen to disappear.

I’ve waited for answers, and I’ve waited for questions.

I’ve waited for the other shoe to drop and for the streak of bad luck to end.

I’ve waited for results from CT scans, blood tests, an HIV test.

I’ve waited for endings of sermons and movies and lectures, of meals and celebrations and funerals.

I’ve waited while standing, while sitting, and in virtual lines.

I’ve waited in rooms specifically designed for this purpose, hunkered down, abiding my fate, diligently listening for my name to be called, only to go on to another room where I will wait once more for the physician to arrive, then wait for the test results and the diagnosis to settle.

I’ve waited for children to grow up, parents to die and husbands to get well. Some of these things have happened.

I’ve waited with impatience and frustration, with desire and with dread. I’ve waited with loss, with grief, with anticipation. I’ve waited with hunger and with nervousness, with confusion and with clarity.

I’ve waited with people I love, and I’ve waited with strangers. I’ve waited in silence, and I’ve waited amidst the commotion of other people’s noise.

And now I’m waiting for you to get home so we can run an important errand and then decide what to have for dinner and plan a family gathering and while I’m waiting, a butterfly flies by the window and now it’s gone.

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Please hit the ❤️ button at the bottom of this newsletter if you like it here! —Lori

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My mother, Sylvia Elizabeth Weiss, on her wedding day on September 16, 1944. No white dress!

She’d gotten to the point where change of any kind was terrifying. Her little apartment felt safe and comfortable, her cozy blanket, her couch, her television shows. New things scared her, and she didn’t like going into unfamiliar territory. When her daytime home health care aide bought her to see my new house, I was unable to coax her out of the car to come inside.

My mother was wary of new faces and even acquaintances whom she’d known for years turned into strangers. She never grasped the fact that her husband of 75 years, my father, had died and left her alone and it would have been too cruel to force her to reconcile the world she inhabited with such a difficult reality.

The sweetest gentlest nicest dentist in the world (shout out to Dr. Salkovitch!) was able to cajole her to open her mouth wide, but only for a few seconds, not nearly enough time to allow him to attend to an abscess that needed medical attention. He tried and tried to convince her and although she smiled at him, she would not open her mouth again.

Occasionally, a part of her personality would poke through, and she’d stick her finger in my face to warn me that it was not my job to take care of her, it was her job to take care of me. She once told my son that although she couldn’t remember his name, she did remember that she loved him.

When her anxiety got the best of her, she’d shiver and shake, and her face puckered with worry. It was impossible to understand what demons were torturing her or why she was upset. I couldn’t tell her everything was fine. Clearly, it wasn’t. Sometimes she’d sift around in a drawer of costume jewelry, pulling necklaces and bracelets out, trying to make sense of things. She was no longer the fiercely protective mother, the immaculate housekeeper, the preparer of briskets and holiday meals and her famous chocolate chip cookie bars.

Miraculously, I landed upon a phrase that soothed her every time I said it: Everything is the way it’s supposed to be.

In the way her posture shifted when I said it, I could see I’d connected with something inside of her.

Really? she asked. The brown flecks in her eyes sparkled as usual.

Yes, I said it to myself as much as to her.

I say it to myself still and the earth keeps turning on its access, and sometimes when I wake up in morning, I pull the covers back over my head, and my mother is no longer here for me to tell her that I love her. Still, everything is the way it is supposed to be.

Please hit the ❤️ button at the bottom of this newsletter if you like it here! —Lori

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There is one major restriction of a Passover meal—it must not include any foods made with flour. The rules of this Jewish holiday prohibit the consumption of leavened bread to remind us that our ancestors were forced to flee Egypt so quickly they couldn’t wait for their bread to rise. So, no bread, pasta, tortillas and unfortunately, no noodle kugel.

The store does bill this as a “Passover-style” dinner, so maybe someone understands the faux pas here. Also, potato pancakes are a traditional food for Chanukah, not Passover, but as long as you swap out one ingredient—flour—for matzo meal, it’s kosher to eat potato pancakes at your Passover meal. I think I’m safe to assume there’s no matzo meal in the Italian grocery store’s potato pancake recipe.

I shop at this store a lot, but I’ve never ordered anything from their Passover catering menu. I once inquired about the brisket, and it turns out the brisket is cooked but not sliced. The hardest part about preparing brisket is the slicing. Who would order a cooked but unsliced brisket? Probably the same person who would order noodle kugel for Passover dinner.

I’ve thought about letting the catering department know about this obvious glitch in their Passover menu, but I haven’t. I’m grateful the store owners recognize that not everyone in the world celebrates Easter and I don’t want to offend them by pointing out their noodle kugel (I’ve tried it, and it is delicious) although offered with the best of intentions, is completely inappropriate for a Passover meal.

If I did have a conversation with the store owner, I would explain that all Jewish foods are not created equal. Noodle kugel should not make an appearance at Passover, just as matzo should not be on the table for Chanukah. Gefilte fish (a fish cake made from chopped fish and matzo meal and served with horseradish) is mandatory for Passover but may be served on other Jewish occasions. Likewise, potato pancakes are compulsory for Chanukah, but may also make an appearance for Rosh Hashana or Shabbat. Matzoh ball soup fits the bill for Shabbat and of course, for Passover. All varieties of blintzes and bagels with a shmear work for the Yom Kippur Break the Fast meal but would never do for a proper holiday evening meal.

If all this sounds a bit confusing and complicated, it is and the most complicated and difficult of all the holiday meals to prepare is the Passover meal because it is more than a meal. Even before dinner starts, there is a historical storytelling with specific foods eaten in specific order according to tradition. Parsley (symbol of spring) is dipped in salt water (symbol of tears of the slaves in Egypt); charoset, a mixture of chopped apples, walnuts and wine to resemble the mortar used by the slaves in Egypt is spread on matzo; horseradish to symbolize the bitterness of slavery is eaten alone then combined with charoset to balance the bitterness of slavery with the sweetness of freedom as instructed by Rabbi Hillel in the first century BCE; four glasses of wine are consumed.

All of this, I would explain to the store owner, happens before the gefilte fish and matzo ball soup courses are served.

But explanations only go so far. It is impossible to understand the logistics—and the joys—of a Passover Seder if you’ve never attended one. On second thought, maybe I just skip the entire explanation offered above and simply invite the owner of the gourmet Italian grocery store to my next Seder.

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PS-

A friend reminded me about her favorite of all my Passover recipes, Carrot Citrus Horseradish. Serve it up with gelfilte fish or anything else that could use a citrusy kick!

CARROT CITRUS HORSERADISH

INGREDIENTS:

1 pound carrots, washed and peeled

½ pound horseradish root, washed and peeled

½ cup sugar

½ cup white vinegar

1 cup water

3 ½ tablespoons lemon juice

1 tablespoon lemon zest

½ teaspoon salt

INSTRUCTIONS:

1. Boil carrots for 5 minutes

2. Combine sugar, vinegar and water. Boil until sugar dissolves.

3. In a food processor, process horseradish, then add carrots, lemon zest, lemon juice, some vinegar solution ad salt.

4. Add any remaining vinegar solution seal and refrigerate for 24 hours

WARNING! The steam that escapes from food processor is very strong and can burn your eyes!

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At least that’s what the people who bought the house from me thought. After they signed all the contracts and were planning to move in, they heard that my husband had died in the house. This was not true. He had died in the hospital, on a morphine drip, his best friend sitting beside him while I lie outside his room on a bench in the corridor, no longer able to witness him as he left this life.

But the buyers of my house heard otherwise and there’s no changing someone’s mind just because what they believe is not factual. The truth is that they should have been so lucky as to have Barry haunt their house. I can only imagine his ghost would be even more fun to live with than a human Barry who had to worry about pesky things like getting to work on time, filling the car up with gas and explaining the unexplainable to three little kids.

The whole reason I sold the house was because Barry was no longer there. He wasn’t anywhere.

But, like I said, facts are not particularly persuasive to anyone, including me. I still keep looking for him and expect I might find him somewhere. I look for a sign from him, that he understands and approves of what I’m doing with my life.

When this doesn’t work, I try to imagine old man Barry and what he’d be cranky about. Politics? Arthritis? The stupid tattoos all the young people are so fond of?

My last resort is mining for memories. The mundane ones are the most difficult. I try to remember Sunday morning pancakes or arguing over who gets up for the two a.m. feeding. I do remember the time he revenge farted in the four-year-old’s bedroom and I can almost feel the heaviness of the air as we sat under a bridge perched on his motorcycle waiting for the rain to stop.

It’s all I have and it’s not nearly enough. Memories are so flimsy and ephemeral. Like ghosts.

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Please hit the ❤️ button at the bottom of this newsletter if you like it here! —Lori

Dear Lebron,

There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you. We’re good now. You did what you said you were going to do. After you left Cleveland for Miami, you returned to Cleveland to give us a shot at a championship title, and I know it wasn’t easy. You’re still the guy who battles gravity and wins. With grace.

But that’s not what I wanted to write you about.

A few years ago, I was tutoring a kid in the Juvenile Detention Center. Edward was seventeen years old and completely illiterate. He was a polite and sweet boy, and I imagined that even with his imposingly large body, others could talk him into doing something not in his best interest. Edward had the name Rosemary tattooed on his sizeable forearm so he could copy it when he needed to spell out his mother’s name.

Edward really wanted to learn to read. He said as much to everyone, and I decided to take him on.

There wasn’t much that Edward and I had in common, but we were both from Cleveland and we both loved basketball and were both a little obsessed with you. He once shook your hand at a water park, and I once had a letter published in a local newspaper begging you to stay in Cleveland. You didn’t. Edward was still a fan. I wasn’t.

I struggled to find a book that might interest a seventeen-year-old boy with a first grade reading level. I found a book called On the Court with Lebron James by Matt Christopher. Even though the book was well above Edward’s reading level, I figured it would still count as reading even if I read it to him out loud.

As many heroes’ journeys begin, yours started with a rough childhood. There were drug deals and murders and moving often from place to place. Although, I never asked Edward any personal questions, I assumed the difficulties of your childhood were familiar territory for him. Both of us were invested in your story, but for different reasons.

Lebron, you had just won a championship ring with the Heat, and I no longer found joy in watching basketball. No more waking up to a front-page news article about you doing something statistically impossible. When you bum-rushed the basket or took a balletic leap toward the net, it was for someone else. My life no longer revolved around basketball. Not to mention our team was stinking up the court.

I guess I was protecting myself since it was easier to feel bitter than watch you hang out with your new teammates, smiling and laughing with them on the bench. But Edward, a boy without much chance for a happy ending for his own story, did not share my feelings. He was happy for you, happy for you to win a championship ring. It’s what you always wanted and that made Edward happy. Edward, in his orange jumpsuit and man/boy body was magnanimous.

It’s easier for me to be your fan now, Lebron. You’re back in my city and I hope this time you stay in Cleveland. Either way, I hope that Edward did get his wish of learning to read and is out and about and cheering loudly at the victory parade.

Very truly yours,

Section 125, Row 14, Seat Number 7

PS from 2026: Any truth to the rumor you’d like to finish up your career with the Cavs?

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Please hit the ❤️ button at the bottom of this newsletter if you like it here! —Lori

I’m still a fan of this advice. So often, what seems obvious to everyone else remains murky to me. Perhaps, unlike me, they are not comfortable with confusion.

We all have those people in our lives who are expert on every topic du jour. One week it’s transgender surgeries, the next week it’s Middle East policy, wait a minute and they are experts on vaccines, police training techniques, and the Constitution. These people are 100% certain they are correct, and these people are not to be trusted.

It’s important to wallow through confusion before reaching a level of certainty. In that spirit, I read and listen to people smarter than me. There is no shortage of these kinds of people.

Sarah Tuttle-Singer is a person who formulates my thoughts better than I can do for myself. Here are her thoughts on the fracture of truth over the death of Alex Pretti. Sarah has a gift for stating the obvious, which is never obvious until she says it.

Here are some others who light the way for me:

• Akhil Amar on the Amarica’s Constitution podcast. Akhil is a Yale law professor and prolific writer and deep thinker on the subject of originalism in our Constitution.

• Dan Senor, deep thinker on Jewish dilemmas and issues and host of Call Me Back podcast.

• Sam Harris for mind-blowing smartness that’s always a little bit over my head. Sam is great on politics and I also use his Waking Up meditation app.

• The Daily Briefing podcast from The Times of Israel for a daily perspective on Israeli current events.

• Jeremy Caplan on taming technology at Wonder Tools.

• Dinner ideas from Emily Nunn at the Department of Salad. I mean, Hot Tater Tot and Cold Greens Salad with Pepperoncini Dressing?? Yes, please!

• Important life advice from Heather Havrilesky, essayist and writer of Ask Polly, advice column on Substack.

You have your own cadre of magicians who articulate truth and doubt and shed light on these turbulent times. Drop some of your faves in the comments if you’ve got some good ones!

Please hit the ❤️ button at the bottom of this newsletter if you like it here! —Lori

Sneaky Pete′s is an authentic Florida establishment meaning no one in the kitchen gives a shit about locally sourced produce or grass-fed anything. The place is always comfortably dark. Florida sunshine infiltrates nothing here.

The evening my friends and I showed up happened to be karaoke night. I’m always impressed by anyone who can stand up in front of a roomful of people and sing. Well, almost anyone. The first singer was a woman who did an adequate job performing “I Wanna Dance with Somebody.” Way better than I could do, but nothing that merited more than polite applause.

Our burgers and chicken wings arrived, and we dug in. Delicious and greasy and requiring many napkins. It was easy to sit around, munching on our food, sipping generous, cocktails, and critique the brave souls who possessed enough audacity to get up on the stage and sing.

A couple of young girls, definitely someone’s granddaughters, climbed up on the stage, all goofy and giggly, and performed “I Will Survive.” While none of us in the Medicare eligible group mentioned the obvious irony of young girls imagining their toughest days now, we all thought it.

What happened next was one of those things that could only happen in a place where retirement communities are plentiful and people still on life’s upswing are around only long enough to visit their older relatives.

A man leaning heavily on a walker hobbled up towards the stage and someone kindly brought the microphone down to his level. I didn’t exactly snicker, but I raised my eyebrows. Oh, this should be good was what all of us thought, but we were polite enough not to say it out loud.

But this dude! This old decrepit dude! He belted out “Don’t Stop Believin’,” the old Journey rock classic, like he was in a sold-out arena. The fact he was hanging on to a walker did not in the least inhibit the magical fairy dust that came glittering out of his mouth. He was creaky and feeble and broken and that only enhanced his performance. His passion filled me with a kind of hope I didn’t even know was possible.

If you’re lucky, you get to be old. Your body will change and your body will fail and sometimes a passion for demonstrating your artistic gift survives.

As I witnessed a karaoke singer with a walker discover how to keep his art alive and vibrant, it transformed me from sniggering mean girl to wide-eyed septuagenarian groupie.

Here at Sneaky Pete’s, the cynical old people eating wings and burgers believed and I was one of them!

Please hit the ❤️ button at the bottom of this newsletter if you like it here! —Lori

In 2025, I wrote a total of 22 essays, including this one, for my Substack newsletter Tuesdays with Lori. Of those, 9 touched on the topic of being Jewish. That is almost 43% of all the essays I published on Substack in 2025. In 2024, I wrote 7 essays about being Jewish.

Mostly, I just have a lot of opinions that I’m 80% convinced are correct. (Notice how confidently I made up that 80% number. Expertise, baby.)

I am not an expert because I studied Jewish history, culture or religion. I know very little about the Torah and Talmud. To my assertion in my last newsletter that Chanukah is not a religious holiday, my friend R. very ably pointed out exactly how wrong I was.

Lori,

Chanukah is most assuredly a religious holiday. It is, however, of rabbinic origin, rather than Toraic. It is more than 2000 years old and is discussed in the Talmud., where the discussion begins with the words “Mai Chanukah (what is Chanukah)?

The celebration includes not only the brachot, or blessings which must precede candle lighting, but also a special daily Torah reading during Shachrit (the morning prayers) and the recitation of Hallel.

It also morphed from a celebration of the Maccabean military victory to a celebration of the miracle of the oil lasting 8 days, probably because a holiday celebrating Jewish military might after the Romans ascended to power would have been incredibly dangerous and unwise.

Hope this helps.

Have a happy Chanukah.

R.

Okay. What R. said.

I arrived at my expertise if not by accident, then by DNA. According to genetic testing, I am 98% Ashkenazi Jew. My mother raised me to always be on the lookout for anyone who might treat me as being less-than because I was a Jew. She had a formative experience at 18-years-old when she was working in a department store, and a gaggle of girls, upon hearing she was Jewish, checked her head for horns.

In the seventh grade, I led a one-person revolt against my English teacher who assigned homework on the first night of Passover which I thought would interfere with my family’s Passover Seder. A few years later, when I was 16, I had a formative experience myself, living in Israel as an exchange student. I watched fighter jets streak across the azure, blue Israeli sky on the first day of the 1973 Yom Kippur War.

As much as possible, I try to keep up with the politics of being a Jew in a non-Jewish world, but I am far from a political maven (a Yiddish word meaning someone with admirable expertise). Mostly my expertise is derived from chutzpah (another Yiddish word describing a brash and arrogant attitude).

Jews in the United States, and in the world, are a tiny minority. I’m not trying to be a spokesperson. I’m simply someone with opinions and thoughts about what it’s like to be part of this particular minority.

And I’m compelled to express them.

My favorite description of what kind of expert I am comes from another friend who is also a reader of my columns.

Lori - in my house growing up we only respected two kinds of Jews those that could read Torah and Tough Jews. I don’t know if you can read Torah but you are one Tough Jew . I loved what you wrote, you made me feel proud!

Am Yisrael Chai

Love, A.

Tough Jew—that’s my brand of expertise. Perhaps it’s not all that accidental after all.

Please hit the ❤️ button at the bottom of this newsletter if you like it here! —Lori

Chanukah, I tried to explain to a person very unfamiliar with all things Jewish, is not a religious holiday.

It takes a lot of chutzpah—also not something my non-Jewish associate understands—for me, a Jewish atheist who isn’t very knowledgeable about Judaism and its holidays, to make that kind of assertion. But that doesn’t stop me.

Chanukah celebrates a military victory by a band of zealots, the Maccabees, a group of Jewish freedom fighters who overcame the army of the Greek king Antiochus in the 2nd century BCE. The miracle of Chanukah is that a tiny bit of oil that should only have burned for one day, lasted for eight days allowing the Maccabees more time to prepare and ultimately be victorious.

I love the symbolism of the miraculous oil and all it implies about allowing light to come into a darkened world. Oil also coincidentally lends itself very well as an ingredient in the traditional Chanukah foods of latkes—fried potato pancake—and donuts.

On every one of the eight nights of Chanukah, we light a corresponding number of candles on the Menorah. The Shamash, or the ninth candle, sometimes called the Helper Candle, is the candle used to light the other candles. It’s all very specific. Of course, there are blessings we say over the lighting of the candles.

This year, the political implications of the Festival of Lights have multiplied exponentially. Recently released videos show executed hostages Hersh Goldberg-Polin, Carmel Gat, Ori Danino, Eden Yerushalmi, Alex Lobanov, and Almog Sarusi lighting Chanukah candles and chanting blessings over a makeshift Menorah. Please note this is not a metaphor: the six Israelis were attempting to bring the light of the holiday into the tunnel where they were being held captive.

Then, just days ago, gunmen killed at least sixteen people at a Chanukah by the Sea celebration at Bondi Beach in Sydney, Australia.

Despite the horrific Chanukah massacre and perhaps even because of it, we must continue to light the candles on the Menorah. The Menorah signifies the inextinguishable light of the Jewish people.

There are even non-Jews, like my friends Judith and Tom, who display a Chanukah menorah in their window. This year, more than ever, I appreciate my nonJewish allies who are not afraid to call out antisemitism and show their solidarity with the Jewish people.

The photo at the top of the page was taken on the eighth night of Chanukah in Kiel, Germany by Rachel Posner, the wife of the town rabbi. Despite the fact that the Posners lived across the street from Nazi headquarters, they displayed a menorah in their window.

Here is a photo of what Rachel wrote on the back of the photo.

“Judah, perish,

says the flag—

‘Judah lives forever!’

replies the light.”

Please hit the ❤️ button at the bottom of this newsletter if you like it here! —Lori

Last week lasted 8 days for me. I boarded a flight in Hong Kong on Saturday at 10:30 AM and arrived home in Cleveland on Saturday at 2 PM. There were two Saturdays in my week.

It’s Tuesday and I’m still super jet lagged.

Tomorrow, I’ll hop on another flight so that I may spend the Thanksgiving holiday with family. This is the holiday, my 2 1/2-year-old grandson reminds me, when it’s traditional to name what we are grateful for.

THREE THINGS I’M GRATEFUL FOR:

1. All the live hostages have been extricated from the tunnels of Gaza and have been returned home to Israel. Thank you to the orange man who did not get my vote, but accomplished this extraordinary feat. I will forever remain grateful to him and will continue to disagree with almost all of his policies.

2. My husband, Jimmy, and I successfully completed a journey to Asia and we both remained healthy and accident-free throughout the entire three-week trip. The trip has been planned for almost two years and I spent an inordinate amount of time worrying about many potential catastrophes which did not occur.

3. I am so! so! so ! thankful that I will get to hug and kiss my adorable and highly articulate little grandson in person.

On this Thanksgiving, I wish you joy and gratitude and delight. I’d love to know what you might be grateful for. If you have a moment, share what you’re grateful for in the comments.

Please hit the ❤️ button at the bottom of this newsletter if you like it here! —Lori

Lots of people are impressed with me because I have a meditation practice, which reminds me! goddamnit! I haven’t meditated yet today. Hold on —-I’ll be right back.

If you’re a person who wants to meditate, but hasn’t been successful in beginning your practice, here’s the reason. There’s always something more pressing to do. Easily, the most difficult thing about establishing a meditation practice is setting aside the time to meditate. That’s it. Once you set aside the time, the rest is quite simple.

The fact that you haven’t “found” the time to meditate is not a reflection on your poor character. It doesn’t mean you’re a procrastinator or lazy or unambitious. Mortal beings, by definition, have limited amounts of time. Therefore, it’s not difficult to find many more interesting and important things to do than sitting around and doing nothing. Conversely, people who do practice meditation are not necessarily superior people, always focused and organized. We’re just people who recognize our thoughts don’t necessarily have our best interest at heart and are learning to live with that concept as gracefully as we can.

The idea of sitting perfectly still, eyes and mouth closed, instead of improving a situation or accomplishing the next task on your very long to-do list is challenging. I know. Even though I strongly believe in the power of meditation and its ability to resolve and clarify the most important issues of my life, when it’s time for me to sit down and meditate, I resist. It always more important to start the project I’m behind the eight ball on now rather than ten or twenty minutes from now after I’ve sat in meditation. Or I need to go for a walk. Or I should really make that phone call I’ve been putting off for weeks. My inclination is to quickly get up and do those things. Here’s the hard part: I don’t get up. I promise myself I’ll attend to whatever tasks I need to do as soon as I’m done sitting in stillness. I keep my promise.

I know I need to meditate, and I know I need to meditate on a daily basis. I know I am a more efficient and productive person when I meditate. I know I am less consumed with anxiety. I know. I know. I know. Still, it’s difficult to sit down and stop.

The foundation to establishing a meditation practice is accepting that it’s never easy to make yourself sit. You will always have something that seems more important to do. But once you’ve got a few days in a row of meditation practice under your belt, your confidence in your ability to sit does grow. There is something to be said for momentum.

I have found an unexpected silver lining. A few weeks after I began to have a consistent meditation practice, I noticed something odd. Suddenly, I had more time available in my day. My to-do list, still too long for any mortal being to accomplish, existed, but the priorities of what needed to be done immediately—what could wait and acceptance of what would never get done—became more obvious and easier for me to accept.

To the person who wants to start a meditation practice, but has never managed to quite get it going, I urge you to start again. Be stern with yourself when your first sit down to practice and then immediately be kind. Congratulate yourself for doing something subtle and powerful. A meditation practice is a practice of starting again, over and over, even if you never get it quite right.

If you’re interested in the specifics of my practice, just ask me in the comments below. And if you have an established meditation practice, share your secrets of success!

Please hit the ❤️ button at the bottom of this newsletter if you like it here! —Lori

My granddaughter is on her JV Volleyball team. Last week I visited her in Chicago and was lucky enough to see her score a dozen points for her team, half of them unreturned serves. Girls’ volleyball—at least at this JV level— appears to be more about team spirit and support than athletic prowess. After every serve or attempt to return the volleyball, every girl on the team rallies to support the player who made the most recent play or serve. It matters not about the result. The server might not get the ball over the net, but every member of the team rushes to high-five their teammate. In pre-Title 9 days when I grew up, I never experienced this kind of team camaraderie. I can’t even imagine shy insecure junior high me, part of a group of girls who weren’t necessarily my friends surrounding me with this kind of support and approval.

Zahra (not her real name) is of Pakistani descent. Pakistan doesn’t recognize the state of Israel and has longstanding staunch support for a state of Palestine. If Zahra isn’t wearing her team volleyball shirt, she’s wearing a shirt prominently featuring a map of Israel filled in to look like a watermelon. The watermelon represents Palestinian identity and resistance because its colors—red, green, white, and black—match the Palestinian flag. A map of Israel shown as a watermelon symbolizes the eradication of the state of Israel in favor of it becoming a Palestinian state. From the river to the sea.

My granddaughter’s school is about a half-mile from her house and often when I come to visit, I accompany her, my daughter and their gigantic black dog on the morning walk to school. On the way back home after the school drop-off, we saw volleyball teammate Zahra, her little sister and her parents approach. Zahra’s father wore a Keffiyeh.

“He’s always worn a Keffiyeh,” my daughter told me. “It doesn’t bother me at all.”

Zahra was wearing her signature watermelon tee shirt.

My stomach constricted, my shoulders tensed, my heart pounded, my fists balled up of their own accord. My visceral reaction caught me by surprise. It was the classic fight or flight response that happens when a person perceives a threat or danger.

The four of them walked right past us without any acknowledgment. My daughter looked over at me. “They haven’t acknowledged my existence since October 7.”

Although the official school policy prohibits wearing clothing that displays any symbols related to hate speech or violence, the administrators have decided that a map of Israel filled in with a watermelon is neither hateful nor violent. Denying Jewish peoplehood and delegitimizing Israel apparently is in the eye of the beholder. To add further irony to the school’s position, my other granddaughter was asked to replace her backpack with a Taylor Swift photo on it because the school does not endorse celebrity culture. Yet every day, my twelve-year-old Jewish granddaughter is forced to face down the hateful watermelon shirt.

At recess, Zahra often suggests that they have a conversation where she can explain how Israel is the aggressor and needs to be stopped. The school counselor proposed both girls attend a joint counseling session, a mini replica of Middle East peace negotiations, with just as much chance for success. My daughter has firmly informed the administration that under no circumstances is this to happen.

At the volleyball game, I noticed Zahra immediately. She was wearing the team shirt, the same shirt worn by every girl on the team, the only difference being the last name written on the back. Her father, wearing his Kaffiyeh, stood behind the court.

When my granddaughter stepped into the server position, the girls sang out in unison: Serve it up, Thundergirl, serve it up! Clap clap.

I couldn’t tell whether Zahra simply mouthed the words or whether she really chimed in with the rest of the team. Once my granddaughter lobbed the ball over the net and scored the point, every girl on the team rushed over to her. I thought surely Zahra would not high-five her mortal enemy. But on the volleyball court, life plays out differently. Every girl on the team high-fived my granddaughter, including Zahra.

Zahra and my granddaughter belong to the same tribe of volleyball girls. This world revolves around serves and spikes, bumps and assists, and cheering on your teammate even when she bobbles the ball or her serve never clears the net and even when your teammate is your mortal enemy.

This article was published in the Cleveland Jewish News, October 17, 2025.

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Jewish identity defies categorization. Judaism predates the modern concepts of race, religion and nationality. I don’t describe Judaism as my faith. My DNA test shows that I am 99% Ashkenazi Jew. It’s so much more than my brand of religion.

Yesterday, when the hostages were finally freed from the dungeons of Gaza after 738 days, I felt a visceral sense of relief

“I feel like my chest has become less constricted,” I told my daughter.

“I know,” she said. “So much relief. I didn’t even realize how much tension I was carrying.”

Almost every Jewish person I know has made similar comments. It’s as if we’ve all been collectively holding our breath since our people were slaughtered, raped and kidnapped on October 7, 2023. So many of us stayed up all night, watching and waiting.

When I watched the hostages, many of them draped in Israeli flags, reunite with family members, I shed tears of sorrow and pride.

Am Yisrael Chai is a Hebrew phrase that translates to The people of Israel live. But it means much more—the phrase captures what it means to be Jewish. It means being part of a people that collectively weep and celebrate. Yesterday we celebrated.

Imprinted in my DNA is a deep and abiding love for this life, passion for my people, a sense of empathy for those who struggle and a strong commitment to being exactly who I am: a Jew, a mother, an optimist.

Welcome home: Matan Angrast, Gali Berman, Ziv Berman, Elkana Bohbot, Rom Braslavski, Nimrod Cohen, Ariel Cunio, David Cunio, Evyatar David, Guy Gilboa-Dalal, Maksym Harkin, Eitan Horn, Segev Kalfon, Bar Kupershtein, Omri Miran, Eitan Mor, Yosef-Chaim Ohana, Alon Ohel, Avinatan Or and Matan Zangauker

Am Yisrael Chai!

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“My grandfather was ethnically Jewish,” Kathy tells me.

“I think that also makes you ethnically Jewish,” I tell her back. I hope this doesn’t offend her. Kathy was raised as a Jehovah’s Witness and has left the fold.

“I never thought about it like that,” she says.

There are other kinds of Jews. There are the more tentative kind of Jews, the ones who happened to be “born to a secular Jewish family” or their “father was Jewish, nonpracticing, and mother was Christian.” There are generically Jewish Jews, genetically Jewish Jews and twice-a-year Jews (those who attend synagogue only on the holidays of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur).

There are Jews and then there are Jews. I happen to be the loud and proud kind of Jew, the kind that is unabashedly Zionist and speaks out about my belief that Israel has a right not only to exist as a Jewish homeland but has the right to defend itself. My belief does not waiver as I condemn vigilante Israelis who attempt to enforce their own brand of illegal justice. My belief does not depend on who holds the office of prime minister.

In a post-October 7 world, another variety of Jew emerged, the “as a Jew” kind of Jew who uses their connection to Judaism for street cred. This is the actress who in her acceptance speech at the Emmy Awards said: “It is my obligation as a Jewish person to distinguish Jews from the state of Israel. Our religion and our culture is such an important and long-standing institution that is really separate to this sort of ethnonationalist state.”

These Jews join the crowd who accuse Israel of genocide or scream blood libel and want you to know they are not my kind of Jew.

As the saying goes, “Two Jews, three opinions.” Different points of view are what make the Jewish world go round. So let us all, every kind of Jew—the ones who are loud and proud like me and the ones who may not feel as connected— find a way to cling to this wisp of hope and pray in our own individual ways, that on this second anniversary of the October 7 massacre, all those being held captive in Gaza may soon be set free.

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I can’t say for sure, but I don’t think that the Yom Kippur War erupted because of my decision not to fast.

I was sixteen, and five thousand years of Jewish tradition meant nothing to me. So, on that particular Yom Kippur morning, I decided to slice myself a generous wedge of dense bread, slather it with butter, and top it with avocados I’d picked on my way home from school the previous day.

For the past month, I’d been living with a family of Israeli farmers on a moshav near the beach town of Netanya. Somehow or other, I’d talked my parents into letting me go to Israel as a foreign exchange student for six months, ostensibly to learn Hebrew and immerse myself in Israeli culture. In reality, it served as an escape from the suffocating experience of my suburban high school.

After eating the last bits of what some four decades later would commonly be known as “avocado toast,” I went outside and immediately straightened to attention—startled not by the voice of God reprimanding me for violating the sanctity of Yom Kippur, but by something way less subtle and about a million decibels louder.

Overhead, in the flawless blue sky (which I described as “cyanotic blue” in a dramatic letter to my boyfriend back in Cleveland), a band of fighter jets was barreling overhead in a perilously straight flight path. The sight instilled a sense of fear, and also something else—a feeling I wouldn’t recognize for many years.

My memories of what happened next are hazy. Yehuda, my Israeli father, was probably napping after his early-morning chores. Esti, my Israeli sister, was most likely still asleep, having been out late with her friends the night before. But a short time after I saw the planes, the sirens sounded.

In the bomb shelter with my host family, I strained to decipher the Hebrew voices on the radio and the talk of the Israelis sheltering with me. There was no real news, only cryptic messages about which reserve troops were supposed to report. I gathered that all of the men between 18 and 55 were about to evacuate the moshav.

In the weeks that followed, my parents tried desperately to reach me, through gridlocked long distance telephone lines, and convince me to return home. In the United States, my parents had more up-to-date information than I did; in Israel, the government was blocking much of the news of the war.

“Out of the question,” I told them, with all the cockiness of an overly confident teenager. “Why should I come home? I’m sixteen years old. I know how to take care of myself.” Despite my lame logic and imperviousness to my own impermanence, they permitted me to stay.

I later learned that on the morning of Yom Kippur, Israel had intercepted an Egyptian cruise missile near Tel Aviv. The missile had been launched from the Sinai desert, where—just a few weeks earlier—I had traveled with my group of American exchange students. We climbed Mount Sinai, where our counselors told us that Moses had received the Ten Commandments. We snorkeled in the Red Sea that, according to the stories I’d learned as a child, God had once parted. We camped out under the luminous skies of Sharm El Sheikh.

I’d enjoyed the trip, even if I was indifferent to the theological implications. But the surprise attack by Egypt, Syria and a coalition of Arab nations compelled even sixteen-year-old me to think about matters of life and death, if not God. All of the local fathers, brothers and husbands had gone off to fight, and no one knew when they would return. In the Netanya bus station, lists of fallen soldiers were posted near the stalls where passengers boarded. A year and a half from then, I would be starting college, while my Israeli classmates would be entering the IDF.

In the Yom Kippurs that followed, I went back to fasting and even attending services. And I found that the services had new meaning for me: a military assault on Yom Kippur morning is exactly the kind of surprise event that we contemplate over the High Holidays. We recite the Unetaneh Tokef, the powerful prayer with the punch list of how one might perish. Who by fire and who by water? Who by sword and who by beast? Who by strangling and who by stoning? Who will be safe and who will be torn? Who will be calm and who will be tormented?

The great disasters of our lives, I learned in Israel, descend without warning.

I don’t blame myself for not fasting when I was 16, but I fast now. Even though it’s uncomfortable. I get a coffee headache, and can’t shake the thought of a chewy bagel with thick cream cheese.

Yom Kippur is not a fun holiday. You don’t get to decorate a hut or give presents. Fasting acknowledges discomfort in a physical, non-intellectual way. My grandparents and great-grandparents knew that, as did the ancestors of the fighter jet pilots. One day, I hope my grandchildren ponder whether or not it’s worthwhile to fast on Yom Kippur.

A half century after the fact, I can finally name the feeling I experienced on that Yom Kippur of 5734: awe. Not in a supreme being, but in a people with enough mettle to jump into their fighter jets and fight for their lives, and the lives of all Jewish people. Through blood and history, I am connected to my ancestral homeland, Israel: a country of people strong enough to respond with resolute certainty when faced with an existential dilemma.

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On Being Jewish Now

Why I Fast on Yom Kippur

This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here…

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a year ago · 4 likes · 2 comments · Lori Wald