Our Lives

Do you feel that feeding and cleaning is the most important thing in the world? My answer depends on the day.

You might think the contemporary phenomena of social media and its effect on our mental health is a modern issue. In reality, the fact that everything we see, hear, and read burrows into our minds and takes up space in our hearts actually goes back to the very beginning of humankind.

The rabbi brought out a few Jewish books with bullet marks through their pages from the massacre. I held one book in my hands, connecting to this incredible couple who had dedicated their lives to the Jewish people.

We are building this home together, which means being connected throughout the process.

When his laptop kept me awake, how I calmed myself down.

I tried to stay positive, but it was hard. I knew how blessed I was and I felt G‑d telling me to slow down. “But G‑d,” I asked, “so slow? So quiet? It’s lonely in this space!”

I don't know why my parents chose my Hebrew name, but I do know why they called me Ann.

Marina and I also committed to returning to the Rebbe’s Ohel a year after this visit. We pledged that our second trip would be a celebration of Marina’s victory over her illness.

Giving unasked-for advice appears innocent, but it sends a harsh message to the person receiving it. It sounds like: “You can’t do this.” “This challenge is bigger than you.”

Right away, I knew I had to go out with Avigdor, if only to meet him again.

I found it very moving to be present at this quite rare ceremony for only the second time in my life.

When you think positively, good things happen!

I don’t even remember their names any more, but I will never forget what they wrote.

The Jewish star was my signal to G‑d, to myself and to others that I believed and trusted in G‑d, as a Jew.

How did I make my family feel good, feel special, feel singularly loved by me, I thought?

It provides me with strength and happiness that the future will be bright because our children are making the world a better place.

“You sure do pick your moments to make a point, dear. Is fasting on Yom Kippur not good enough for you?”

There had been a glitch in the computer system and appointments had been double-booked. In short, it was a mess, and the wait would be very long.

It took many years of detours until I found my destination.

My story is not simple. To Russians, I am an American. To Americans, I am a Russian. To Jews who were observant from birth, I am a baal teshuva, a “returnee” to the faith. To my non-observant friends, I seem extremely religious and committed to Judaism.

Time has passed, and so much has happened since I was a child in Soviet Russia, yet I feel an undeniable connection to this land where so many righteous tzadikim are buried.

A wiry man with a neatly trimmed graying beard, Sam was pacing back and forth in the small hospital room when I knocked. He greeted my, “Hi, I’m Chaplain Miriam” with friendly intensity and dove right into his story, his challenges.

“I think I am going to faint,” I say nervously to no one in particular.

How many bags would I actually need? What if I said one number and really needed more? Now that each bag cost money, could I get by with fewer bags than usual?

Who else comes to a massage therapist except women with tense backs?

One part of me lives as though something scary is just waiting to whip its head out from around the corner up ahead. Another part of me sees life from a bird’s-eye view, and knows that although things were frightening, they worked out, and I was in fact being guided to a more beautiful place.

As I sit in a specialist’s examining room, surrounded by high-tech equipment that is surely the latest word in medical care, my thoughts revert to a conversation I’ve recently had with a friend.

A sudden overwhelming urge for chocolate made my eyes snap open.

There are days when my brain is so fired up with worries of what-ifs and how-coulds that my fight-or-flight instincts take center stage, resulting in mental paralysis, emotional hyperactivity, and the never-ending feeling of swimming upstream while weighted down.

My parents divorced, and the only letters written were to judges and mediators; the only car trips were to downtown Chicago for court dates.

Who hears him cry? Does he know? He doesn't remember having daughters.

It was the perfect activity for one of those dreary Sunday afternoons in the summer: a visit to my father's grave.

We decide to rent an apartment in Jerusalem over the High Holidays, to get a feel for what it will be like to actually live here. Maybe at the end of our holiday, we'll make the big decision which will impact the rest of our lives.

I am humbled by the sensitivity and compassion of my daughter. She is crying tears of sadness at the very thought of another human being hurt by an insult.

People say . . . time will heal. How can a broken heart ever be healed?

G‑d put me on a boat and released the anchor, or so I feel. Truthfully though, G‑d holds on, and I must not forget that.

Was this the first time that my mother felt welcomed and greeted with sincere happiness? Can I ever remember, as a child, being excited as my mother walked in the door?

It’s a shame I didn’t take pictures of them. But I’ve got those pictures engraved in my head. And more importantly, my daughters do...

I obliterated the shadow of illness and defilement that had poisoned what I had held sacred. When I affixed the mezuzah to the doorpost of the den, I affirmed that what is created in this room, what is thought in this room, is free of lies and deception. Only truth is spoken here...

I want to show my readers, in the wrenching three-dimensional visions of words, how things could turn around...

What happened is that my soul, which has always been a Jew, woke up. But when it awoke it was empty, filled only with a yearning it didn’t understand . . .

I am excited. My rabbi said relax. “Return the world to its Owner.” How profound...

I don’t live a Torah life. Until about six months ago I didn’t even live a Jewish life.

I immediately knew what part of town I was in . . . A little backwoods, hillbilly kind of place aptly named Christmas, Florida. Yes, Christmas. From the highway it seemed like a cheery little town, with twinkling lights up year round, but in reality it was far from being a merry locale...

When they told me my whole life depended on those coins and bills, I refused to believe. After all, I could not eat or drink them even when hunger gnawed at my edges. They were slippery and thin and could not shelter me from the wind. They seemed even lonelier than me but never said a word to breach the distances...