What Makes Me Cry

Since I have been here, two things have made me cry.  Okay,three things.  


The Friday before last, we climbed Masada.  Those of you who know me well are aware that I take great joy in planning, but, reasonably philosophical about these things, also know that plans are just that -- plans.  A scheme.  Blueprint.  Recipe meant as a guide, not to be followed with precision.  In this case, that mindset was a good thing, as the only thing that went according to plan was that all three of us were at the gate waiting for entrance to Masada at 4:27 a.m. -- three minutes early than scheduled, environmentally-responsible wind-up flashlights in hand. 


The first of a few to gain entrance so early, we started the long climb up the snake path in the dark.  The literature says this climb takes 45 minutes to an hour.  We were doing well, sentinels for those behind us -- and then the tour buses arrived, filled with kids from all over America on a national Federation trip.  Those walks up and down the hills of Jerusalem, our hike in Ein Gedi -- nothing prepared us for the difficulty of the trip that our ancestors made in defiance of the Romans 2000 years ago.  


Light began to visit us, and the kids began to overtake us -- first a few, and then we were overtaken even by the stragglers -- you know, the ones with asthma or other ailments.  Keithen, embarrassed by his out-of-shape parents, joined a group and left us behind, occasionally calling to us to encourage us to continue the climb.  Larry and I were each other's cheerleaders, and, though the morning sun (glorious sun!) broke over the mountains of Moab, (the reddest and the most beautiful sunrise I've ever seen) before we reached the top of Masada, we made it -- eventually.


Larry and I paused three quarters of the way up, shared a hug and a kiss - shvitz and all - and a little teary, I said a Shehechiyanu blessing and the blessing for wonders of nature.  Then, with Keithen far above us, had him say one, too -- for races to the top are well and good, but not at the expense of the wonder of the journey.  I cried a little.


I have to admit that there were moments for both Larry and me where we thought we might not make it, but with the encouragement of the other, we made it just after 6:00 a.m!  If I thought that I couldn't be more moved than witnessing the sunrise, imagine me, with Larry and Keithen at the top of Masada, looking out over the Dead Sea, crying out the depth of my feeling as a Jew in a way I truly did not anticipate.  I have never felt so completely connected to Am Israel, those that came long before, those of us here, now, or those whose souls have not yet been realized in this world. I have not felt so close to the way we must have felt at Sinai as I did since the day I emerged from the mikveh for the first time -- and maybe not even then.  On that occasion, I only tasted in the water and the air what Peoplehood could mean -- and then, atop Masada, my connection to my People was realized. 


I have been transformed.


Then, one year and one day after Keithen's bar mitzvah, I was able to daven with a friend at the Kotel with Women of the Wall.  I have to admit it was a little intimidating.  As the women gathered at the back of the women's section,  some wearing tallitot wrapped like scarves around necks, others worn with tzitzit in front in defiance of the rules laid down at the Kotel (the defiance of which can mean an arrest and criminal charges) I watched nervously as two police officers faced us.  One police officer, a woman, had a video camera and taped us as we began to daven. 


If that didn't make me nervous enough, I also I felt out of sorts -- I brought a siddur from the apartment, but it was all in Hebrew and, as I have learned since being in Israel, only in North America do we all use the same siddur or have someone call out pages number (smile).  I muddled along, until my friend arrived and shared with me a siddur with an English translation which helped me stay on track with the Hebrew.


But then, we came to the Shema and then the Amidah.  As the voices of the women blended and harmonized, so too did the volume of the prayer from the other side of the mechitza trying to drown us out.  A man started to scream, and though we couldn't see him or what he was doing, we heard commotion.  I suddenly felt more secure as the police officer stood on a chair to video tape the disruption and others opened the mechitza and went to the men's side.  The objections didn't come only from the men, though -- even one woman confronted us verbally.


The prayers of longing, praise and thanks took on a whole new meaning as here, in Eretz Israel, it was clear I -- we -- were not wanted in the form we came in, giving praise and thanksgiving to God from heart to blood to lungs to windpipe to vocal cords. Surely they could see that we, too, were made in God's image?


The protest to my(our) voices did not distract me as I thought it would.  To my surprise, it crystallized my prayers. I opened my mouth wider, and let prayer come forth with everything in me and around me as I prayed as a Jew, as a wife, as a mother, as a daughter, sister, friend.  If only those who cannot find room at the Kotel for all of the Jewish people praying in peace  knew that they were making our prayers stronger and sweeter and more harmonious for God than they could have been otherwise, perhaps they would have rethought their tactics.  


And, for the second time in three days, I cried.  


So, what could be the third thing that made my cry since coming to Israel?  


Keithen, who initially did not want to come on this trip, who has been questioning everything about God (including God's existence, as is normal, I suppose) surprised us this last Shabbat.  He's been singing prayers here and there for a few days, and then, suddenly, though he's known the liturgy forever, he finally said, "I want to lead Kiddush for Shabbat".  One year and one week after his bar mitzvah, he did it all, and did it flawlessly: lit the candles, made Kiddush, led us in washing hands and Motzi, sitting at the head of the table.  Larry and I looked at each other across candles set aglow by more than matches, the flames magnified and reflected by the tears in our eyes and rolling down our faces. 


Keithen, after letting us place our hands on him and accepting our invocation of God's blessing  (a parent's greatest privilege), kissed us and drew us into one of his fabulous group hugs.  Now that's a Shabbos.


With love, 


Laurelle (aka Rebbetzin 'Relle)