How to Make a Fantasy Football League Draft Holy

By Susan Esther Barnes

My husband has been in the same Fantasy Football League (FFL) since 1990. Some people have come and gone in the league, but the core of the participants are guys with whom we went to high school. Every year, before the season starts, they gather in someone’s home to hold the draft, and every year at a party during the Super Bowl they gather to award the trophy to that year’s FFL winner.

A number of years ago, Mark, one of the participants, moved to Los Angeles, but every year he still came up to the Bay Area for the FFL draft. Mark’s a bit of a football fanatic, a big Vikings fan. He and his brother Ray know more than anyone else I know about the teams and the players in the NFL.

Mark is also a bit of a fanatic about the FFL. One year, he made himself a football jersey in his FFL team’s colors, by piecing together a couple of jerseys from NFL teams. Then, each year he started giving a jersey to one of the other guys in the league, representing his respective team. You can’t really tell from the picture above, but each guy in the photo is wearing a specially made FFL team jersey, courtesy of Mark.

A couple of weeks before the scheduled draft for this year, we got an email from Mark’s brother Ray, who is also in the league. Mark’s cancer had been acting up, and he wouldn’t be able to make the trip up here to participate in the draft. There were suggestions about how he could participate in the draft by Skype or other electronic means, but an FFL draft without Mark there would be like a hot fudge sundae without the fudge. Serviceable, maybe, but still a disappointment.

Instead, five of us decided to take a day off work and hop on a plane to LA, so we could do the draft at Mark’s apartment. His Mom had been visiting, and she changed her flight so she could meet us near the airport on her way out as we were on our way in.

Of course Mark’s Mom has known us since our high school days, from the time when her sons used to throw parties at her house and we’d be up until all hours of the night, before we’d fall asleep sprawled across the living room floor. It was in their living room that I first fell in love with my husband, dancing to “Life’s Been Good to Me So Far” by Joe Walsh.

So Mark’s Mom met us by the airport, and we ate some sandwiches and shot the breeze, and before she left she told us how much it meant to her that we had come down for the draft, as if it were possible that we might make any other choice once the trip had been suggested.

Then off we were to Mark’s apartment, to play Halo and to hold the draft, to eat chips & dip and to reminisce about old times, to complain about how much Mark’s cat was shedding and to make each other laugh.

And that is how you make a Fantasy Football League Draft holy.

It's Good to be Alive

By Susan Esther Barnes
with art by Laurie at Urchinator

Last night was the first Friday of the month, which means our synagogue held its monthy free congregatinal dinner after services. Everyone is invited.

We've been having these dinners for a few years now, and up until last night nothing even remotely threatening had ever revealed itself to me at any of them. So I had grown atypically unwary by the time I was ready to help myself to a big plate of pasta primavera. Just before I sat down, an aquaintance said to me, "The pasta is great! I think there's salmon in it."

I had noticed something reddish in the pasta, but I had assumed it was bell pepper. I leaned in a little closer, and sure enough, among the bow ties and peas and such, there were little bits of flaky pink things that looked suspiciously like salmon.

Of course, that is no big deal to the lox and bagel set. But it's something else entirely for someone like me with an allergy bad enough so the last time I tasted rice from the fork of someone who had been eating salmon, it caused my throat to swell to the point it was difficult to swallow.

It seems God must have been watching over me for me to be lucky enough to have someone inadvertently warn me about the salmon in such a timely manner.

Had I not received the warning, it's possible I would have taken one forkful and then spat it out upon recognizing the salmon taste. It wouldn't have been pretty, and I may have experienced some discomfort in my mouth and throat, but most likely I would have been fine.

But if I weren't so quick on the uptake, and I had swallowed some of it, things most likely would have gone downhill for me rather quickly. My evening could have included a dash to my car for my epinephrine injector, a ride in an ambulance, and some quality time in an ER or even the morgue.

After I got home and told my husband what had happened, he said he wished I didn't have such a severe allergy. Clearly, he wants me to stay alive a while longer. I do, too, but I can't find it in myself to wish I didn't have this allergy.

Incidents like this one remind me of how fragile life is, and make me feel grateful to be alive. This morning, when I thanked God for returning my soul to me, I said it with more emunah, or faithfulness, than I usually do.

Naturally, I started to think about what things would have been like if I hadn't received the warning and as a result I hadn't been able to make it to services this morning. I expect the clergy and my friends would have been at least startled about my crisis the night before.

Still, the bar mitzvah ceremony would have gone on. There still would have been a man standing in the aisle with a small boy in his arms while the bar mitzvah boy carried the Torah scroll through the congregation. The man still would have taken the little boy's hand and used it to gently stroke the Torah once, twice, three times.

But if I had not been there to see it, I would not have had the opportunity to tell that man how his gesture of passing love of the Torah down through the generations had made my eyes well up with tears. And he would have lost the opportunity to thank me for saying so, and to have his eyes well up with tears as we agreed what a sweet and holy moment it was.

So, yes, it is good to be alive, and it is good sometimes to be reminded of just how good it is.

She is Pure

By Susan Esther Barnes

My day started with the strangest shopping trip I’ve ever been on. The evening before, I had been at the phone bank where we were calling congregants to ask for donations to our annual Tradition of Giving Campaign.

While I was there, Rabbi Lezak called me into a private room to let me know a member of our congregation had just died. She had been suffering from cancer for some time, and I had agreed to be one of the people to perform taharah for her, the ritual washing of her body and preparing her for burial.

I had been preparing for this for about a year, ever since Rabbi Lezak had said we were planning to expand our Bikkur Cholim group, a group of people who visit the sick, to become a Chevra Kadisha, a holy society or group of friends, to perform taharah. Although our congregation was formed over 50 years ago, to my knowledge we had never before had a Chevra Kadisha there.

I read about it, and I attended a seminar on it in San Francisco. I also attended the series of classes Rabbi Lezak offered to us at the synagogue. One evening, Sue Lefelstein, the Associate Executive Director of Sinai Memorial Chapel in Lafayette, came out to give us a copy of the procedure manual they use, and to explain the process.

The night before the congregant I mentioned above died, about 20 to 25 of us went to Sinai Memorial Chapel where Sue led us as we performed taharah on a manikin for practice.

When I first thought about doing taharah, it really freaked me out. It seemed like an incredibly scary thing to do. Then, last summer, my friend Rose died, may her memory be a blessing. I sat with her in the morning on the day she died, and suddenly taharah seemed much less frightening. How could Rose’s body ever be scary? But she had chosen not to have taharah done for her.

As I got closer to actually doing it, it became even less scary. While I stood in the room at Sinai Memorial, watching the washing of the manikin, I found myself feeling completely calm. I was prepared.

Except we as a Chevra Kadisha weren’t entirely prepared. We had only just finished the training the night before when we learned of this congregant’s death. If she and her family had chosen Sinai Memorial, or any Jewish establishment, as her mortuary, they would have had all the taharah supplies available to us on hand.

This family had chosen a non-religious mortuary, however, which meant we couldn’t be sure what supplies they would have available to us. And because our tradition is to bury people within 48 hours of death whenever feasible, that meant we would be doing taharah on her the next day. Thus, my sudden shopping trip for taharah supplies.

Fortunately, Sue, the angel from Sinai Memorial, had given us a list of things we would need. I grabbed my list and headed to Target, arriving just as they opened at 8am. For all I knew, the mortuary might be ready for us as early as 9:30 or 10, and I didn’t want to hold things up.

As I walked down the aisles, I thought about my odd list and how I didn’t want to say anything that might get me arrested. For instance, when I asked a clerk where I could find nail polish remover, I thought, “If she says something like, ‘We recommend this one because it has aloe which is good for the long term health of your nails,’ it would probably be a bad idea for me to respond with something like, ‘Oh, I’m not worried about that. We’re only going to be using it on dead people.’”

As I was at the check-out counter, Rabbi Lezak called on my cell phone to tell me the coffin delivery was delayed due to it being Veteran’s Day, and therefore we wouldn’t be able to do taharah until the afternoon. So it turned out there had been no need to rush.

Although my heart was racing as I drove the last few blocks to the mortuary, as we met with Rabbi Lezak and talked about the woman who had died and what we were going to do, I relaxed.

When we walked into the preparation room (without the rabbi, since only women are allowed to wash women), I found I was perfectly calm. I thought I would feel a jolt of anxiety the first time I saw a real person covered by a sheet, but I didn’t.

So we washed her, and one of us said the prayers, and we poured the ritual water over her while we repeated three times in Hebrew, “She is pure, she is pure, she is pure.” Then we dried her and dressed her. It was all done with deliberate, loving care.

She had been ill for so long and had lost so much weight that we didn’t need to use the electric lift to move her into the coffin. I had the privilege of being one of the three people to move her.

I will never forget the feeling as I cradled her in my arms and gently lowered her into her coffin. The only way I can describe it is it felt purely, wholly right. We covered the coffin and asked her forgiveness for anything we may have omitted, or any error, or anything we may have done to offend her.

I thought, “This is such a beautiful thing. How could anyone who knows about taharah not want it done for themselves and for their loved ones? Why would anyone want this done by strangers, no matter how competent they may be, rather than by their own, loving community?”

Afterward, we spent about 20 minutes talking with each other, as a transition before we hugged each other and got into our cars to leave.

Because we had started so late, it was already getting dark. Usually I equate darkness with lifelessness, but as I drove home I found myself feeling deeply aware of the incredible abundance of life all around me.

As I navigated my way through the rush hour traffic, I found that whereas when I drive I normally think of the cars around me as just vehicles, I was suddenly acutely aware that inside each vehicle was a person. As I drove I was part of a stream of living, breathing, human beings all heading in the same direction down the freeway.

On several occasions I have heard Rabbi Lezak say, “Get close to death. It will bring you closer to life.” I thought I knew what he meant, but now I finally understand.

Mezuzahs on the Doorposts of Gentiles

By Susan Esther Barnes

Because of the name of my blog, I just had to comment on this.

The New York Times recently published an article about Gentiles (non-Jews) in New York who have mezuzahs on their doors. Apparently, this is a result of Jews who put up the mezuzah(s), then subsequently died or moved out, leaving their mezuzah(s) behind.

For various reasons, the new occupants of many homes have left them up. Based on the article, it appears some like their decorative qualities, while others are concerned about the mark that would be left if the mezuzah were removed, particularly in places where the doorway has been painted over, leaving another color underneath.

At first, I didn’t see this as a big issue, but then I realized how irresponsible it is of the previous owners, or in the case of those who died, whoever was supposed to take care of their personal effects after their death.

After all, a mezuzah is an important ritual object. Technically, although we call the container we see on the doorpost the mezuzah, my understanding is that the actual mezuzah is the scroll inside which has certain specific passages from the Torah written on it.

The mezuzah therefore has the name of God written on it, and nothing with the name of God is supposed to be thrown in the trash. If it is damaged or needs to be discarded for some reason, it is supposed to be buried.

It seems highly unlikely that a Gentile, no matter how well intended, will know the proper way to dispose of a mezuzah once it is no longer wanted. So, no matter whether the new occupant wants to keep it for a while, or gets rid of it right away, the chances are good the mezuzah will not receive the proper burial it deserves.

If someone puts a mezuzah up, then unless they know the home will subsequently be occupied by other Jews, they should take it down when they leave. When a Jewish person dies, if they are the only Jewish person in that home, their mezuzah(s) should be removed by their family members or whoever is taking care of their affairs.

And even if you don’t think it’s a big deal whether or not a mezuzah is buried once it’s no longer going to be used, read how the NYT article ends:

Connie Peirce… said she often wished she had inherited a mezuza like many of her non-Jewish neighbors did... To her delight, one of her Jewish neighbors recently hung a mezuza on her doorway. “Every time I come home and remember, I kiss it and touch it and then I bless myself, saying, ‘In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, Amen.’ ”

So, the mezuzah, the holy scroll which begins with the words, “Sh’ma Yisrael, Adonai eloheynu, Adonai Echad – Hear Israel, Adonai is our God, Adonai is one,” the central Jewish expression of God’s unity, is being caressed by someone while they are asserting that God is a trinity.

Now that’s just wrong.

Choosing Something Holy

By Susan Esther Barnes

This summer I am planning to go on a trip to Israel with some families from my synagogue, lead by one of our rabbis. Last month those of us scheduled to go on the trip received a letter from the rabbi inviting us to a get-together in one participant family’s home later this month. The letter says, in part, “Please have each member of your family bring one item and/or story that they consider holy/treasure. We will think about all of the gifts that we have received and think about how Jerusalem will help us appreciate our blessings on a much deeper level.”

The most holy thing I have is probably my ketubah (Jewish wedding contract), but it was big to begin with, and then we put it into an even bigger frame so we could hang it over our fireplace. Taking that along just doesn’t seem practical.

The next thing I thought of that I treasure is a bust of a tiger my husband drew and gave to me back in the early 80’s. It is amazingly lifelike, and it’s fascinating because it is drawn entirely with tiny dots of ink and no lines. The skill and patience that went into making it are enormous. I can’t bring myself to take it along, though. I brought my ceramic mezuzah to a show-and-tell event like this once, and on my way home I dropped it and it shattered. If anything happened to my tiger because of my negligence I would be very upset with myself.

I then turned to the “story” suggestion in the letter, and printed out Portia Nelson’s poem, “Life in Five Short Chapters,” thinking I would read that to the group. I first saw this poem, about repeatedly falling into a hole and trying to get out, at a time when I was doing exactly that. It meant a lot to me then, and I still appreciate it, even though I am way past that particular hole in my life and I’m not going back. Still, it seems more indicative of my past than my present or my future.

Although I’m still not sure what I will bring with me to this event, if it were happening today, most likely I would use it as an opportunity to show the group my toes. Not that my toes are particularly holy, but they are something I treasure. The second and third toes on each of my feet are connected about half way up. They are not webbed; it just looks like one wide toe at the base that suddenly turns into two “normal” toes about half way toward the tip.

So why do I treasure them? I often say nobody really knows me until they have seen my toes. I attribute three things about my outlook in life to them. First, I have never seen anyone else with toes like mine. Even as a child, I knew my toes were different than everyone else’s. Thus, even my oldest memories contain the knowledge that I am different than everyone else.

Second, it was quite clear to me even as a child that my unique toes are not particularly ugly or particularly attractive. They do not hinder me in any way, nor do they help me in any unique way. They are just different. Thus, I discovered early in my life that differences between people do not necessarily carry any positive or negative value. People can be, and are, very different from each other in ways that do not make them better than, or worse than, anyone else. I have never been tolerant of the idea that physical differences are anything beyond simply physical differences.

Third, because my toes spend most of their time covered with socks and shoes, as I got older I came to realize that people can be different from each other in ways that are not readily apparent to others. We make assumptions that the people around us are like us, and in many ways that is true, but in other ways it is not. We all know things about ourselves that most of the people around us don’t know. We all carry secrets. Thus, I finally realized that not only am I different from anyone else, everyone is different from everyone else. My job is to be open to seeing and appreciating those differences.

Maybe I need to think of something else to bring, though. What if everyone else brings their toes too?

Last Night on Shabbat

By Susan Esther Barnes

Usually, as soon as Friday night services start, Jose clears away the trays, cups, and other items from the pre-oneg. But last night more people came than we expected, and with extra chairs to set up, and prayer books to find and hand out, and dinner to get ready next door, it didn’t happen.

By the time I noticed the leftovers were still out, the service was half over. I began to clear away the plates, but as I went back for a second load I realized that despite the fact it is early February, with so many people packed into the synagogue, it was too hot and stuffy inside. In ones and twos, people were getting up and helping themselves to the water that was still left out. I thought to myself, “Oh, that must be why none of us thought to clean that up earlier; people need it now.” It felt like it was no coincidence.

Then I began to wonder whether there was enough water left, so I walked over to check. Standing there was a woman who had lost her father last week. “I can’t be in there right now,” she said, motioning toward the sanctuary, “I don’t feel part of the joyous mood.” We talked a bit about how, since she had been sitting shiva, this was the first time she had been past her own driveway this week, and about how when someone close to you dies it seems that your world stops but somehow the rest of the world keeps going, and it’s hard to get back in synch with everyone else.

I asked her whether she was planning to go to the dinner after services. She said no. Instead, she planned to gather her family around her, and read aloud to them from the condolence notes and cards she had received over the past week. She explained that her family had seen who had come to pray with them as they sat shiva, and she wanted them to understand that support comes in other ways as well. It felt right.

While I was helping to clean up after dinner, I happened to stop to chat with a woman and her family. I had never met these people before. It turns out the woman was visiting from Maryland, and was going to have surgery here soon. I asked her daughter-in-law whether she had notified the synagogue about it. She said no, because “she’s just visiting.” I told her, “Perhaps, but you’re related. And you’re not just visiting.” She gave me permission to let the synagogue know, and she looked grateful that someone would think of doing that. It felt like my stopping to chat with that particular family was no coincidence.

After dinner, I went to Shabbat Unplugged, where a group of us sang with Dan Nichols. At one point, he revealed that two weeks earlier he had sung at a memorial service for a 17-year-old boy who had died. He said after the service the boy’s mother told him the service was both beautiful and horrible, and he was trying to figure out how to process that. After we sang a bit more, he told us that singing with us was helping him to heal. It felt right; it was a holy moment.

On the way home, I thought about a man I know named Angel who often says he believes the universe is unfolding the way it’s supposed to. I certainly felt that way last night. Not that it’s a surprise. It was, after all, Shabbat.