choosing life

Lessons from the Paint Can

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White Dripping Paint On White Surface Free Stock Photo and Image

We watched Survivor last weekend on HBO MAX. We chose it as one of the ways we would observe Yom HaShoah. I was surprised how graphic some of the concentration camp scenes were and how bloody the boxing matches. It is the story of Harry Haft who survived Auschwitz by boxing for his captors and after the war lives in New York searching for his pre-war girlfriend. Near the end of the movie, one of the characters sings “God Bless America” in Yiddish. I found that moment especially touching. Maybe it was its inherent softness winding down this tough and sometimes brutal film. Maybe I was just manipulated by the story line and the film editor or director.

Or maybe it made me think how lucky we are to have been born in this land filled with so many blessings and so many challenges. My grandparents who left their home and left their past must have been desperate to risk so much to find a better life. I think there could be a film made of all our ancestors who began the long walk from dusty villages and oppressive cities to these shores that promised freedom. I think we underestimate their courage.

I only remember my father’s parents. My mother was an orphan by the age of 12. She was raised by her older sister, Aunt Molly whose husband was a house painter. He sat on my shoulder this afternoon as I painted squares of different colors of white on the walls in our apartment so we could decide which shade of white to paint. Here’s an easy confession and an obvious statement. I am a messy painter – I know there’s a way to keep the paint on the walls and off my hands, floor, and clothes, but Uncle Harry isn’t here to teach me. Thank God for water soluble paint.,

And what is it that we are being taught these days? That you can paint over truth? That you can whitewash the sometimes harsh and sometimes unsettling realities of the past? That you don’t have to pay attention to the way things were and if you have the power, you can paint the present with the colors of your choosing? My grandparents didn’t come to a land where the streets were paved with gold. They come to a tough country where you had to claw your way to survival. All of ours did. They fought with all their beings to realize their dreams. So what if the paint drips. Clean it up and try again.

Things are getting dark and dirty here. I guess my lesson to myself is – can’t step back and disengage. I hear Rabbi Tarfon: It is not your obligation to finish the work, but neither are you at liberty to neglect it. The fight for freedoms just got harder: time to get back into the ring. I am starting here:  https://www.plannedparenthood.org/

More

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Today is our 55th Anniversary. (I stopped at that word anniversary and wondered should it be capitalized or not. I decided it was a big enough deal that it deserved all the attention it could get.) We were married on Saturday night June 25th, 1966, in Teaneck, New Jersey. It was a big and lavish wedding. The kind that couldn’t begin till after sunset because the family Rabbi wouldn’t begin to travel from Queens to Teaneck till there were three stars in the sky. Dinner was served around 11:00 and you went home with the NY Times. We went to Bermuda on our honeymoon and began a life filled with lots and lots of love and lots and lots of laughter and lots and lots of challenges and lots and lots of compromise and lots and lots of blessings.

The secret to our marriage is simple. It is Eileen, known today as “GE”. She is first and foremost the one person in the world who really knows me. She is my best of besties. She knows what makes me laugh; what makes me cry; what I am proud of; what I am ashamed of; what I wish were different; what I wish will continue forever. She is a storyteller and a gift giver. She can tell you the story of how we met and what she said to me at the wedding of our friends’ when I asked her to dance. I still remember the black long dress with the white decolletage. She had ample cleavage to make it more than memorable. She gives gifts for every occasion to people I think we barely know. But try and buy her a gift!

Her greatest gift is her gift of love; a love that is laced with understanding and ‘negotiation’; a love that is littered with encouragement and wisdom; a love that makes me a better person and can’t be limited by words on a page. Has it been easy and without bumps? This is life I am talking about. This is being a clergy family I am reflecting on. She hates the word “Rebbitzen” but ask her to tell you the story that happened in the kitchen of the Temple’s Social Hall and let me tell you she has been the best Rabbinic spouse there could be because she defined her role as CEO – chief encouragement officer. And first in line to critique and first in line to keep me in line. And she lived her own professional life from teacher to Julia Child to mother to Holocaust Educator to teacher again and always.

Has it been perfect? Life is not a Hallmark Card. Has it been wonderful? It has been passionate; it has been crazy fun and crazy maddening. The arc of our love hasn’t been symmetrical, but it has soared, and it has filled and completed me in ways I never expected.  Yes! It’s been wonderful. And here is the best part; It has been together and it’s not over. The song we danced to at our wedding was “More”. To more and to whatever we have left: I love you.

ps – you will have to ask her the story of the Mustang

On Hold

/ howardshapiro / 19 Comments

What do you do when you are on hold? You listen to horrible music interrupted by an announcement that informs you: “All specialists are assisting other customers. Please hold for the next available specialist.” At the beginning of this process I was informed that the average wait time is 50 minutes or more. Thanks Chase. At least Apple lets you choose the music you would like to listen to. (or none – even better.) Too bad Chase’s website doesn’t address my issue.

This is what I am doing on hold. I decided I needed some fortitude so I picked out a nice California Red.(Now this is going to sound like I know what I am talking about.) Nothing too fancy medium of body, not too acidic, but one that will hold up to this drivel I am listening to. You know what I like about the wine I am savoring? It has this beautiful almost pink color that compliments the dark red at the edge of the glass. I would take a picture of it, but I am afraid I will lose my place in line.

This is what I am doing on hold. I am resolving to go back to the poetry course with Billy Collins  I bought from Masterclass. I left off during our shut down and I am going to see if I can motivate myself to continue and maybe even complete it. In chapter three he teaches, “There is no chronology involved in poetry. You can go anywhere. You can fly.” I like that. It reminds me of what happens when I try to meditate. My mind is like a poem. It goes anywhere and everywhere and if I am successful slips away to a place deep inside.

This is what I am doing on hold. I am thinking about you and this unplugged blog. Of course, it really isn’t unplugged. It is connected in a hopefully important sense to the wires in my brain and being and to the question of purpose and meaning. I often ask myself: Who am I writing this blog for and why?  I always find it interesting that the more “political” I get the more comments I receive. So, I find myself torn between moments like this where we share a slice of life together and causes to which I am committed. But ultimately I’ve decided: this is all about the connections we forge with ourselves and each other. Isn’t everything?

This Night Is Different

/ howardshapiro / 8 Comments

(A note of explanation: A friend called and said, “I will be alone Seder night. I am not comfortable with zoom – can you help me find a way to celebrate.” This is what came up …. A little long for my regular posts …. But here for you to use as you see fit ……

This night is different. Locked down; socially distant; isolated and feeling fearful of the next news cycle; wondering will the “plague” pass over my house and the homes of my loved ones. This night is different. It is hard to think of Seder meaning order when so much that is happening around us seems so random.

This night is different. The candles we light are festive reminders of faith and hope. I hear my mother blessing with her lips the Hebrew formula of praise and pleading with her heart the motto of her depression: This too shall pass. The flickering flames fight for survival. We need them to win; we need them to brighten the darkness of despair; to lift the veil so that we can see there is a way up and out of this vast and deep valley of desolation.

Thank God for wine. Whether red or white or any color in-between, pretend you are a master wine connoisseur, and let it linger in your mouth. Taste the earth, musky and full or dry and acid. There is a miracle on your tongue, the process from seed to bottle. It is worthy of blessing.

This night we wash. Hands in water in a bowl. In my house I pour from a pitcher and as a blonde and blue-eyed acolyte robed in white and red in a soaring cathedral, I offer my “priest” (the youngest child) the purity of being cleansed. But forget my silly fantasy. Add some soap to defeat the virus. Forget the bowl and pitcher. Wash well and as you lather sing an early Dayenu.

Parsley, peas and peapods, anything that grows green. It is Spring after all. And that means hope dipped in salt water. And that means we will get through this. And that means: Next year in Jerusalem, Paris or even Rome. That means next year in a crowded room, shoulder to shoulder, hot and sweaty, my good clothes itchy against my skin. Next year back too long and boring and when will we eat.

I guess this is turning out to be a different Haggadah or more precisely a different Seder. I don’t think I’ll get to all 14 steps and who has the patience for this anyway. It’s really all about the Matzah and the story that it tells. Rabbi Gamliel is quoted in the Haggadah as saying: “Anyone who has not said the following three things on Pesach has not fulfilled their obligation: the Passover sacrifice, matzah and maror.”  So I’m saying them.

Pesach – in ancient times the sacrifice and aroma of roasting lamb. How much has to be sacrificed in order to preserve the miracle of freedom. The willingness to believe that we can be redeemed. That there is a force in the universe we can tap into to light our way and walk the murky path through a sea of reeds to the other side.

Matzah – break it now. Break it into two uneven pieces. (It would be a miracle if it split evenly.) The larger piece gets hidden. Maybe in the folds of your napkin; maybe in the margins of the book; maybe under a pillow; maybe behind a piece of furniture – hidden for a different generation to find. Because the story we tell of Egypt, slavery and the road to redemption is not just the story of us; it is the story of every generation; it is the story of them. I know we call it the bread of affliction but have you ever had matzah slathered with whipped butter and strawberry jam?

Maror – The Bitter herb. How much more do I need to say. It isn’t about denying the bitterness that comes with living. It isn’t about negating how hard it was to be a slave to Pharaoh. It is about recognizing the bitterness and finding a way to make it somewhat sweeter – like dipping the horseradish root into that mixture of apples or dates and nuts or apricots and wine and cinnamon or cardamom to make it bearable. So do you know what lettuce wraps look like in a restaurant: wrap your bitterness with the sweetness of family, friends, love, affection even if you have to do it from memory. Eat the Maror any way that works for you. But I would do it like Hillel used to, sandwiched between two pieces of Matzah, savoring with every bite the sweet and sugary stuff we call LIFE.

OMG! I almost forgot. Have you been sipping the wine? I hope so. The Seder calls for four glasses – each has its own promise. And with each sip we bless the story of liberation that we tell. It is a retelling of ancient truths that we are in this together. That we will find a way out of this together. That we do not tell this story just for us. We tell it to change the world connecting love and loss with life and liberty.

The Haggadah ends with a song about a parent and a goat. In one of my favorite poems, Nathan Alterman brings the song to life as his words help me conclude my Passover story. We are all clinging to the edges of the pages. We are living in the margins. But the strength of Passover is the promise of an open door and a world where plagues are drops of wine and each of us is living unafraid singing about tomorrow.


The Kid of the Haggadah

There in the market place, bleating among the billy goats and nannies,
Wagging his thin little tail—as thin as my finger—
Stood the Kid—downcast, outcast, the leavings of a poor man’s house,
Put up for sale without a bell, without even a ribbon, for just a couple of cents. 

Not a single soul in the market paid him any attention,
For no one knew—not even the goldsmith, the sheep-shearer—
That this lonesome little Kid would enter the Haggadah
And his tale of woe become a mighty song. 

But Daddy’s face lit up,
He walked over to pat the Kid’s forehead—and bought him.
And so began one of those songs
That people will sing for all history. 

The Kid licked Daddy’s hand,
Nuzzled him with his wet little nose;
And this, my brother, will make the first verse of the song:
“One only Kid, one only Kid, that my father bought for two zuzim.” 

It was a spring day, and the breezes danced;
Young girls winked and giggled, flashed their eyes;
While Daddy and the Kid walked into the Haggadah
To stand there together—small nose in large hand, large hand on small nose. 

To find in the Haggadah—
So full already of miracles and marvels—
A peaceful place on the last page,
Where they can hug each other and cling to the edge of the story. 

And this very Haggadah whispers,
“Join us…you’re welcome here … you belong,
Among my pages full of smoke and blood,
Among the great and ancient tales I tell.” 

So I know the sea was not split in vain,
Deserts not crossed in vain—
If at the end of the story stand Daddy and the Kid
Looking forward and knowing their turn will come. 

Happy Passover!!

It is Time

/ howardshapiro / 11 Comments

It’s time to write a book. Or at least it’s time to put my files in order. Or maybe buy that scanner and get rid of all that paper. Or start an online course or find a good book but of course I am doing none of it. All I tend to do is run down my battery on my laptop.

Although I did make a “Mellow” playlist this morning on Spotify. Kudos (there is probably a more “woke” word than that) to Lab/Shul for their link to a Healing Playlist. https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6ZLvq2LbdOxDn6MMsBFA1B

It probably isn’t for everyone, but it felt good to at least do something. (PS – it is possible the link won’t work unless you have Spotify — above my pay grade.)

I don’t know about you, but I feel somewhat powerless. I am observing the laws of social distancing and sheltering in place. Whoever came up with these phrases did a good job knitting them into our shared language pool. I am washing my hands way more than ever before and have discovered that the creases in between my fingers are part of my hands as are the backs or tops and they all need to be scrubbed in the 2X Happy Birthday ritual. I am not making fun of any of this. I am commenting to myself how we create and develop new social norms.

What is true for me is that as isolating as all of this can be, the reality that it teaches me is that we are part of the same collective. There is an organic connection between us, and the virus is teaching us to be conscious that we are connected in many more ways than we ever thought. It is teaching us to be appreciative of the people who care for us like the medical community, like the education community, like the people who stock the shelves of our grocery stores, like the manager at Publix who greeted everyone who was in line to get into the store cheerfully, handing them an already sanitized cart.

It is making us adapt in large and small ways. Like I thought we were making chicken soup today but there was no chicken. So, I am going to try and recreate my mother’s sweet and sour cabbage borscht. (I guess the book will have to wait.) It is reminding us to be kinder It is connecting us even as it separates us. Loudly and clearly it says: this is a very small world and what happens in China happens here. And wouldn’t it be great if at the end of the day it motivated our world to work collectively and cooperatively because all borders are really artificial.

A Ball Drops

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A Ball Drops

The end of year’s New York Times magazine section is my favorite. Since 1996, it has been dedicated to “The Lives They Lived”, people of some fame whose lives impacted the world they colored and enhanced. They choose an interesting mix of people. Some famous; some people who struggle through life with ups and downs, successes and failures, repeated attempts to resolve something unfinished in their lives. Always striving these are people of accomplishments but not necessarily the kind that leads to the fame or fortune we expect of front-page New York Times obituaries.

Among the people I am drawn to is Sylvain Bromberger. In 1940, a 15 year old Belgian Jew, he and his family were granted visas to travel to Portugal by the then unknown Portuguese consul general named Aristides de Sousa Mendes. Mendes defied the Portuguese’s government’s directive and saved tens of thousands of refugees fleeing Hitler. Severely reprimanded by his government Mendes died in poverty and disgrace in 1954. Over the course of his life as a professor at MIT and a philosopher of science, Bromberger wanted to know “why”. Why was his family saved? Why is the earth’s circumference 24,901 miles? Why questions he teaches us uncover the hidden and reveal the unknown, link what is seemingly unconnected. Bromberger dedicated one of his books to Mendes.

The people remembered don’t live perfect lives. Who does? But somehow their accomplishments are tied to their challenges; their successes are bound up with their defeats. One thing they all teach me: there are so many ways to make a difference. These people take the raw material we call living, shaping and fabricating it into a story only they can tell. Well that’s not 100% true. Sometimes the raw material of life formats them. And the plot is not always pretty.

When I was a young rabbinic student I remember taking inspiration from a traditional source and writing: “Everyone is born unique into this world; every soul is sacred.” I still believe that. We all have a purpose whether divinely ordained or a combination of genetic material modified by our environment, or both.

Anne V. Coates was a film editor. She won an Oscar for “Lawrence of Arabia”, discerning through her art that Peter O Toole’s blue eyes are an oasis in the desert and the Arabian sun is as much a star as Omar Sharif. She worked through more than than 30 miles of footage. Her genius was finding the right cut and freezing it into eternity.

There is a reason we are alive. Tonight a ball drops in Times Square at midnight. It will finish its descent with the numbers 2019. Sylvain Bromberger would ask us to find time this year with why questions that would help us discover the hidden arc of our lives. Anne Coates invites us to run the footage of however many years we have lived and find the clip worthy of an Oscar. Not melancholy but celebration. Not disappointment but enchantment. Not sadness but joy. Each of us is on a journey towards infinity. The lives we live are the most precious gift the universe bestows.

Turning the Clocks Back

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Fall BackLast night we turned the clocks back an hour. And people celebrate with an extra hour of sleep. I am not that lucky. I am up early every morning no matter what time I went to bed or what time the clock says. So I did what I love to do on Sunday mornings – put on some music and read the Sunday Times. The music I choose often depends on my mood but it has to be readable. Today I chose my Vietnam era music playlist.

It probably has something to do with the image of an African American Pastor from Emanuel Church in Charleston, SC and the Tree of Life Synagogue’s Rabbi standing face to face, arm in arm, in the three-column picture on the front page of the paper. But the music did not resonate. I picked two other playlists and then resigned myself to the one I call “folk music I like”. It has a lot of Simon and Garfunkel. You know: “Hello darkness … Where have you gone Joe DiMaggio … Like a bridge over troubled waters …”

I haven’t finished the paper yet but I have seen at least three articles on anti-Semitism and two full-page ads. The ADL leads with “Never Again. Never is now,” while an article not very far from it asks: “Is It Safe to Be Jewish in New York?” So I hate to say this and I hate to think this but I ask, what is turning back in America? It isn’t just the clocks. It is the sense of complacency and comfort that it can’t happen here. I used to say: America is different. America is an experiment in understanding. America is one of the only countries where there has never been a pogrom.

Technically that is probably still true. (A pogrom is usually associated with an organized or government sponsored massacre.) But a massacre this was and I believe that some responsibility lies with how much vicious hate rhetoric spews out of the head of our government. The clock is teaching. We are falling back into racial and religious divides. We are falling back into anti-immigrant rifts. We are falling back into the rule of violence and we better wake up. It can happen here. It did happen here. The question is what do we do about it.

By not being complacent.

By being aware.

By examining ourselves and our unspoken prejudices.

By forging alliances.

By breaking down walls.

By breaking the silence.

By talking about it.

By calling out hatred and prejudice whenever we see it or hear it.

By calling our elected officials to task.

By exercising our sacred civic duties and getting involved.

By not taking anything for granted – neither our faith, our freedom or our future.

 

Don’t Let Apathy Win

/ howardshapiro / 13 Comments

post_standtog_vigil_1220x838This is not a criticism; this is not judgmental. This is me just saying the truth that is in my heart.

So many of us are posting Facebook pictures of different stripes and colors that all share a similar message – we are proud Jews; we are one with the Jewish people; we stand against anti-Semitism; we grieve with the martyrs of Tree of Life Synagogue; we thank the First Responders and honor them for their bravery. We change our cover pictures. We put up Stars of David that say how proud we are and sad we are and how much we need to vote. (And that includes me.)

And it is all-good.

I mean that.

But it is not enough. Tonight I am attending an Interfaith Vigil at Temple Beth Am in Jupiter. If that is too far from your house or place of work our Jewish Federation and community is offering another one at Temple Shaarey Shalom in Boynton Beach. They both take place at the same time: Tuesday, October 30th from 6:00 – 7:00 PM.

I am going because I believe we need to be together. I am going because I believe we need to be in a Synagogue even if we don’t believe. I am going because I believe I need to stand with my non-Jewish neighbors and say with my body and my presence:

There is no place for hatred in this America.

There is no place for racism.

There is no place for homophobia.

There is no place for xenophobia.

Muslims are welcome here. Jews are welcome here. Christians are welcome here. “This land is OUR land…”

And I could go on. Facebook and Instagram posts are good. But they don’t take the place of face-to-face, shoulder-to-shoulder, hand-to-hand meetings.

All this: Find the right place for you and go. Meet me at Beth Am tonight.

Don’t let the haters define our country. Don’t let apathy win. We know what happens when good people stand idly by and believe it can’t happen here.

History teaches. Are we listening?

 

 

Blue Grass

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bluegrass

We were at a blue grass concert the other night in an outdoor venue. It was one of those Western North Carolina evenings with thunderstorms popping up and dissipating as the night air began to cool everything down. The Steep Canyon Rangers were playing with a full orchestra behind them, great evening, great music.

The fireflies were out, hovering two rows in front of me. I first thought it was a floater. (An age related change in your eyes that causes shadows that glide in front of your vision.) I only have one. (So far, my Ophthalmologists tells me.) At first I saw it maneuvering in and out of my vision constantly. But like almost everything, you get used to it. (Except of course now as I think and write about it.)

They flashed independent of the music. They created sparks of light, softly and chaotically announcing there was more there than there was there. It was the evening after the Supreme Court announced that the administration’s travel ban on Muslims was constitutional. The banjo is quarreling with the violin. Their dueling creates a vibrant sense of contentious harmony. It is wondrous; it is beautiful. More fireflies find their way into my field of vision. I feel they are speaking a truth to me about my country and its future and I am concerned.

It isn’t that I disagree with every policy. It is that I hate the triumphalism and the language and the promises that all of this is going to solve all our problems. Keep them out; Build a Wall; Ship them back immediately – no recourse to judges or courts. We don’t have enough judges anyway: Where will we get them, from the barbershops?

Which brings me back to harmony. The mandolin and the bass each sing their own variations of the melody. But there is one song; there is one vision; there is one united presentation. And the differences between them are celebratory. You can feel the strength that is building as they each tell their own story and interpret the anthem in their own unique way. I don’t get that with this government. I don’t sense that from the way our leaders situate their personal beliefs and/or their political positions. It is as if everyone is playing his or her own song and no one is looking out for the band.

The fireflies are still doing their thing. I’m a symbolic thinker. Are they going on or are they flickering off? And what about the lamp beside the golden door? Perilous times.

 

 

 

 

Shame

/ howardshapiro / 17 Comments

fence immigration

I wish I had a solution. I wish I could speak with authority about the subject. I wish I felt more confident about writing this blog on immigration and the current policies of the Administration. But I don’t (have a solution) and I’m not (confident).

This is what I know. Something is wrong – radically wrong, from the inside and the outside. Tearing children away from their parents as families cross our southern border asking for asylum is cruel and unusual punishment to me. I wonder what is happening on our northern borders? I don’t read of similar policies in airports on either coast. How much of this is an extension of selective immigration from what are perceived as national population pools that will benefit a narrow America First agenda fueled by politicians who quote the Bible?

I am at a loss to understand how this Administration lives with itself. Yes we need to have a coherent and comprehensive immigration policy. Yes we need to have border security. Yes we need to stop the flow of drug, human, and whatever else traffic into our country. AND Y ES we need to live up to basic human values of caring, of love, or compassion, of acceptance. There are lots of verses in the Bible. I’m not averse to quoting them myself. But lets be honest. You can probably find one that fits whatever political mood or flavor you are trying to promote. You can definitely find stories and verses that need a lot of contextualization and interpretation and taking them on face value raises more questions than answers. But in my mind the overarching sense the Bible imparts (both Hebrew and Christian) is caring for the downtrodden, compassion for the stranger, justice for the widow, love and kindness for the orphan, looking forward to a world redeemed, participating in the work of salvation, finding a place in your heart for those on the margins.

And I could go on. What is mind blowing to me is that instead of trying to solve this problem, the leadership we elected is playing a blame game. (At least today.) It’s the previous presidents’ fault. It’s the legislation enacted by the Democrats. It’s sad and it’s shameful. That’s what it is. Even his wife is embarrassed. Fix it. Separating families, children to the right, adults to the left isn’t making America great again. It’s making America complicit. It’s making America callous. It’s making America cruel. If you are like me you feel powerless. It is all too complicated. Sometimes you don’t have to consider all the intricacies of every situation. Sometimes you just have to go with your gut feelings: Shame.

But don’t stop there – call congress; connect with your representatives and senators; vote, vote vote.

 

 

Garage Talk

/ howardshapiro / 6 Comments

IMG_0518

I don’t know if I can do justice to this conversation. It happened yesterday in my garage. Our remote control openers and the secondary opener affixed to the wall near the laundry room door were not working. I called Lift Master and pushed the purple button to reset the codes but nothing happened. I was told I needed a new logic board and I heard “time to call for service.”

Andy came. He asked me the embarrassing question first: Had I changed the batteries? But it soon became clear that we did indeed need a new board in one of the units and I hung out with him as he was working, always thinking, maybe I can learn how to do this myself. It can’t be a Jewish gene that I am so inept when it comes to fixing things.

So we talked – about how long have we lived here, who built the house, bluegrass music which he played, and the people who control the world. That’s where my antennas went up. We got there through a musician friend of his who is addicted to the news. He listens and gets agitated, listens some more and gets aggravated until he is almost apoplectic and beside himself. “It is no good” Andy said, “and a waste of time. Does he think that we are in control of the world; does he think that the politicians or even the President has real power? It is those above; it is that small cabal (my word not his) of people who run everything. We are just puppets in a Punch and Judy show.”

By this time I just wanted the garage door fixed. But I probed. “Who are these people?” I don’t know what I would have done if I heard the words Elders of Zion or some such synonym. I did get – “well maybe the Free Masons” with a quick disclaimer of “well we really don’t know. They want it that way. And anyway, how long do you think we have on this earth? “ As a species or individual?”, I asked. “Ninety years, if you are lucky, a drop in time. Live it well and live it now. It doesn’t do any good to worry about what you can’t fix.”

I could’ve, should’ve countered his premise. But the garage doors were going up and down and every button was doings its appointed task. I think we all have an appointed task. I think we all have roles to play and a world to change for the better. I think it is “ok” to be aggravated by the news as long as you do something about it. I think we can’t just sit back and let the unknown powers that are or are not run the world. I think we have an obligation to move the needle even ever so slightly but move it nonetheless. I think living it well and living it now is caring about tomorrow.

Maybe Andy is happier; maybe I should have tried to change his perspective and maybe it is just ok that my garage doors open.

 

White Gloves

/ howardshapiro / 15 Comments

Memorial Day 2018It is a good day to try to write. Morning has broken but the skies show no sign that there is sun lurking behind the cloud cover. The clay tiles of the roofs across the street are outlined against a grey that is of no particular color or interest. Everything is still on this Memorial Day 2018, except my memories.

Maybe the article in my “inbox” from The Forward propels them this morning. Reposted from Veterans Day two years ago, “Profiles Of Our Fallen” obits 37 Jewish men and women who died defending you and me over these past ten years. The image accompanying it is of hands gloved in white folding an American flag horizontally cuffed with the blue sleeves of a US Army dress uniform. I know those sleeves with the gold braid. They take me back to my responsibility as the Jewish Chaplain of Arlington National Cemetery when I served full time duty at Fort Belvoir in Virginia. That was the year before I was posted to Vietnam.

It was a strange and disturbing time. The beauty of a military funeral with its elaborate rites and rules played out against the rolling green and white of Arlington. So many stone markers standing at attention quietly witnessing the tragic sacrifice of what could have been and of what we will never know. I played my part, proudly. It was the least I could do for those who will never know another tomorrow. I played my part, religiously, not one hundred percent sure, event then, what the ancient words consummated. This I knew. If almost nothing could heal, at least these Hebrew formulas bound memory to eternity and offered a glimpse of a blue sky that seemingly goes on forever.

They weren’t all killed in action; they weren’t all too young to die. Some were career officers who died what we call a natural death. But too many were. Standing at an open grave you know many things. You know this could be you. You know this will be you. You know that for all we think we are, we are but dust and ashes, grass that grows and withers, a faded flower in the wind.

We owe so much to all of them. There is almost nothing we can give them to repay the debt, except perhaps: A life well lived, a life of caring; a life infused with giving; a life of service to the causes they died for. I ask one minute of your time today or tomorrow or whenever you read this. No matter what your challenges, you are blessed to be living in a country that still cherishes your right to choose how you will live your days. Think of them and remember.

In my head, the bugler is playing taps. They died for our freedom. It is that simple and that complicated. We owe them this country.