Planting for Those Who Come Next

Shabbat Shalom!

There is something about fall that invites us to pay attention to the environment that surrounds us. The cooler air, the changing leaves, the way the light glows at the end of the day all make me want to linger outside a little longer.

At our house, that attention has turned into a surprisingly complicated conversation about three trees.

We are planting replacements on our property, and finding the right spots has been harder than we expected. The established trees were planted about 50 years ago. Their branches stretch wide, their roots have claimed their ground, and we have to imagine how anything we plant today will fit among them years from now.

Then there are the questions. Do we want shade or privacy? Should we plant fruit trees that will give us something to eat? Do we need hardy trees that can withstand a tough season, or want something decorative that brings a little more beauty?

Two Jews, three trees, infinite opinions. You can write the punchline.

But somewhere in those conversations, I realized we were making decisions for people we may never meet. We will enjoy watching these trees grow, but whoever lives in this house after us may be the ones who experience them in their fullness. Someday, another family might sit in their shade, admire their autumn leaves, or pick their fruit.

There is a story in the Talmud about Honi encountering a man planting a carob tree. When Honi questions whether the man will live long enough to enjoy its fruit, the man answers:

“Just as my ancestors planted for me, I too am planting for my descendants.”

I have been thinking about that teaching as we look around our yard. Someone made these same kinds of decisions 50 years ago. They chose a tree, found a spot, dug a hole, and trusted that something would grow and flourish for many years to come. Today, my family gets to enjoy what they began.

That is also how a Jewish community grows. We inherit places to gather, traditions to share, and institutions that people before us had the care and foresight to build. Then, we make our own decisions about what needs tending, where there is room to grow, and what we hope to leave for those who follow.

We cannot know exactly how the seeds we plant today will shape our community in the years ahead. A melody learned at camp may become a future family’s favorite Shabbat table song. A connection made at a community gathering may grow into a lifelong friendship. An act of generosity may inspire someone else to give back. The institutions we strengthen, the relationships we build, and the traditions we sustain today will become part of the foundation on which future generations build their own Jewish lives.

Our responsibility is to keep tending that growth. We need shade and shelter. We need nourishment. We need the strength to weather difficult seasons. And we need beauty and joy. Making room for all of those things takes thought, patience, and a willingness to invest and look beyond what we can immediately see.

As our Federation marks 125 years, I feel gratitude for the people who planted for us and a sense of duty to give the next generation reasons to feel that same gratitude.

This Shabbat, I hope we each find a moment to step outside, take in the colors, and appreciate something beautiful that someone else helped make possible. Then perhaps we can ask ourselves what we might plant, nurture, or strengthen for someone who comes next.