This article appeared in the December, 2021 issue of The Scroll.

In the last three weeks or so, I have been involved with six different grieving families. It started with the passing of our beloved friend, Jules Stern, and followed quickly from there. My daughter-in-law lost her grandmother. A friend of mine lost his mother. You get the idea. The passings happened in rapid order with almost no time to really absorb each one. 

I don’t really believe I have experienced that much death in such a short time. Each time there were responsibilities to be fulfilled: services, Shiva visits, etc.

But here’s the interesting point. One might think that seeing six families you care about in pain happen in such a short time might have a negative effect. But, during this time I realized something pretty incredible, and that is what I want to share with you this month.

This article appeared in the November, 2021 issue of The Scroll.

Chanuka is early this year. I am used to celebrating Chanuka in mid-to-late December. This year, it falls at the end of November and carries on into early December. This happens because the Jewish year follows a lunar cycle and is between 10 and 12 days shorter than the Gregorian calendar which is based on a solar cycle. This difference causes Jewish holidays to shift relative to the secular calendar.

Note: This article was first published in the October 2021 issue of The Scroll.

From whom do you get your inspiration? Have you ever thought about it?

I have to admit that I am very fortunate. My parents have been huge inspirations for me and I have written in the past about how they inspire me each and every day. Today, I would like to tell you about someone else who is a constant source of inspiration to me. 

Tacked to a cork board near my desk in one of my two offices is a picture. It shows a mature man (I really can’t think of him as old despite his age) standing in front of one of the greatest monuments to hate in the world: the infamous Arbeit Macht Frei sign above the entrance to that great man-made hell known as Auschwitz. You can see him speaking with someone in the shadow of that horrible icon with the camp buildings in the background.

Note: This article was published in the August/September 2021 issue of The Scroll.

I am writing this article in Boston, MA. Chana and I are here on an abbreviated vacation. Naturally, we have walked the Freedom Trail, visited Paul Revere’s house, seen the great North Church of “One if land, two if by sea” fame, shopped at Faneuil Hall Marketplace (and saw some interesting street shows), etc. You know the drill. Boston is an historical town and I happen to love history. We have done a lot of walking, talking, thinking (not as much eating as you would think, thank G-d), and, overall, have been enjoying an extended 5 day weekend.

Note: This article appeared in the June 2021 issue of The Scroll.

The best surprises are the pleasant ones. Too many of the surprises I have had over the last year, heck even over the last month, have not been pleasant. I have lost friends to COVID and other maladies, had unexpected problems at work, and so on, and so on. I do not have to go into details here, you all know the story. What I experienced is, I am sure, not all that different from what you have experienced at one time or another in your lives. 

There are even times when it seems like unpleasant surprises come at me in seeming rapid fire. Issues at work, in the community, at the congregation, etc. can come up quickly in succession, and sometimes it feels like all I am doing is reacting to one bullet after another. During times like that, I bear in mind one of my favorite country songs, by Rodney Atkins: “If you’re going through h*ll, keep on going… You might get out before the Devil even knows you’re there.”

This article originally appeared in the May issue of The Scroll.

I don’t know about you, but I love to read. I got that from my mom, of blessed memory. She was a veritable bookworm and I inherited her love of the written word. My fondest memories are of times when I went into our attic, which was big and filled with boxes many of which contained dozens of books. I would gribbleve (that’s a term my mom used to say whenever we rifled through something… don’t ask me where it comes from or what its literal definition is) through dusty boxes and come up with literary gems that would occupy my mind for hours. Mom used to start wondering where I was and she would call my name at the top of her lungs to try and find me.