empty Slice of Life

Hunger At My Door

I don’t recall exactly how old I was when “the man in the car” showed up on our street, but I was...

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 Time and time again, I am amazed at the disparity of knowledge that I find among the non-observant Israelis I meet. At one end of the spectrum, there are the cab drivers who are as familiar with Tanach as the back of their hand, and can quote from it with the ease of a rosh yeshivah. At the other end of the spectrum, unfortunately, there are Israelis who have never in their lives been to the Kosel, celebrate Christmas, and don’t even know how to say Sh’ma.

Reprinted with the permission of Ami Magazine


As a child growing up, I never would have imagined myself to be bereft of both of my parents at a young age (according to my calculations). But I was wrong. My father passed away five months after the birth of my first child, and my mother passed away one year after that same child’s bar mitzvah. Although my father did get to meet my son and enjoy the tender pleasure that only a newborn can provide, I cried many tears over the fact that my father didn’t merit to see him grow and develop in a way that would have made him so proud. I had difficulty coming to terms with the fact that both my father and my son (and future children) would miss out on the opportunity to share an irreplaceable bond from which they would have grown so much. My mother did get to see more than my father did, but it wasn’t enough by my standards. When my mother passed away, I grieved for her individually and for the loss of my parents as a unit. The link to my past was broken. My parents would not attend my daughter’s siddur party. They would no longer beam with pride as my boys would make siyumim, nor would they ever again be present at any of our future s’machos. This hurt. It hurt…a lot.