Rabbi’s Blog

The singer and songwriter Jewel Kilcher penned these words:
And lend your voices only to sounds of freedom.
No longer lend your strength to that which you wish to be free from.
Fill your lives with love and bravery and you shall lead a life uncommon.
Life. In Judaism we learn that the greatest mitzvah one can perform is p’ku-ach nefesh, to save a life. A Shabbat-observant Jew must violate the laws of Shabbat if in doing so she can save a person’s physical life. A community should sell off its most precious possession, a Torah scroll, to raise money to ransom someone who has been wrongly imprisoned or kidnapped in order to save the person’s physical, spiritual, and emotional life. We are commanded to refrain from gossiping because gossip is considered paramount to killing the life of the speaker, the hearer, and the person about whom they are gossiping.
We know these laws, even recite them sometimes. But really, don’t we mostly take life for granted? How often do we fill our lives with love and bravery in order to stand with people for whom each moment they are alive, each breath they take, they are aware of the precarious line between being alive and not?
My colleague, Cantor Michael Zoosman, has devoted his professional life to ending the death penalty. Mike works as a prison chaplain in the U.S. federal prison system.
Just before Rosh Hashanah, Mike learned about two federal inmates scheduled to be executed during the ten days of Awe. One of those inmates, while not halakhically Jewish, had adopted some Jewish practices as a part of his spiritual life.
Mike attended a pre-execution press conference about abolition of the death penalty at the Capitol in Washington, just last Tuesday. He spoke on behalf of the Jewish abolitionist community – of which I have been a part, testifying in New Hampshire five times in the past ten years – every time that a death penalty repeal bill was brought before a state house or senate committee for a hearing.
About 30 minutes before the schedule execution of the first inmate, Mike, dressed in High Holy Day white robe, offered short remarks – and then sounded his shofar in protest.
The other inmate, the one who included Jewish practices as a part of his spiritual life, wrote to Mike for some time. In one of his final communi¬cations, the inmate offered Mike the words of the priestly benediction. Mike tried to reach the U.S. president’s son-in-law through his Chabad rabbi, with the hope that Jared Kushner or the rabbi would advocate for the inmate’s life. The Chabad rabbi refused because the inmate is not halakhically Jewish. Mike knew that he exhausted all avenues in his attempt to save this man’s life; he was executed on September 24.
In Mike’s final letter to the inmate, he mentioned that as a federal chap¬lain, he felt compelled to apologize to the inmate for what our country was about to do. The inmate, during this season of forgiveness responded as follows:
“I am writing to thank you for your compassion. Though this is a dark time, I am so appreciative of those who have chosen to reach out to me and let me know they respect and acknowledge my humanity. You are now someone I am adding to that list. Thank you. It means a lot. I accept your apology. I thank you for your prayers achi [“my brother”]. In return may Abba Yah [“Father God”] bless you with favor and mercy. Shalom v’Ahava [“Peace and love].
Life is complicated and so can be our responses to it. Very few Jewish clergy choose the path of chaplaincy. And of those who do, you can probably count on one hand the number who work as prison chaplains, often, like Cantor Michael Zoosman, advocating tirelessly to save the lives of people who have committed heinous, heinous crimes.
And yet if we truly believe that every life is sacred and precious, we don’t get to pick who is worthy of living and who is not. In particular, we are not permitted to oppose the death penalty – “except in cases of [fill in the blank].” Judaism is clear – life and death are matters only for God; humans don’t get to take a life – particularly in a country in which the criminal system is wrought with human error, racism, classism, and multiple other injustices.
And yet far too many people have and do make that decision – concluding that certain lives are less valuable than their own. This should sadly be clear by now following the killings of Black Americans. Since last Yom Kippur, we have shaken our heads in pain and shed tears of shame and hurt at the deaths of Ahmaud Arbery, Rayshard Brooks, George Floyd, Atatiana Jefferson, Daniel Prude, and Breonna Taylor. One powerful poem I recently read includes the names of 36 additional Black Americans killed over the past several years while jogging, decorating for a party, selling music, sleeping, attending Bible study, shopping, pulling over to the side of a road because of car trouble, reading a book, taking a walk, or asking the police a question. Is it any wonder that a movement called Black Lives Matter emerged?
Those of you who object to the expression “Black Lives Matter,” asserting that all lives matter, please understand this: To say that Black lives matter is not to say that other lives do not; indeed, it is to recognize that all lives matter. Black Lives Matter focuses on improving the safety and well-being of Black people in the U.S., achieving racial justice, and ending racial disparities. People of goodwill face the hard task of recognizing that so many societal ills continue to exist, and that white privilege is very real.
If you are still struggling with the notion of “Black Lives Matter,” try this analogy. When someone says, “save the rainforests,” it’s not that other forests aren’t worthy of saving – it’s that rain forests face special risk.
If we don’t take radical steps to stop the depletion of the rain forests, our climate is likely to change in ways that are beyond repair. We will lose countless species, for one. And if we don’t take radical steps to stop the killing of Black Americans, our societal fabric is likely to change in ways that are beyond repair. We will lose our humanity, to begin.
If you wish to be part of a conversation on being Jewish and Anti-Racist, the TBJ Social Action group will lead a discussion this afternoon at 2:30 on Zoom. The link can be found in the email you received late last week with the information and links for all Yom Kippur services and events.
One Talmudic teaching about life posits this: When you destroy a life, it is as if you have destroyed the world, and when you save a life, it is as if you have saved the world. The idea is simple: each person represents a world. When any person dies, so does that world.
It’s so clear that Judaism’s primacy is on life. While death is a normal part of the cycle of life, we don’t look forward to it, celebrate it, or seek because of some great eternal afterlife. Our emphasis is on this life, in the flesh, here and now. When death comes, we are taught, we must accept it, grieve, and continue living forever changed by the loved one’s absence.
And yet, there is one situation in which death is not the normal part of the cycle of life: when your child dies. It doesn’t matter if you are 85 and your child is 60, you are 35 and your child is 10, or you are 25 and your child is a newborn.
The death of a child is the reverse order of nature and not something any parent should ever, ever, ever experience.
A few years ago, I recognized that some adults in our congregation could use support from people who were living with similar challenges. We convened three different support groups: one for parents of struggling adult children, one for the children or partners of people with memory loss, and one for parents who had experienced the death of a child. The first group met once or twice, the second group convened for about a year, and the third group, had it not been for the coronavirus, would still be meeting. Their need for each other was and is overwhelming.
And their need for the rest of us is just as important. A death of a child that happened 40 years ago is as fresh as the death of a child that happened last year. Birthdates, yahrtzeits, and holidays, are particularly hard. Please don’t avoid bereaved parents. You won’t cause pain if you bring up their child or say something like, “I imagine the Holy Days must be hard for you. How are you doing today?” You won’t cause pain because they are always remembering their child. Silence is what hurts.
Our Torah reading this morning reminds us that before us are life and death, and that we must choose life. Our choosing must encompass all lives – especially the ones that are despised, at risk, vulnerable, and forever broken. Only then will we live a life filled with love and bravery.
Ken y’hi ratzon. May this be God’s will for us all. Shanah tovah.

A blind boy sat on the steps of a building with a hat by his feet. He held up a sign which read, “I am blind, please help if you can.”
Only a few coins were in the hat – spare change from folks as they hurried past. A woman stopped. She took a few coins from her purse and dropped them into the hat. She then took the sign, turned it around, and wrote some words. She put the sign back in the boy’s hand for everyone to see.
Soon the hat began to fill up. A lot more people were giving money. Later that afternoon, the woman who had changed the sign returned to see how things were. The boy recognized her footsteps; he asked, “Were you the one who changed my sign? What did you write?”
The woman answered, “I said what you said but in a different way. I wrote, ‘Today is a beautiful day, but I cannot see it.’ The first sign simply said that you are blind; the second sign, on the other hand, conveyed to the readers how grateful they should be to have vision.”
Having gratitude is a habit. It’s a way of looking at the world and the many good things in it with a feeling of appreciation, regardless of whether or not your current situation is to your liking. And right now, quite frankly, is there anyone who can say that the current situation is to their liking? Even if your life is going pretty well – you have a job, a decent income, your health, a relationship – I hope that your concern for your fellow humans and the overall state of the world is one for which you would say that the current situation isn’t particularly good. But that doesn’t mean you should be ungrateful.
Many people use the expression “to cultivate an attitude of gratitude” to describe how being appreciative can become a habit. While the expression is a bit too kitchy for me, I do love its mess¬age. Gratitude is a heart-centered approach to being at peace with your¬self and with what you have. When you put this into practice, you discover more things in your life for which to be grateful.
Judaism has been teaching this approach to life for about 1800 years. In the Mishnah, a compilation of Jewish teachings from around the year 200, we read:
Ben Zoma said: Who is rich? He who rejoices in his lot, as it is said: “You shall enjoy the fruit of your labors, you shall be happy, and you shall prosper.” Prosper does not mean that you will become monetarily wealthy – rather, it means that your spiritual life will deepen – be that with God, other people, animals, nature, or what¬ever brings to you the sense of the Divine.
Ben Zoma’s teaching isn’t the only expression of gratitude we find in the Jewish tradition. Our prayer books contain blessings in which the core words are “thank you.”
The first is Modim Anachnu Lach, and it is a part of the Amidah, the central set of prayers said in virtually every worship service. The words begin as follows:
מוֹדִם אֲנַחְנוּ לָךְ שָׁאַתָּה הוּא יי אֱלֹהֵינוּ וֵאלֹהֵי אֲבוֹתֵינוּ לְעוֹלָם וְעֶד.
The complete prayer is as follows: We acknowledge with thanks that You are Adonai, our God and the God of our ancestors forever. You are the Rock of our lives, and the Shield of our salvation in every generation. Let us thank You and praise You – for our lives which are in Your hand, for our souls which are in Your care, for Your miracles that we experience every day and for Your wondrous deeds and favors at every time of day: evening, morning and noon. O Good One, whose mercies never end, O Compassionate One, whose kind¬ness never fails, we forever put our hope in You. For all these things, O Sovereign, let Your name be forever praised and blessed. O God, our Redeemer and Helper, let all who live affirm You and praise Your name in truth. Blessed are You, Adonai, Your name is goodness and You are worthy of thanksgiving.
This prayer is stated in the plural; even those who are in pain or are struggling must express their gratitude to God. No exceptions.
The second prayer is Modeh Ani. While we recite it as a part of our morning blessings, it is traditionally said upon waking. The words are brief:
מוֹדָה אֲנִי לְפָנֶיךָ מֶלֶךְ חַי וְקַיָם, שֶׁהֶחֱזַרְתָּ בִּי נִשְׁמָתִי בְּחֶמְלָה רַבָּה אֱמוּנָתֶךָ.
I give thanks before You, ever-living Sovereign, that You have restored my soul to me in mercy; how great is Your faith.
This time we pray in the singular, for God’s love is for me; and that love is so great that I have been given another day to experience life.
Living life with a sense of gratitude isn’t easy in the best of times – never mind during a pandemic, an economic crisis, a nation fraught with racial inequity, and a divided citizenry. And yet, there are so many things, big and small, for which we can be grateful.
Most of us have our health or have recovered from COVID or other health challenges. New Hampshire has been relatively spared com¬pared to other states from the harshest realities of the coronavirus, and the Concord area has been hit minimally. For those who are considered “long-term” COVID survivors, most finally feel relief. Please know that you have the love and support of this community.
We have our families – even if it feels like we’ve perhaps spent a bit too much time with our immediate families since March. While we probably have not seen other family members as often as we did before the pandemic, many of us have developed regular check-ins and are actually in more frequent contact with more significant conversations. For my recent birthday my brother’s note was unlike anything he had ever written to me before – and we’ve always been close. It was pure love and a reminder that he is always there for me.
We have our friends. While we have all faced the pandemic and its challenges, some of us have had extra burdens – loved ones have died or been diagnosed with life-threatening illnesses, our marriages have broken down or ended, we stay at home because of our own vulnerabilities, and so much more. Many of us have found the loving presence of friends through the extra hardships we have faced.
Outside of our personal lives, let us remember that we live in a remarkable place: We rank among the top ten states in education; we have a strong economy, with relatively low unem-ployment; and the housing market is quite strong. Yes, there are many ways in which we’d like to see things change in New Hampshire, but much is right about this state. And concerning things changing, let’s also remember that we live in a democracy, where we have the freedom to vote, speak our minds, gather, protest, petition, and more.
There is one more prayer of gratitude from our prayer book: It’s the second half of a prayer called Nishmat Kol Chai, meaning “the soul of every living thing.” The words are:
Even if our mouths were full of song as the sea, and our tongues full of joy in countless waves, and our lips full of praise as wide as the sky’s expanse, and our eyes to shine like sun and moon; and if our hands were spread out like heaven’s eagles and our feet swift like young deer, we could never thank You adequately, Adonai, our God and God of our ancestors, for a ten-thousandth of the many myriads of times You granted favors to our ancestors and to us.
This prayer celebrates the Israelites redemption from Egypt. It is also traditionally recited when we have avoided a disaster (a beam falling and landing near us); it’s the companion prayer to Birkat Gomel, which we said before I began my remarks, and which is recited when we have been delivered from a calamity (recovering after the beam hits us).
So what does the inclusion of prayers of gratitude in our sacred liturgy, particularly Nishmat Kol Chai and Birkat Gomel, tell us? That no matter how difficult our lives may be, with metaphoric beams falling all around us, we can and must be grateful.

In February of 2018, the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNIESCO) and the European Broadcasting Union chose the Matisyahu hit song One Day as the theme song for the eighth edition of World Radio Day. World Radio Day “marks a time when people around the world celebrate radio and how it shapes lives,” according to a statement from UNESCO. The theme in 2018 was “Dialogue, Tolerance and Peace.” The song was broadcast by more than 2,000 radio stations on February 13, 2018.
UNESCO went on to say, “Radio brings together people and communities from all backgrounds to foster positive dialogue for change. More specifically, radio is the perfect medium to counter the appeals for violence and the spread of conflict, especially in regions potentially more exposed to such realities.”
The Israeli social music movement Kululam spearheaded a project in Haifa, the port city in northern Israel, whereby 3,000 Jews, Muslims and Christians – none of whom had met before – came together to learn the song One Day in English, Hebrew, and Arabic. In under one hour, they were able to sing and harmonize the lyrics; as was reported, it was a “breathtaking display of unity and beauty.” If you have not seen the video, I encourage you to do a quick YouTube search and watch it.
A former congregant from New Jersey, who was born in Israel and has since moved back, said about the project, “I was there. It was so very moving to be a part of it.”
As we learned when we were young, “beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” And yet while we each may differ on what piece of art, composition, poem, animal, event, interaction, etc. may be beautiful, I would assert a universal truth about beauty: Beauty is something that moves us. It stirs within us something we cannot articulate – perhaps it is awe or overwhelm. Maybe it is that beauty “takes our breath away.” Sometimes, we can respond only with a sound, not even a full word.
The UNESCO choice of One Day for World Radio Day in 2018 reminds us that even before the pandemic and growing social and political divide, there was much ugliness in our world – the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, the Syrian civil war, the murder of Jews in Pittsburgh and Poway and France and too many other places around the globe, and on and on and on.
And so, the events of the past six months have added to our already burdened psyches, stressed out souls, and broken hearts.
Yet, there is so much beauty in the world. One tragedy is that war and conflict and disease and economic instability and food insecurity and hate and intolerance do what they can to block out the beauty. But only if we let them. So how do we learn to look beyond what blocks us from seeing the beauty around us?
First, we must open our eyes, our ears, our noses, our mouths, and our minds. Second, we must remember there have been times, many of them in fact, when the beauty of our world was apparent. Can you recall those first spring mornings when you awoke to the smell of blooming lilacs? How about the many first bites into a summer tomato or peach? What about the fall colors exploding around you – when is the last time you headed north just to drive across the Kancamagus Highway? Do you remember a first winter snowfall when you made snow angels, helped your kids build a snowperson (formerly known as snow man), or tackled a mountain on skis for the first time?
Our world is beautiful. There is ugliness in it, but we cannot allow the ugliness to define it. The book of Ecclesiastes reminds: “God made everything beautiful in its time.” This verse gives us the tradition of saying a blessing to God when we see beautiful things. Actually, there are multiple Jewish blessings for when we see beauty, in addition to our own spontaneous prayers, depending on what we see.
One blessing is baruch atah adonai, eloheinu melech ha-olam, oseh ma-aseh b’reishit, blessed are You, Eternal our God, Sovereign of the Universe, who made of the works of creation. This blessing is especially to be said upon seeing a mountain, a desert, a shooting star, a comet, a meteor shower, or other astronomical phenomena.
A second blessing is specific to seeing the ocean or other large bodies of water: baruch atah adonai, eloheinu melech ha-olam, she-asa et hayam hagadol, blessed are You, Eternal our God, Sovereign of the Universe, who made the great sea.
A third blessing for beauty is said only upon seeing a rainbow – though you would not necessarily hear it as a blessing for beauty. For us, liberal and modern Jews, seeing a rainbow is usually about seeing the rainbow itself – thee way the light hits the water after a rain shower; for our ancestors, seeing a rainbow was also about God’s promise never again to destroy the world with a flood – so stated by God after the flood in Genesis.
Thus, the traditional text recited is: baruch atah adonai, eloheinu melech ha-olam, zocher habrit v’ne-eman biv’ito v’kayam b’ma-amarav, blessed are You, Eternal our God, Sovereign of the Universe, who remembers the covenant, is faithful to God’s covenant, and keeps God’s promise. I always add the blessing for beauty to this one.
And that’s the final traditional beauty blessing – a catchall traditionally said upon seeing animals, trees, and anything else that strikes you as beautiful. The text is: baruch atah adonai eloheinu melech ha-olam shekahcha lo ba-olamo, blessed are you, our God, Sovereign of the Universe, who has such [beautiful things] in the universe.

While we have many blessings to celebrate and acknowledge the beauty of creation, even blessings for seeing beautiful or learned or otherwise distinct human beings, there is no blessing of God’s beauty.
David Goldman, who writes for Tablet Magazine, cites Rabbi Meir Soloveichik, noting that “Not once does the Bible call God ‘beautiful.’ God is called ‘splendid’ and [God’s] voice is called ‘majestic,’ but God is never called beautiful.”
Of course, we cannot say that God is beautiful, for God takes no physical form. Beauty is not an attribute of God, but rather, of how we sense God’s action in the world, maybe even God’s presence in the world.
Most of what I have focused on has been physical beauty, or even beauty through sound, like the 3,000 voices singing One Day together in 2018. But I would suggest that just as much beauty can be found outside nature or the arts. It’s like my former congregant, one of the 3,000 voices, said, “it was so moving to be a part of it.” It’s the beauty that comes from connections, from reaching out with your heart to touch the heart of another. Think of my opening story from tonight’s service – the young man’s beautiful heart versus the old woman’s tattered heart. Each exuded beauty of a different kind. But the most beautiful moment of the story was when they shared a piece of their heart with the other, and walked away, together.
Shanah tovah and Shabbat shalom. May your world be filled with beauty.

For my first year of rabbinical school studies, I lived in Jerusalem. Jerusalem probably has more synagogues per capita than any other place in the world. You can find every denomination, every trans-planted community from across the globe, and every language. In the first few months I lived in Jerusalem I went to services often. And as the cantorial class groupie, I attended services with Shira and her classmates to hear liturgical music unlike anything I’d heard before. I remember each of these different places like I was there last month, not 20 years ago.
One of those memories haunts me. It was a Friday night when I was friends praying at Yakar. Yakar is a religious, educational, and cultural center that strives to be a modern, pluralistic, and traditional. Men and women pray separately, though the mechitzah, the separation wall, is about shoulder height. Yakar has become the place where the young and hip pray and do social justice work.
The night I went to Yakar was warm. And it was crowded. I couldn’t find a seat, so I went outside to the women’s overflow patio. The air was calm and thin – and I could smell the spring flowers starting to bloom. The patio was far enough away from the service leader that I had trouble hearing most of the prayers. I stood in a corner, praying where I thought the congregation was in the prayer book.
When everything went silent, I knew that we had reached the Amidah, traditionally recited silently in the evening. I had an Amidah ritual at that time. When praying a silent Amidah, which I rarely do now, at the end I would close my eyes, pray Oseh Shalom, offer a prayer of peace for Israel, add a personal prayer, kiss my siddur, and sit down.
That night at Yakar, as my lips silently finished Oseh Shalom and were about to recite a prayer of peace for Israel, I began to hear gunshots. Living in Jerusalem during the first year of the Second Intifada, the Palestinian uprising, I had, sadly, come to recognize the sounds of gunshots, and could even distinguish them from bombs, military planes breaking the sound barrier, and fireworks. These were clearly gunshots.
I froze. I didn’t know what to do – more specifically, I didn’t know what to pray. I didn’t know if I should even bother to pray, never mind what. Do I pray harder? If I do, would the gunshots stop? I knew how ridiculous that was the moment I thought it. I didn’t pray harder. I didn’t pray at all. I started to sob internally at the painful irony of praying for peace while listening to gunfire. I left. And I didn’t attend another service the remaining months I lived in Jerusalem. I couldn’t. It hurt too much.
Over the years since that night, especially since becoming a rabbi, more than one person has told me how difficult they find prayers for peace in a world so fractured. And yet, prayers for peace and blessings of peace are a central part of Judaism.
The traditional Jewish greeting, shalom aleichem, “peace be upon you,” is answered with aleichem shalom, “and upon you, peace.” Why? Why give each other the blessing of peace? And why pray for peace so often in our worship – Oseh Shalom, Sim Shalom, Shalom Rav, and even the Priestly Benediction, also called the Threefold Blessing of Peace?
There is probably no better gift than the gift of peace. Our ancient rabbis knew that. They taught that the whole purpose of Torah is to establish peace – not to establish law or even community. But peace.
For many of us, 2020 has been anything but peaceful. What began as a virus in Asia, 7,000 miles away, spread to Europe. Then it came to the U.S., though remained far from New Hampshire. We posted signs about washing our hands and reminded our children to sneeze into their arms.
And then everything changed. We were ordered to stay home. We lost our jobs – if not permanently, then at least for a few months. We postponed celebrations, watched loved ones die alone, and attend funerals online. We dug into our savings. We witnessed our children missing their friends and struggling to learn online. On top of the impact of the pandemic, we, particularly white America, were forced to confront the reality that people of color face every day: That our country remains profoundly unequal and unjust. And these two conditions, along with politicians who are inept at best and cruel at worst, have heightened the divide unlike anything we have seen probably since the Civil War.
And so we seek peace, sometimes desperately. One congregant called me just before Rosh Hashanah and asked if I could let her into the sanctuary over the holidays, to sit in a corner in the back, because, in her words, “it’s just so peaceful in there.” As I offered a gentle “I’m so sorry, but no,” I said, “The sanctuary isn’t the issue. It’s your lack of finding peace. Let’s talk about that.”
I cannot magically bring you, or our world, peace. Despite what my dad believed, I don’t have a special “in” with God. But maybe I can offer a lens from which you may be able to find small moments of peace.
We must start with peace for ourselves, for only when we are at peace can we help others know peace. Some find peace in prayer – across the nation, attendance at religious services is up. Some turn to meditation, yoga, long walks, short strolls, or petting an animal. Some find peace in study. This past month, more than a dozen different people participated in the 30 Days/30 Minutes Elul discussions. Some came every day, finding a half-hour respite from the stresses whirling within and without.
Some find peace by giving to others: shopping for someone, delivering groceries or meals, taking a person to a doctor’s appointment. When a congregant recently had surgery, I asked in advance if anyone in the community might be able to assist him when he returned home. This congregant lives about 30 minutes from Concord, and virtually every member who lives close to him volunteered.
It turns out that he has a support network where he lives, but he – and I – were so moved by the outpouring of love and support for him. Peace for all of the volunteers. Comfort and security for the one in need. In our Shabbat morning worship, there’s a traditional prayer that says, in English, “We have come into being to praise, to labor, and to love.” This prayer is actually called a prayer for peace – to praise, to labor, and to love – that’s how we find peace.
Following the horrific events of September 11, 2001, the Bay Area Jewish Healing Center offered this prayer for peace:
Let us live in peace, God.

Let children live in peace, in homes free from brutality and abuse.

Let them go to school in peace, free from fear – and I’d add, — fear of disease.

Let them play in peace, God, safely in parks and neighborhoods; watch over them.

Let partners love in peace, in partnerships free from cruelty.

Let people go to work in peace, with no fears of terror or bloodshed.

Let us travel in peace; protect us, God, in the air, on the seas, along whatever road we take.

Let nations dwell together in peace, without the threat of war hovering over them.

Let us live in peace, God. And let us say, Amen.

Peace need not remain elusive. It is unlikely in the current world that we will find r’fu-ah sh’leimah, a complete and total sense of wholeness or peace. But we can find moments. And we must.
Shana tovah v’Shabbat shalom.