What Frequent Attendance at Services Says About You

By Susan Esther Barnes

Fellow blogger Heshy Fried recently posted something titled, “Are You Just a Jew on Shabbos?”

Setting aside the grammatical error – the title seems to ask whether you are also something other than a Jew on Shabbat (such as, for instance, an American or a mother), from the context of the post it is clear he meant to ask whether you are Jewish only on Shabbat, and not during the rest of the week.

It’s a fair question. If you only go to Shabbat services and do nothing else Jewish during the week, then, I suppose, you are, to his way of thinking, a Jew only on Shabbat. However, the post goes on to talk only about attending services during the week, as if attending services is the only way to be Jewish.

Look, I’m a big fan of synagogue services, for many reasons. They bring people together. They help build community. There are some prayers, like the Mourner’s Kaddish, that we only say when we have at least 9 other Jews with us, and the synagogue is a convenient place to gather those people. Rabbis are professional teachers, and through their sermons they can help us discover insights we might never find alone. The list goes on.

However, to imply that going to services is the only way to be Jewish is way off base. The majority of Jewish ritual practice has traditionally taken place in the home. Chanukkah is celebrated as we light candles at home. Pesach (Passover) is celebrated with a ritual meal and the telling of the Exodus story at home. Shabbat candles are lit at home every week. Sukkot are built, eaten in, and slept in at home.

Even prayers are often said at home, or wherever we happen to be. There are morning and evening prayers. There are prayers over food before and after we eat. There are prayers for when we go to the bathroom, when we see a rainbow, when we encounter someone we haven’t seen in a long time, etc.

There are all sorts of things we are commanded to do throughout the day, no matter where we are. Don’t place a stumbling block before the blind. Be kind to the widow and orphan. Don’t say hurtful things. There are, literally, hundreds of mitzvot, most – I would argue all – of which do not require one’s presence in a synagogue.

There are people who attend synagogue frequently because it is a commandment to say certain prayers that require a minyan. Some attend frequently because it brings them closer to God. Some attend frequently for the feeling of community they get. Some attend frequently but don’t believe in God, or they are unsure of God.

Different people attend services for different reasons. So what does frequent attendance at services say about you? It says you attend services frequently. That is all. To read any more into it would be a mistake. Nobody knows your reasons unless you talk with them about it, and even then they may not truly understand.

Attendance at services does not equal being Jewish. If that were all there were to Judaism, what a poor, sad bunch we would be. Being Jewish includes many, many things, and God willing, we will all spend our lives exploring the possibilities, without judging others based on one small piece of it, such as whether they show up at the synagogue during the week.

Being Vulnerable with God

By Susan Esther Barnes

When Rabbi Noa Kushner leads services, she bows differently than most people do. She holds her prayer book in her left hand, and she holds her right hand slightly away from her body, palm up. Her husband says she does this as a way to say, “Look, God, I’m open for whatever you send my way.”

Part of me likes that idea. I want God to send stuff my way. I want to be open for whatever God sends my way. But they say, “Be careful what you wish for.” They say, “God works in mysterious ways.” Saying to God, “Sure, bring it on!” without knowing what “it” is feels pretty scary to me.

So usually when I bow I “forget” to hold my right hand out like that. Or I kind of sort of do, but I don’t really mean it. Or, you know, my prayer book is kind of heavy; don’t I need to hold it in both hands?

Last Friday night Dan Nichols was at our synagogue as Artist in Residence. I was sitting in my seat, following along with the service, when Dan suggested we close our eyes. He told us to go deep into ourselves. He asked us to think about our first Jewish memory. What did it look like? What did it feel like?

I couldn’t pick just one. I thought about presents that said “Happy Chanukah” on them. I thought about visiting Grandma in San Francisco, with her Hebrew calendar in the kitchen, and a box of matzo always on hand, and the chanukiah in the living room year ‘round.

As I was sitting there, remembering myself as a small, vulnerable child in my Grandmother’s apartment, Dan started to sing a song about Torah, and about struggle. “Did you mean this struggle for me?” the song asked.

I thought about how just staying in the world of Reform Jews would be so easy for me. Why do I go to blogs written by Orthodox people and struggle with the thoughts and statements I find there? Why do I go where my beliefs are questioned? Do I really need to seek the struggle?

For me at least, the answer is yes. We are the people Israel – which is translated as “struggles with God.” It is through the struggle, through the questioning of my beliefs and the way I live my life, through the search for knowledge and understanding, that my beliefs are transformed from just ideas into something deeply and firmly held. A belief that does not hold up to close scrutiny is not worth believing in. The fire and the water tempers the steel.

Then, while I was in the midst of being this small, vulnerable child in my Grandmother’s living room, and thinking about the struggle, and feeling more alone and exposed than I have ever felt in a room so full of people, Dan began to chant the Sh’ma. And we all joined in with him. It was the deepest, most vulnerable, most connected Sh’ma I have ever chanted.

“Hear, oh Israel, Adonai is our God, Adonai is one.” Or, perhaps, “Listen up, all you people who struggle with God. God is here with us in our struggle and vulnerability; in fact, God is at one with us in the middle of all of it.”

Later in that service, and through services on the next day, when I bowed I held out my right hand, palm up. Because I knew what it felt like to be vulnerable with God and to open myself up to what God is sending my way. And I know that whatever it is, it’s going to be okay.

Leap of Faith

By Susan Esther Barnes

"Oh my goodness, what was I thinking? Nobody's going to come and anyone who does come is gonna think it sucks because I don't know what I'm doing and we probably won't even be able to get in the door the first day and will have to stand out in the rain without prayer books; I'm an idiot for ever considering it & I'm so NOT a morning person - arrrrgh!"

The above panic-attack stream of consciousness is a direct quote from an email I sent to a friend shortly after I officially committed to start holding a weekly Tuesday morning prayer service at my synagogue.

I am not a rabbi. I don’t have any formal training on how to lead a weekday morning service. But I do read a lot of Jewish stuff, and I’ve been attending Friday and Saturday services regularly for long enough that I have memorized most of the prayers. A rabbi is not actually required to hold a Jewish prayer service. There’s no reason why I can’t do it. Other than fear.

This whole thing started when the synagogue experimented with holding morning services twice a month on Wednesday for a while. Those of us who attended regularly loved it. It was a little tough, though, because it started at 8:15, so the only people who could attend were those who don’t work, or those who can arrive at work later than the traditional start time of 8 or 9. And twice a month meant it was hard to remember whether or not there would be a service on any particular Wednesday, without consulting a calendar.

As a result, not many people came, and we regularly had to drag office staff in whenever we wanted to get enough people for a minyan so we could say the Mourner’s Kaddish at the end. Then summer came, and people went on vacation, and the Wednesday morning services stopped. And I missed them. And some other people missed them, too.

Eventually I went to the rabbi, and said I wanted to start up a weekday morning service again, but earlier, so we could still get to work on time. Of course, I knew this wouldn’t work for him. He often works late into the evening, and has three small kids at home, and doesn’t get enough sleep as it is.

So when he started to say he’s sorry, but that just wouldn’t work for him, I was prepared with my oh-so-diplomatic response, “It’s not about you.” I then explained, “We don’t need a rabbi to lead the service. We can lead it. We just need to be able to get into the building.” And because he’s gracious and kind and not about hoarding power, he is all for it.

Which leads me to where I am today, with the custodial staff being notified to let us in early on Tuesday mornings starting on March 1, and the Communications Director agreeing to put an announcement in the synagogue’s weekly email and monthly newsletter, and the Sisterhood planning to put a notice in their newsletter.

I’m nervous; the neurotic part of me is certain the whole thing will turn out horribly and be a complete bust. Yet I’m still willing to take the leap of faith required to give it a try because I’m in a covenantal relationship with God, and the spiritual part of me is certain this is the right thing to do, no matter who does or doesn’t show up or what does or doesn’t happen. Seriously, how could spending another 30 to 45 minutes with God once a week possibly be a bad thing? Even if I’m the only one there, I know it will start my day in a holy way.

So close your eyes, tighten your seat belt, and make a wish. We’re living in the best of all possible worlds, and anything can happen. As long as I don’t panic.

Kol Nidre 2010/5771

By Susan Esther Barnes

Blogger Dov Bear posted a recap of five different kinds of Kol Nidre (Yom Kippur Eve) services he has attended in the past, and invited others to write about their Kol Nidre experiences. I wrote about one of my experiences from previous years, since it was not yet Kol Nidre this year.

Then he posted about his most recent Yom Kippur experience, and several of us posted about ours.

I thought I’d add my Kol Nidre and Yom Kippur experiences from this year here as well. Kol Nidre is in this post, and Yom Kippur is in the next one.

5:30 pm Final meal before Kol Nidre: I have French toast and milk for dinner. This is my version of carbo loading for the fast ahead (no food or drink from sunset on Friday night until three stars are in the sky on Saturday evening).

This is the second year Nita is offering High Holiday services. Nita is a project of our synagogue, reaching out to unaffiliated Jews in the county. I have been hearing rave reviews about Nita all year, but have stayed away from their services because I know they’re trying to build their own community and I don’t want to get in the way of that.

When I went online to buy the Nita “Lift Kit,” which includes tickets to the Nita High Holiday services, I was simply intending to make a donation, however in the week prior to Kol Nidre I decide to be selfish this year and check out the Nita Kol Nidre service.

I am wearing all white, the traditional color we wear on Yom Kippur, because it is the color we wear when we are buried. I am also wearing white canvas sneakers and no belt because we don’t wear leather, which is considered to be a luxury, on Yom Kippur. Orthodox men wear a kittel, the Jewish burial garments. Rabbis Noa and Michael also wear them on Yom Kippur.

6:30 pm: I arrive about a half an hour before services. Almost nobody else has arrived yet. I’m not sure what I’m going to do with myself, and I figure there’s no reason not to greet, which is what I’d normally do if I were at services on my “home turf.” Jane, the Development Director, asks me to help direct people to the sign-in table.

I notice a number of familiar faces, members of the synagogue, who have also chosen to attend this service instead of the “regular” one at the Civic Center. Noa’s parents also attend, and her Mom gives me a hug. I’m flattered that she recognizes me. Most of the people, however, I’ve never seen before. Many of them have kids with them.

Around 7 pm services start, and I feel torn. I came here because I was hoping to engage in a more intimate experience than I would have at the Civic Center, and I want to go in and start to get into the mood being created in there. But there are people still arriving, and I want them to feel welcome when they walk in. Helping the unaffiliated to feel like there is something for them here is important. I continue to greet until the trickle of late arrivals peters out.

I walk in, and there are few available seats left. The only ones that look viable are a group of five or so in the very back, in the middle, with no other chairs around them. I sit in one of them, but I feel isolated from everyone else. I move my chair to the right side, so I’m sitting behind someone I know. Eventually a family comes in and moves the rest of the isolated chairs next to me, and they sit down. I’m glad to feel less like I’m sitting there alone.

Noa gives a fabulous sermon that starts by her talking about the Container Store and moves on to talking about how we contain ourselves, and somehow ties in a story about a man named Yosi who Elijah finds praying in a ruin and why Elijah tells Yosi he shouldn’t pray in a ruin but should pray by the road, even if it means he may be interrupted.

She explains about how we should not pray in places of despair but should pray in the real world with all its messiness. I’m always impressed by how a good rabbi can pull in all these seemingly disparate things and make it seem obvious in hindsight how they all go together. I suppose that’s the kind of thing you learn to do when you start to get an understanding of the one-ness of it all.

I enjoy the rest of the service. I’m surprised how much of it is in Hebrew. I had imagined there might be more English, in an attempt to not intimidate folks who rarely attend services. I don’t end up with nearly as intimate a feeling as I expected; not nearly as intimate a feeling as I felt on Rosh Hashanah morning at the synagogue sanctuary service, where there were more people, but also more people that I know.

I realize that even though the Nita service is a good place to be, it is not my place. My place is at the synagogue, with the community I have joined there. I am grateful to have a place that is so good that even a place as good as Nita cannot transcend it for me.

After the service, I rush to the doors to say goodnight and Shabbat Shalom to people as they leave. Usually after synagogue services, a good number of people stay to chat, but many people leave right away, and I want to get to the doors first. I find myself standing there alone for some time. Everyone else is still inside the room where the services were, talking with each other. I feel great. It means there is a community there, in that room, and Nita is doing what it set out to do.

Fencing with the Photographer

By Susan Esther Barnes

I’m sitting in services, listening to the guest cantor singing a melody with which I’m unfamiliar. There are two girls becoming bat mitzvah today. As usual on such occasions, there are photographers in the back, outside the sanctuary, peaking through the movable partition to the social hall, preserving memories of the event for the girls and their families.

When I look up to my left, I see a man with a camera on a large tripod. He is standing inside the sanctuary, right in front of the closed main doors. How did he get there? He certainly wasn’t there when I walked in and took my seat.

The rabbi is standing at the front of the congregation, while the cantor continues to sing. I go up to the rabbi to whisper in his ear, “Do you want me to move that photographer?” He replies, “That would be good.”

I walk over to the photographer, and say, “I’m sorry, we don’t allow photos to be taken in the sanctuary during services.” There is no question in my mind that he will say, “I’m sorry,” and he will move his camera outside.

Instead, he says, “She told me I could be here.” I ask, “Who?” and he looks toward another photographer, standing in the back. I say, “I talked to the rabbi, and I’m sorry, but you will have to move outside the sanctuary.” He says, “Oh,” but his body language tells me he has no intention of going anywhere.

I stand my ground and look at him. After a moment, he gestures at the woman in the back. She starts to come forward, but I walk back to her instead. I don’t want to cause a scene inside the sanctuary in the middle of the service.

Once again I say, “I’m sorry, but we don’t allow cameras in the sanctuary.” She angrily responds, “That must be new. I’ve seen cameras in here other times.”

Now, I’ve only missed a handful of Saturday morning services in the last three or four years, and I can assure you, the only other time I’ve seen a photographer inside the sanctuary during services, the rabbi came up to me and asked me to ask him to move outside. Which he promptly did.

I don’t mention this to the woman in front of me now. I say, simply, “It’s not a new rule. I’m sorry, but he will have to move.”

I am wearing a badge with my name, the synagogue name and logo, and “Board of Directors” on it. I consider drawing her attention to the badge, but I don’t want to do that.

I love being at the synagogue. I adore the warm feeling of spirituality and community I get here, and I want to help others feel it, too. I wear the badge because it says, “If you have any questions – if you need to find the restroom or a kippah, or you want to know something about our customs here, you can ask me.” I don’t want it to say, “I’m the photography police. Respect my authority.”

The photographer gestures to the other one, still standing with his tripod and camera in front of the closed main doors. “Can we open the doors?” she asks, suggesting he can then just move his camera back a few feet and continue shooting through the open doorway.

“No,” I say, “We’re having a worship service here. We have to…” and that’s where I stop. She stares at me while I gaze back at her.

My mind casts around for the right words, but I can’t find them. How can I explain this is a holy ceremony taking place in a holy space? How can I get her to understand it is Shabbat, and the rabbi and the cantor are trying to create a special place in time, an island away from the distractions of work and school and the sights and sounds of the secular world? How can I tell her all we’re asking for is a short time to spend with nothing but the divine?

I can’t find the words. I’m not capable of conveying to her, in this moment, why the camera needs to move; why we won’t just swing open the doors for her convenience.

I repeat, “We’re having a service here. He needs to move.”

She says, “How can he take the camera outside if we can’t open the doors?” I don’t know whether she’s being sarcastic.

I give her the benefit of the doubt, and tell her I will hold the door open for him. She goes to talk with him, he picks up his things, and repositions himself elsewhere.

Perhaps it is over for them, but it is not over for me. I don’t often get angry, but I am angry now.

I’m not sure why I’m so angry. Maybe it’s because what should have been a painless one- or two-sentence transaction has turned into a needlessly lengthy ordeal.

Maybe it’s because she wasn’t respecting the sanctity of our sanctuary and the service, or the needs of the congregation. Maybe it’s because she wasn’t respecting me.

Most likely, it’s because I feel I have failed myself. Today, on Shabbat, a day which normally helps me to remember the kind of person I want to be in the world, I have not been that person.

Instead of being warm and welcoming, I have been argumentative authoritarian. I have insisted that someone obey my words without adequately expressing why doing so is in the best interest of others. I have created anger and frustration, and I feel powerless to heal it.

In this week’s Torah portion we read, “Tzedek, tzedek, tirdof,” or “Justice, justice shall you pursue.” Some say the word "justice" is repeated to remind us to pursue justice in a just way.

I don’t think I have done anything unjust. I sincerely wish I had been able to do it in a better way.

Shabbat Angels

By Susan Esther Barnes

Rabbi Yosé bar-Yehudah says: on Erev Shabbat two angels accompany a person home from the synagogue: one is good and the other is bad. If he arrives home and finds candles burning, the table laid and the couch arranged [around the table] the good angel says "May it be this way next Shabbat too," and the bad angel has to respond "Amen." But if the opposite is the case it is the bad angel who says "May it be this way next Shabbat too," and the good angel has to respond "Amen."
-The Talmud

On Friday evening – Erev Shabbat – I drive straight from work to the synagogue, where I arrive about 45 minutes before services start. One of the first things I do is go into the kitchen to pick up my challah, which I put in my car.

I then turn my attention to greeting. On any evening I may help set out the food and wine, or help someone with a walker or wheelchair to find a seat, or introduce a visitor to some people so they don’t have to stand around by themselves.

Once services start, I’m usually either greeting people who are arriving late, or setting out more chairs if the sanctuary is full, or passing out bags of crayons and coloring books to the parents of small children. It’s hard to say what I’ll be doing, but I know what I won’t be doing is thinking about my work week, or the economy, or the latest celebrity gossip.

Usually by the time we get to the Amidah everyone is pretty much settled, and I have a chance to participate in the prayers. I try to keep an eye out, though, in case anyone comes in late and needs a prayer book, or in the event someone needs one of the boxes of tissues we try to keep handy.

By the time we’re ready for the Mourner’s Kaddish I’m up again, heading over to childcare to bring the kids back to the sanctuary for Kiddush. Then I head over to the doors so I can open them at the end of services and say goodbye and Shabbat shalom to people as they leave.

Every night is different. Some nights, I feel like all I’m doing before and after the praying is socializing. But sometimes I can see by the look in someone’s eye that I have helped them, and they appreciate it. More than that, I know what I’m doing makes a difference because at seemingly random moments someone I barely know will smile and rub my back or my arm, or, as on one occasion, will wordlessly lean over and kiss me on the cheek on the way out the door.

Once most of the people have left, I put my Shabbat Greeter badge back in its basket, and drive home, feeling relaxed and glowing. In the still of the Shabbat night, I kiss my mezuzah and I enter my home. As I look at my dark, empty table and put away my intact challah, an angel says, “May it be this way next Shabbat too.” And sometimes I smile and wonder: Which angel is speaking?

The Binder

Enough time has passed since I wrote the following piece that I'm certain nobody can figure out who the boy in the story is. Extra credit question: To what, or whom, does the title refer?
-----------------------------------------------------------

By Susan Esther Barnes

There was a period of time last year when I repeatedly asked God, “What do you want me to do?” and the answer I kept getting was, “Pay attention.” I kept trying to pay attention, but it seemed God might never give me the answer to my question. It took a while, but eventually it dawned on me that God wasn’t saying, “If you pay attention, I will tell you what I want you to do.” Rather, God was saying, “What I want you to do is to pay attention.”


Yesterday morning I was greeting people at the synagogue entrance when Rabbi Lezak asked if I was planning to stay for services. I told him I was, and he said, “There are a lot of boys here today. They are very excited…” I responded, “Maybe I should sit behind them, and if they make trouble, I should smack them on the back of the head?” He just smiled and walked into the sanctuary.

Often, when a lot of kids come for a Bar Mitzvah, they sit toward the back of the sanctuary. For some reason, these kids chose to sit in the front, to one side. Consequently, I couldn’t sit behind them, but I was able to find a chair beside them, in a place where I wouldn’t normally sit.

When I looked for a prayer book, I noticed a thin binder sitting in the seat back in front of me. Sometimes classes or meetings are held in the sanctuary, so I assumed the binder contained notes someone had left there earlier in the week. But something about the binder was bugging me, so I picked it up and turned it over. On the front was a label with someone’s name, and some doodles. I thought, “Yes, I was right, it’s some kid’s class notes,” and I put the binder back.

Then, I suddenly thought, “That name sounds vaguely familiar…Is it the name of the kid having the Bar Mitzvah right now?” A part of my mind told me, “Stop with the binder already. You’re supposed to be praying,” but I just couldn’t let the thought go. I gave into my compulsion and picked up the binder again. This time I opened it. Inside I found some handwritten pages, and in the pocket on the left was a typewritten sheet headed by the word, “Drash.”

“Okay,” I thought, this is the Bar Mitzvah boy’s binder, but maybe this is just an extra copy of his Drash.” I thought about waiting to see whether he needed the binder, and running up with it if he did, but as I pictured him standing there and starting to panic if he thought it was lost, waiting didn’t seem like the best option. By this point, the Bar Mitzvah boy was starting to walk the Torah through the congregation, so I took the opportunity to take the binder up to the front of the sanctuary, where I handed it to Rabbi Lezak, saying, “In case he needs this.”

When the Bar Mitzvah boy returned to the bimah, he set down the Torah, looked around, and then turned to his parents, making a gesture that looked like he was holding up a binder. Just as he was starting to look concerned, Rabbi Lezak handed him the binder. He looked relieved, opened the binder, took out his Drash, and began to read.

Maybe the boy won’t remember this small event, since everything turned out fine. But maybe, somewhere in his subconscious, there is the thought, “On one of the most important days of my life, when for a moment it looked like everything was about to go horribly wrong, the rabbi stepped in and saved the day.” Down the road, where might a thought like that lead? God only knows.

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.

Back Off, Mama Bear

On Christmas Eve my husband received a Christmas card from his brother. Before this card arrived, John hadn’t had any direct contact with his brother for something like 20 years. This is because, in his teens, the brother began to spiral down into a world of drugs and alcohol, as well as the things that go along with people who are desperate to get money for more drugs and alcohol. John and his parents tried to save his brother, but you can’t save someone who isn’t motivated to save himself.

We knew John’s brother had been in touch with his parents over the last few years, we understand he has been clean and sober during that time, and we know he has asked about seeing John, so I suppose this card wasn’t a complete shock. However, once it arrived, I began to do what I do best when I feel surprised and threatened: I over-react.

Fortunately, the following night was Shabbat, and about a quarter of the way through services I felt my anger and anxiety disappear. I realized I don’t have to be the Mama Bear right now. My husband is not my cub. He is a grown man, and what he needs right now isn’t my protection; he needs my support.

So it looks like next month John’s parents will drive down from Oregon, and we’re all going to meet John’s brother and his fiancée for dinner. And then we’ll see what happens from there.