What year will you write?

Dear Friends,

There is something about the Shabbat before Yom Kippur that feels different to me. Maybe it is because I know what is coming. In just a few days, Andrew, Nora and I will walk into synagogue for Kol Nidre. We will hear that melody that I have heard my entire life; a melody that somehow sounds both exactly the same and completely different each year. And I know that when I hear it, my mind will wander.

It will wander back to the little boy growing up Jewish in Omaha. To grandparents and family members who are no longer here. To Passover tables in Cheyenne. To the people who taught me, sometimes without ever saying it aloud, that being Jewish wasn’t simply something we were. It was something we did.

And then I will look beside me at Andrew and Nora, and I will realize that somehow, I am now one of the people responsible for carrying those memories forward.

That gets me every time.

It’s because Yom Kippur has changed for me as I have gotten older. I find myself thinking less about whether I have been “good” or “bad,” and more about whether I have been present.

Was I the husband I wanted to be? The dad I wanted to be? The friend I wanted to be? Did I call my family enough? Did I listen when Nora was telling me a story even when there were ten other things running through my head? Did I tell Andrew often enough how grateful I am for the life we have built together? And did I live up to the responsibility of leading this Jewish community that I have come love so deeply?

Those are harder questions.

Over the past year, I have watched our St. Louis Jewish community celebrate, mourn, debate, worry, build, and dream together. I have watched people step forward when someone needed help. I have watched families choose Jewish life. I have watched people protect our community, teach our children, care for our seniors, and make sure another generation understands that this community belongs to them, too.

And I have been reminded again and again that Jewish life is ultimately about showing up.

Hineini. Here I am.

Not when it is convenient. Not when the world is uncomplicated. But especially when it isn’t. Perhaps that is why I love that before Judaism gives us Yom Kippur, it gives us Shabbat. Before Kol Nidre asks us to look backward, Shabbat asks us to be right here.

On this Shabbat, I hope to do something very simple. I want to sit at our table at home. I want the phones put away (which we are diligently working on each night). I want to listen to Nora tell us whatever is important in her world that day. I want to look across the table at Andrew. I want to remember the grandparents and great-grandparents whose tables eventually led to ours. And I want to be grateful because none of us knows how many more Shabbat dinners, Kol Nidres, birthdays, ordinary Tuesday mornings, or conversations around the kitchen table we will be given.

That isn’t meant to be sad. I actually find it incredibly hopeful. Judaism gives us the chance  to begin anew. We cannot rewrite the year that is ending. But we can decide how we will write the one that is beginning.

Before we ask to be written in the Book of Life, perhaps we should ask ourselves one other question:

What kind of year do I want to write?

For me, the answer is becoming clearer. A year filled with family and purpose. A year filled with Jewish joy and community. A year with more laughter around the table and fewer moments spent looking at a screen. A year in which I remember where I came from and take seriously my responsibility for what comes next. A year in which, when I am needed, I have the courage to say, Hineini – here I am.

And there is another Hebrew phrase I love: Kein yehi ratzon.

May it be so.

May we be more present with the people we love.

Kein yehi ratzon.

May we build a Jewish community our children will want to inherit and one they will be proud to pass on to their children.

Kein yehi ratzon. 

May we have the courage to apologize, the generosity to forgive, and the wisdom to recognize how precious these ordinary days really are.

Kein yehi ratzon. 

And may the year ahead bring more life, more peace, more joy and more moments when we can simply look around the table and realize how blessed we are to be there.

Kein yehi ratzon. May it be so.