Suspended in Mid Air

By Susan Esther Barnes

Baruch dayan ha'emet.

Everyone's grieving process is different. I wish mine were different than it is, but it isn't something I get to choose; it isn't something I can change. I call mine the Wile E. Coyote style of grieving.

My father, may his memory be a blessing, died on Saturday morning. I found out about it early Saturday evening. It is now very early on Monday morning - so early it is really still Sunday night.

I should be crying. At the very least, I should feel immersed in sadness.

My father was in and out of the hospital for a week before he died, but neither my sister nor I knew that before his death. I should be angry at his wife - now his widow - for depriving us of the opportunity to be there for him during the last days of his life.

Because he died two days before the start of Passover, instead of the normal seven day shiva mourning period (the word shiva even means seven), I only get about 48 hours. I should feel cheated out of the proper shiva period to which I thought I would be entitled.

Because his widow has chosen not to bury him for seven to ten days, I should feel horrified that his body will spend so much time on a cold shelf in a morgue, alone, without a shomer to watch over him.

I thought the shiva minyan (prayer service) we had on Sunday evening would help to move my grieving process along faster. I thought it would bring all these feelings out, but it did not. That is not how my grieving process works, and despite my wishes, it will not be rushed.

Instead, I am still mostly numb. Like in the old Road Runner cartoons, just after Wile E. Coyote has inadvertently run off a cliff, I am suspended in mid air. I am in the midst of a pregnant pause that stretches out beyond credulity, even though, to some extent, I understand something important has gone wrong.

Like Wile E. Coyote, I tentatively reach out with a paw, feeling for the ground which is no longer beneath me. For me, this takes the form of my newfound inability to sleep for more than a couple hours at a time.

Here I will hang, for an unknown period of time, before I am able to look down and suddenly begin my plunge to the valley floor below.

It does me no good to envy those who, in what appears to me to be a more realistic fashion, drop immediatley after running off the cliff edge. It does me no good to tell myself the ground under my feet is gone and I cannot turn around and regain the cliff top.

No, against my will, I must pause here, hanging like Wile E. Coyote in mid air, waiting for the inevitable plunge to come at some random moment of its own choosing.

But I have one thing Wile E. Coyote did not have. And that is the knowledge that when that plunge comes, my husband and my community will be here to catch me.

How Threads Become Cloth

By Susan Esther Barnes

This story is a composite of stories that really happened. The names have been changed for the sake of privacy.

*****

It is Saturday morning. Rabbi Sarah is at home with her family. It is her day off. The synagogue’s other rabbi is performing services this morning, when Rabbi Sarah’s phone rings. It is about Leah, a congregant.

Leah’s mother Keren had minor surgery yesterday. They were supposed to take her home today to recuperate, but somehow, during the night, she died. Can you go?

“Of course,” says Rabbi Sarah, and she heads out to the hospital.



It is Saturday evening. I am at home, thinking about the Super Bowl party I will attend the next day, when the phone rings. It is about Keren, may her memory be a blessing.

The funeral will be on Monday afternoon. Can you help with the taharah Monday morning?

“Of course,” I say, and I send an email to work to let them know I will be in late on Monday.



It is Monday afternoon. Joan, this month’s Nichum (comfort) Captain receives an email. It is about Leah.

Leah’s mother died suddenly over the weekend. The funeral was today. Can you make sure some meals are delivered to her over the next couple of weeks?

“Of course,” replies Joan, as she turns to her computer to send an email to a list of volunteers who live near Leah.



It is Monday evening. Iris receives an email from Joan. It is about Leah, but the email does not include any names or addresses.

A woman’s mother died suddenly this past weekend. She lives in your area. Can you bring her a meal? You don’t need to cook. Anything, even just a chicken and salad from the grocery store, would be fine.

“Of course,” replies Iris, “I will be happy to help.”

*****

At the hospital, Rabbi Sarah hugs Leah. “If you like,” she tells her, “we have volunteers from the congregation who will watch over your mother’s body, who will make sure she is not alone, who will wash her and dress her, and prepare her for burial.”

“Do people still do that?” Leah asks.

“Yes, there are people who still do that.”

“I would be so grateful,” breathes Leah.

Later, Rabbi Sarah watches as the coroner puts an identification tag on Keren’s toe. It is a sign that she is really dead.



At the mortuary, we talk about how this is a person we are about to wash and dress, a member of our community, not just a body. We will refer to her as “Keren” or as “she;” never as “it.”

After we enter the room where Keren is lying on a table under a sheet, we check the tag on her toe. This is important, because we will be the last people to see her face. Once we place her in her coffin and seal it, the coffin will not be reopened. The tag is a signpost to ensure we are doing this for the right person.



At home, Joan contemplates the year gone by. Within a six month period, she had two major surgeries, one on one leg, and one on the other. During her two separate month-long stays in a care facility, and during each recovery period, members of the congregation delivered meals to her and her family.

She is grateful to be the Nichum Captain this month. She is grateful to be able to give back to the community that helped her when she was in need. It is a sign that she is well on her way down her path of healing.



Iris is thinking about the recent passing of Keren. Although they didn’t know each other well, the two of them used to work at the same company. Iris regrets that she was unable to attend Keren’s funeral, and that she was unable to tell her daughter Leah how sorry she is that Keren is gone.

While she is thinking these thoughts, she receives a follow up email from Joan, giving her the name and address where she is to take the meal she has volunteered to deliver. It is for Leah, Keren’s daughter.

Outside Leah’s home, Iris is about to double check that she has the right address, when she sees the mezuzah on Leah’s front doorpost. It is a sign that in this house dwell members of our community.

*****

During a shiva visit to Leah’s home, Leah can’t tell Rabbi Sarah enough about how much she appreciates the fact that members of our community sat with her mother and cared for her from the time of her death until the time she was buried. She never expected the outpouring of love she has received, from meals, to phone calls, to cards and notes.


As we seal Leah’s coffin, light the Yartzheit candle, and leave her in the company of the Shomeret who will watch over her, we feel grateful to have been given the chance to do this holy act of taharah. On some level, we understand the family probably feels we have done them a favor, but we know, in fact, it is they who have done us the favor by allowing us this opportunity. After spending two hours with death, we are changed, and we cannot help but notice the abundance of life around us.


As her time as Nichum Captain comes to a close, Joan is grateful to have been given this opportunity to give back, and to help make connections in her community. She appreciates how much she received when she was ill, and is aware that in giving back in this way, she is still in the process of receiving.


Iris delivers her meal to Leah, and is able to take the opportunity to speak with her about her connection to Keren. She tells Leah what a special person Keren was, and how sorry she is that Keren is no longer with us. Leah thanks her for her words, and Iris feels grateful to have been given this chance to express what she was unable to say at the funeral.

*****

This is how we gather loose threads, each which, by itself, would lie alone and underutilized, and weave them into the fabric of our community. This is how we take threads that, by themselves, could be easily broken, and create a material with a strength far beyond that which any individual thread could provide alone. This is how threads become cloth.

Yom Kippur 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.

My previous post was about my Kol Nidre experience this year. Below is my Yom Kippur experience, somewhat modified from what I posted on Dov Bear’s blog.


9:30 am: Services start at both the synagogue and the local Civic Center auditorium, since our congregation is way too large to fit into the synagogue all at once. I choose to attend the synagogue service, which is mostly run by lay people (Senior Rabbi and Cantor, with choir, are at the auditorium).

I greet people at the front door until I can’t see anyone else approaching from the parking areas. I walk in and find a seat, but Marc comes over to get me, saying he and his wife have saved a seat for me. This is so cool. Usually I don’t like to sit alone for services, but sometimes it’s hard to find a spot next to someone else who’s sitting alone when I come in late from greeting.

Morning service is incredibly moving. Many of us are crying by the end. Highlights include confessions written anonymously by congregants, and beautiful music. Service is over around 12:30.

From 12:30 to 1:30 I greet those coming to children's services, and direct them regarding where to go with kids under 7 vs. where to go with kids 7 and over. There is a worker from the JCC who is standing nearby drinking a soda, which I find a bit rude since the rest of us are fasting, but I assume he's not Jewish and probably has no idea.

Frankly, I’m not being the world’s best greeter, because I’m still emotional from the morning service, and Donna comes over, notices, and doesn’t let me get away with “I’m fine.” What a mensch! So I get a chance to talk again about Rose, and how it’s hard being at the first Yom Kippur without her. On a regular Shabbat some part of my mind can pretend she just didn’t make it to synagogue this week, but on Yom Kippur it’s obvious she is missing, and I am missing her.

Around 2 I head over to the Civic Center for the 2:30 discussion with Rabbi Kahn. There are good number of people there. As his topic he chooses the Park 51 project. I am deeply disappointed by the number of congregants who speak out against the project, or who feel conflicted about it. It seems so clear to me that it’s wrong to say a whole religion should be banned from building something near where a handful of extremists did something horrible.

I gather from Rabbi Kahn’s remarks that he'd say I feel this way because I identify myself as a member of a minority group, which I do. I find it unfathomable that we don’t all, as Jews, recognize that we are a minority group, and that we need to stand up for the rights of other minority groups. I know it doesn’t help that there are Muslims who are virulently anti-semetic, but that doesn’t give us an excuse to be Islamophobic. This discussion does not contribute to the feelings of Sabbath peace and wholeness I want to experience on Shabbat.

I leave early and walk back to the synagogue for Yizkor at 3:30. Another Yizkor service is also happening at the Civic Center at the same time. I’m a bit disappointed that the service is not more participatory. One congregant reads aloud what was probably a lovely bit of prose, but in several places it mentions food, and I’m distracted. The fast has been easy for me so far, but I still don’t want to be reminded about food.

The synagogue service ends a little early so we can all walk together over to the Civic Center for N'eila and Havdalah. The plan was for all of us to walk into the Civic Center singing together, but somehow that didn’t pan out. I find a seat on the right side in the front section, and sit next to a couple of congregants I see on a regular basis.

I enjoy the service, until near the very end, when the rabbis read a long selection in English. I don’t remember them doing that before. We’re all standing up, my feet hurt, I’m starting to get a headache, and I find myself wanting them to just move along already. I don’t feel hungry, but I’m certainly getting grumpy. Dan Nichols makes up for it by singing, “May I Suggest,” and I sing along with him.

Immediately after Havdalah we have the break-the-fast. I don't get in line for food. Instead, I head to the doors and direct people to where the tables and chairs are outside where they can sit and eat. It's still light outside. I continue to direct people and chat until the sun goes down.

I call my husband, and he meets me at a local Mexican restaurant. This is our tradition because I love Mexican food, plus they give you a bowl of chips and salsa right when you sit down, so you don't have to wait to eat something. I indulge myself by ordering the nachos for dinner (no meat of course).

Sunday morning I get up early and go to the synagogue to help build the large sukkah in the back and the small sukkah in the front. I enjoy hanging out with the guys. This year, as last year, I am the only woman there. I think the guys are starting to catch on that they don’t need to treat me differently just because I’m female. At least I hope they are.

Once again, I’m reminded how much I love this community, and how much I feel I belong here.

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.

Double Black Hole Found in Marin

By Susan Esther Barnes

This evening I attended an event at the San Francisco Contemporary Jewish Museum (more on that in a following post, I suspect). During that event Karen Kushner of the Jewish Welcome Network spoke about her efforts to help synagogues draw people on the periphery into their inner circle.

The imagery I created from the language she used caused me to think of Rabbi Michael Lezak as the black hole of our synagogue community. Anyone who wanders close enough to his Event Horizon is drawn inexorably in until they are so enmeshed in the community it seems they can never get out.

The accuracy of this black hole analogy is evidenced by the numerous stories I have heard, and continue to hear, from core supporters of our synagogue. They often start with something along the lines of "I wasn't that involved here, and then Rabbi Lezak..."

Meanwhile, Rabbi Noa Kushner, daughter of the above-mentioned Karen Kushner, has been spending much of her time building NITA, a community of people in Marin County who are not affiliated with a synagogue but who want to "do Jewish stuff." From all accounts, Rabbi Kushner is drawing into her own Event Horizon a number of people committed to building the NITA community.

It just so happens Rabbi Lezak is married to Rabbi Kushner, possibly making them the first double black hole discovered in this part of the universe.

Visiting Mrs. Louie

By Susan Esther Barnes

Periodically, I visit a woman in her 80’s who doesn’t get out as much as she used to, since she is now confined to a wheelchair. It’s hard for me to describe how I feel about going on these visits; it’s complicated. She always seems happy to see me, but she has friends and a daughter nearby, and I don’t see how a visit every once in a while from me can really matter. On the other hand, I know my Grandmother, may her memory be a blessing, would approve, because in some ways it is reminiscent of my visits to Mrs. Louie.

When we were kids, my sister and I used to visit our Grandmother and her brother, Uncle Mitch, may his memory be a blessing, for about a month every summer. Grandma and Uncle Mitch lived in an apartment in San Francisco. In the summer, they spent about half the week in their apartment, and long weekends in Felton, where Uncle Mitch had a part-time job as a courier and caretaker for what we called “the lodge” (interesting story there, but that’s for another time).

Periodically, when we were in San Francisco, Grandma would send us to the apartment across the hall to visit Mrs. Louie. Mrs. Louie was about Grandma’s age, and once when I asked why we went to visit her, I think Grandma said something vague about Mrs. Louie being lonely because her family and most of her friends had died.

Sometimes visiting Mrs. Louie was a little boring, and I remember she told us some of the same stories numerous times, but I don’t remember particularly disliking our visits with her. It had a feel of normalcy, like it was no big deal, but, on the other hand, I still remember it more than thirty years later, so there must have been more to it than that.

I remember I liked how animated Mrs. Louie got when she told us about the raccoons she and her husband used to feed where they used to live, and how sorry she felt for the people who bought the house after them and who probably wondered why so many raccoons showed up in the evening demanding dinner.

Similarly, when we were in Felton, periodically Grandma would take us down the hill to visit Mr. and Mrs. Wertheimer. I didn’t have the words for it then, but now I know the Wertheimers were morbidly obese. Each of them had a special piece of furniture to recline on, sort of like a couch with a raised part for their upper body, since they were too heavy to sit on regular furniture. Every year at Passover when we talk about eating while reclining, it reminds me of the Wertheimers’ couches.

I don’t remember anyone ever mentioning the Wertheimer’s weight. I don’t think it ever occurred to me to ask about it. As with Mrs. Louie, I didn’t particularly look forward to visiting the Wertheimers, but it wasn’t something I tried to avoid. Talking with them was like talking with any other grown-ups; it was just part of life.

As I got older, I encountered people who spoke down about people who were elderly or overweight. Even now, I know otherwise good-intentioned people who for some reason talk to the elderly in a different manner than they use with other people, almost as if they were talking to children. I never understood that. As far as I could tell from visiting Mrs. Louie and the Wertheimers, elderly and overweight people are just like everyone else. They aren’t more or less smart, or lazy, or interesting. They are just people.

It wasn’t until after Grandma died that I was mature enough to wonder why she made sure we visited Mrs. Louie and the Wertheimers every year. Maybe it was just because she was being nice to them. Clearly, they didn’t get out much, and didn’t get many visitors. I don’t think it was only because she liked visiting them herself; she could have done that without us.

I also came to wonder whether she was doing it for us rather than them. I wonder whether she was teaching us the value of having compassion for people who are lonely. I wonder if she planned for us to learn to see elderly and overweight people as people who are just like everyone else. I wonder whether, if I were given a chance to ask her why we made these visits, she would look at me in surprise and say, “It’s what we do.”

More than Shelter

By Susan Esther Barnes

During the cold winter months, our synagogue is participating in a temporary rotating shelter for homeless men. The organization running the shelter provides the men with transportation to and from the synagogue and staff members to supervise them overnight. They also arrange for an organization to prepare and provide the men with dinner.

Our responsibilities are to provide a space in which the men can sleep, a restroom, tables and chairs where they can eat dinner, and a few people to coordinate with the shelter workers, to help serve the food, and to clean up after dinner.

If we were to do nothing more than fulfill our responsibilities as a volunteer organization under this program, it would be a great mitzvah, and I don’t imagine anyone would complain. We could treat these men as charity cases, but Jews don’t believe in charity. We believe in tzedakah, which many mistake as charity, but it means “righteousness,” and therefore it is not just about giving; it is about giving righteously.

So we have made a conscious decision not to treat these men as recipients of charity, but to treat them as guests. Our tradition tells us it is not enough to merely feed and house guests. It tells us we should make guests feel welcome, and we should provide them with entertainment.

When the men arrive each Wednesday night, they do not cross an empty threshold. Like members and visitors arriving for services on Friday night, they are met at the front door by volunteers who look them in the eye and welcome them as guests.

When they enter the social hall, they not only find a hot dinner prepared for them, they also find an array of fresh-baked snacks and desserts awaiting them, delivered earlier in the day by congregants they will never see or be able to thank.

During dinner, volunteers sit among them, eating the same food, and making conversation, as they would with dinner guests in their home. After dinner, congregants continue to chat with the men, or they play chess or other games with them. Those who wish to can view a movie on a large screen TV while they munch on hot popcorn.

Why do we do these things? Maybe it has to do with the tradition of welcoming the stranger. Maybe it’s because it makes us feel good. Maybe our traditions of remembering what it was like to be slaves in Egypt and what it was like to be thrown out of our homes and our countries help to remind us it is only through the grace of God that we have a roof over our head tonight.

And what does it matter? Does a look in the eye, a little conversation, a game of chess make any real difference? Rachel, one of the volunteers who comes every week with her two young sons, wrote, “Last year we were told that some of the men stay clean on Wednesday nights because they love coming [here].” And it strikes me that if even one man can cast off his addiction for even one day because of what we do, then it means, perhaps, we have given him some hope. And yes, it makes all the difference in the world.

Judaism Creating Connections

By Susan Esther Barnes

On Friday night during services Rabbi Lezak told two stories about how living in Israel means living in an inter-connected community. The first one, here, talks about how the plight of Gilad Shalit, the Israel soldier who has been in captivity for three years, feels personal to all Israelis, since all of them have family members who were or are in the military.

The second story, here, is an amazing true story about the woman who is the mother of the first soldier killed in Cast Lead, who goes to a concert and by chance (or perhaps an act of God) meets a couple who named their baby after her fallen son.

To some extent these stories are possible because Israel is such a tiny country, where everyone (with some exceptions) sends their children to military or other national service. These stories, combined with something else that happened at services Friday night, got me thinking about how the practice of Judaism itself helps to create these connections.

One of the situations Judaism is particularly sensitive about is the death of a loved one. There are many customs and rituals that surround this event, and many of them create and rely on community connections. When a mourner returns home from the graveyard, he or she is not allowed to eat his or her own food. Rather, the community is expected to, and in fact bears the responsibility of, bringing food to the mourner. This not only relieves the mourner of having to think about mundane acts like grocery shopping and cooking when just walking across the room may feel like a monumental act, but it also makes sure the mourner is not alone during this critical time.

In addition, the mourner is to say the Mourner's Kaddish on a regular basis throughout the first eleven months after their loved on has died. And this prayer may only be said when there are at least ten Jews present. Again, this serves to ensure the mourner is surrounded by members of his or her community during the first year of mourning.

After the first year has passed, we say the Mourner's Kaddish for the anniversary of the loved one's death, called the Yarzheit. When worshippers come to services on Friday night they are handed a program that contains various bits of information, and on the back is a list of those in the congregation who have died recently as well as the names of those who are having their Yarzeheit.

On Friday night, I was sitting beside a couple, when another couple sat behind us. The woman next to me was looking at the Yarzheit list, and she turned to the couple behind us. She pointed at the list and said, "I see this person on the list with the same last name as you. Is this your father?"

"No," they replied, "That is our son."

"How old was he?" asked the woman.

"22."

"Oh, I didn't know."

And thus another connection was created, because when you know a couple has lost a son, an incredible tragedy in itself, and further learn the son died so young, it cannot help but create an understanding, a bond, from the acknowledgement that these people have walked through the fire and have the bravery to carry on.

And it strikes me this is one of the ways Judaism seeks to connect us. Yarzheit not only serves to comfort the mourner, but its public nature gives us the opportunity to ask the questions that bind us together, like "Who was she?" "What is your favorite memory about him?" and to make the statements that bind us together, like, "I remember him" and "I miss her too."

Unseen Impacts

By Susan Esther Barnes

I’m beginning to suspect few of us, myself included, has any idea the impact our words and actions have on others. The Torah tries to give us a hint about the power of words. In the very first chapter, God creates the world by using words, as in the famous, “God said, ‘Let there be light,’ and there was light.”

It’s not uncommon for me to think about words and their impact. I try to write things in way that will, as accurately as I can, communicate how I see things as well as how I feel about them. I feel best about my writing when I feel it packs a punch, leaving the reader with something to think about after they have finished reading.

A couple of weeks ago a friend was struggling because she felt she was failing to get others to see the importance of something very dear to her. She said she felt she wasn’t communicating to others about it in a powerful enough way, and she was contemplating using more powerful language, but she didn’t want to be hurtful. I told her it’s possible to use words powerfully without being hurtful.

Often it seems being powerful and hurtful is much easier than being powerful and constructive. And yet, there are times when we say or do powerfully constructive things without even realizing it. For example, two and a half years ago, a woman introduced me as, “My friend Susan.” She said it as if it were no big deal, and to her it probably wasn’t one. She had no way to know it was the first time I’d heard those words in 20 years, so she had no idea how powerful those words were to me.

Earlier this year a woman said to me, “I value your friendship.” I thought, “You value my friendship? Don’t you mean it the other way around?” I had been so wrapped up in how cool it was to have a bunch of friends around me, it hadn’t occurred to me it might work both ways. She didn’t know what a revelation it was for me to consider someone might view my friendship as a valuable thing to have.

Yesterday, I received an email from someone who said, “Thanks for being a good friend.” It made me feel great, but I was surprised. Sure, I think of him as a friend, but I have no idea why he thinks of me as a good friend. We don’t have dinner together; we don’t go to the movies or other outings together. I don’t even know when his birthday is. Aren’t those things all part of being a good friend? Obviously, I must have said or done something in the past that makes him feel this way about me. And clearly, at the time I had no idea the impact I had on him, just as he has no idea the impact his words, “Thank you for being a good friend” had on me.

Just before we say the Amidah, the central prayer of each prayer service, we say, “Adonai, open my lips so my mouth may declare your glory.” Rabbi Noa says we start with this prayer because we want the prayers that follow to come out right. Often, when I say those words I’m not thinking about the prayers coming up. Instead, I’m asking God to help me, throughout the week, to say and write things which will have a positive impact on others. Sometimes I know I’ve succeeded. Sometimes I think I’ve succeeded when I haven’t. And sometimes, I’m discovering, I succeed without even knowing it.

A Zero Sum Game

By Susan Esther Barnes

I remember, when I was a teen and I felt like my life was a mess, I thought that somehow each of is allotted only a certain amount of happiness in life, and that if we are happier in part of our life, we’ll necessarily be less happy in another part. So I remember making a deal with God, saying, “Ok, things suck right now. Go ahead and let the first part of my life be awful, because I know later on it’ll all balance out, and I’d rather be unhappy now and happy when I’m old, than the other way around.”

Over the last several years, as I experienced large changes in my life and everything seemed to be getting exponentially better, I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Things can’t really stay this good for long,” I thought, but then I’d also think, “On the other hand, most likely I’m in the second half of my life now, so maybe now I finally get to enjoy all the happiness I ‘paid’ for in my youth.”

During services this morning, I kept thinking about the man who recently told me he’s looking for a good way to kill himself. I kept thinking, “My life is so good right now, in so many ways, and his isn’t. If only I could take some part of my happiness and give it to him. I have more than I need; it would be worth it to have a little less if it would help him.”

Then suddenly it dawned on me: That isn’t the way happiness works. The more good feelings and caring I have shared with others over the last few years, the more happiness and caring has flowed back to me. It’s like throwing a little yeast into dough. Sprinkle some around, and before you know it, it starts expanding. When I try to give this distressed man some of my caring and happiness, I don’t have less. I have more. For the first time in my life I finally understand it’s not a zero sum game.

Trying to Save a Life

Because I spend a lot of time standing in front of the synagogue greeting everyone who approaches, I meet a lot of people. A good number of them have become my friends, some are acquaintances, and some have faces I recognize but I’d have trouble putting a name to them.

The other day, one of these acquaintances responded to the question, “How are you?” by saying, “I’m looking for a good way to kill myself. Do you know a good way?” I told him I hope he won’t do that, and that a lot of people would be upset if he did, but that didn’t seem to be enough. I asked a rabbi for advice, and was told to try the local suicide prevention hotline.

Calling the suicide prevention hotline was a little surreal. The voice of the person who answered was very soft and calm. In fact, it was so soft and calm, I had to switch to a better phone so I could hear what the man was saying. In addition, he put me on hold a few times, which gave me the impression he was a new person just learning the ropes, and therefore he had to confer with his trainer from time to time even though what I was calling about wasn’t particularly complicated.

At any rate, the suicide prevention person suggested I try to find out how serious the person was with regard to his comment about killing himself. He also suggested I try to find out why he was considering that option.

I found the man’s phone number and address in the phone book, and gave him a call. I told him I was worried about him, and wanted to know how serious he was. He told me, very matter-of-factly, that he was not sure he was going to do it, but he was thinking about it, and was looking for a good way to do it. “Something not too messy,” he said.

I reiterated that I hoped he wouldn’t kill himself, and I asked him why he was thinking about it. He told me about some of the frustrations in his life, and ended by saying he felt like he wasn’t any use to anyone anymore, including himself. I was able to interest him in a meeting on Sunday, so I have some reason to believe he won’t kill himself before then. In the meantime, I’m looking for more ways to help him get involved in the local community, so he can see that he’s needed and has value.

I understand intellectually that I’m not responsible for saving this man’s life, but if I can help him add some value to it, and he sticks around a little longer because of it, it would still be a relief.