Changes

The past four weeks I have been living happily and healthily in the hills of wine country. For the second summer in a row, I have taken up residence at URJ Camp Newman in Santa Rosa, this year as its Education Director. It has been a frenetic, fun, and fast-paced chunk of time preceded by a period of so many transitions, it was hard to keep track. That my blog was last updated in April is in no small way connected to the many changes in my life.

Perhaps the biggest milestone of the past few months was graduating from the first phase of my program in May. I received my Masters in Hebrew Letters from HUC-JIR, culminating the core curriculum and signifying three years of intense study with my school. Though some laughed it off as a consolation prize, (I am now halfway through my path to the rabbinate) I personally found it meaningful and important. After devoting three years of my life to this education, having the ability to stand proudly and receive a Masters degree (and a hood!) felt amazing. Having my family and those I love there with me made it all the more special.

It also highlighted the importance of having ritual ceremonies - ones that mark the end of one period and the beginning of another. We need them to acknowledge the passing of time; to recognize that we have changed. Our families need them to see how hard we've worked, and what we've devoted ourselves to. Altogether, graduations can be a sacred occasion where we recognize how far we've come. They mark the liminal moments in our lives when we hang in balance between one and another.

One week later, I said goodbye to my student pulpit in El Centro. It was a tearful, celebratory weekend in the Imperial Valley. To say that my congregants have made an impact on my life is a tremendous understatement. They are a phenomenal group of individuals committed to preserving Jewish life in an incredibly non-Jewish place. They are kind and open, warm and supportive. They helped me through the two most difficult years of my personal life. And they taught me infinitely more about being a rabbi than I could ever teach them about being Jewish. I will miss them more than words can say, but know that our relationships will last way beyond these blessed two years.

That same weekend, I also said farewell to the religious school in which I have taught for two years - the same congregation where I grew up and cultivated my Jewish identity. It was a bittersweet goodbye. My parents are no longer members, so my connection to the synagogue has frayed over the years. It was not always the most positive experience going there on Sunday mornings, and I often felt that preparations for religious school teaching was the last thing on my mind. But that school gave me so much. My students were absolutely incredible - bright, determined, hardworking, hilarious. That school introduced me to my dear friend Justin, a man whose presence is deeply missed each and every day. It gave me mentors and role models, and set the bar for solid Jewish education. And it helped me discover my desire to be an educator, beyond my rabbinic ordination. For those experiences and so much more, I will always be grateful.

Amid the chaos of graduation and goodbyes, I also moved out of my apartment in West Hollywood. JFro in WeHo - my original blog name and Jdate handle - is no more. I moved into that apartment immediately following a bad breakup in November 09. It was my refuge, my solace, and provided me with the foundation to make a new start; to discover myself. It was my home for a year and a half, and though it was time to move on, the change was a difficult one to make. That goodbye was perhaps the hardest of all.

Yet there is so much excitement on the horizon. There is so much I am learning and doing and experiencing that I feel is making me a better rabbi, teacher, person, and friend. Embracing the changes - and experiencing the transitions with an open, patient heart - is helping me discover more about myself.

And having the love and support of those along for the ride with me is, quite simply, icing on the cake.

Looking forward to more adventures in living, loving, and laughing.

Jaclyn

When the Levee Breaks

About a year and a half ago, I was shopping at Loehmann's with my mother. There we were, hunting for bargains, sifting through the piles of discounted designer duds, when I came across a beautiful, simple black sheath dress from Calvin Klein.

I held the dress out, looked it over, smoothed out the sides, and took it with me to the dressing room. Upon realizing that it fit perfectly, I looked at my mother and said, "You know, I need something like this for funerals."

She nodded and I nodded, both of us acknowledging the sad truth that yes, every woman needs a simple, conservative black dress for such occasions. We purchased it, took it home, and I placed it in my closet toward the back of the dresses. That pretty but conservative dress would be worn once after that - fortunately, to a very important date with a very special man.

Yet I never, ever thought that the second time I would wear it - invoking it for its intended purpose - would be to the memorial service of a very dear friend.

That dress, that Calvin Klein sheath, carried me to Temple Akiba this past Friday, where along with several hundred others, I said goodbye to a coworker and fellow educator, a raucous, deliriously inappropriate, and infectiously happy individual, a wonderful human being, and a 29-year-old man who was just starting his life. That man, my dear friend Justin, died suddenly of a heart attack last Monday night.

When the news reached me early Tuesday morning, I, along with just about every single other person who knew and loved him, was in shock. I literally could not comprehend the information that passed through my ears. Just one day before, early Monday morning, I returned from eleven days in Israel. And as I sat in my apartment that night recuperating from the long flight, I received a Facebook message from Justin.

"Hey J.Fro! Welcome back! We missed you!" it said. This was presumably just a few hours or maybe minutes before he started feeling ill, was taken to the hospital, and suffered a massive heart attack while surrounded by qualified, educated, well-trained doctors.

On Tuesday night, when the religious school in which we taught together gathered to process and mourn, I spoke very briefly to the students about Justin; my friend and fellow 6th grade teacher. I told them how deeply he loved his job, how much he cared about his students, and how much they meant to him. I was in a state of shock still; unable to cry, unable to understand. The words I spoke were meant to comfort both myself and our community of teachers, students, and clergy. I have no idea what I said or how it came out; all I remember is standing in front of a group of people, making noises and saying words.

Looking into the eyes of those kids, some of whom were in his class but most of whom weren't, I saw the palpable, horrific realization of profound loss. They were scared, and upset, and in disbelief like the rest of us. Yet there was also a feeling of resilience, a deep and heartbreaking understanding, that reflected back at me as I spoke.

I was startled by the maturity and calm of these children, each of whom knew Justin personally - whether as their teacher or youth group advisor or the crazy guy with a booming voice who called everyone in from recess on Sunday mornings and Tuesday afternoons. These children looked back at me as if to say, "Jaclyn, it's okay. We're going to be okay. We'll get through this."

I, on the other hand, felt far from resilient. I spent the following few days in a fog. I cried on and off, constantly thinking about Justin and his family, feeling profoundly confused and angry, too. How could this happen? How could my partner-in-crime leave me so suddenly? What an unfair, horrific, terrible thing. I was also completely unsure of how to provide support to my students; to my religious school community. I felt massively unqualified to be a pastoral caregiver of any sort. How could I comfort anyone when I was so incredibly upset myself?

And yet, when Friday's memorial came around, and I sat in that overcrowded chapel with the teaching team from my synagogue, and listened to the words spoken about my dear friend from those who knew him best, I was reminded of how meaningful and well-done the Jewish process of mourning can be.

During the memorial, Akiba's rabbi, who I thought was awesome before but now think is extraordinary, claimed how his education failed him because he was simply unable to think of anything that could possibly comfort Justin's community. He acknowledged what we all realize at some point in our lives. Sometimes there are simply no words, no actions, no teachings or sayings that can possibly justify or lessen the pain of tragic, sudden loss. That Judaism makes no claims to do so is one of the reasons why I became a rabbi.

Rabbi S went on to speak of Justin in a way that set the tone for the entire rest of the service. With humor. Pointing out that Justin's uncle claimed his Hebrew name was [unofficially] "Pain in the Ass," Rabbi S opened us all to remember him as the nutty, loud, hilariously inappropriate person he was. Each subsequent speaker invoked humor and celebration in honor of Justin. And through that, we were able to say goodbye in a way that did justice to the unique, special being he was.

In that two-hour memorial, the floodgates opened. Each of us processed the realization that Justin was gone, though his spirit and his energy and his insatiable laughter lived on. We cried, we mourned, and we prayed together. We offered condolences and sincere sentiments of love to his family and fellow friends. And we also partied. In true J.Shabs fashion, a group of us headed out to happy hour to toast him, tell stories, and celebrate the gift we were given for two short years.

As Justin and I taught our classes together just a few short weeks ago, the Mourner's Kaddish (Kaddish Yatom) never speaks of death. It speaks of life, and to the people who continue on living. It speaks of our people's quest for peace. And in that prayer, those among us who have suffered loss are extended comfort by the entire community. We do not know where our loved ones go, but we know that those of us still living have the words of our tradition and the shoulders of our loved ones to lean on.

There could be no more fitting tribute to Justin than that.

Jaclyn

For Japan

This weekend I was up in San Francisco for camp meetings and planning sessions. I stayed with my dear friend Cantor B and spent most of Shabbat at her synagogue singing, working, and praying. On Thursday night we were settling down to drink tea and watch American Idol when news came on that a massive earthquake had struck Japan. By Friday morning, a terrifying tsunami had washed away part of the country, and all we could do was sit and stare at the television; horrified, deeply saddened, and unsure of how to respond.

When you work in any faith community, for many people you automatically become God's unofficial talking head; the representative for all things unexplainable. People come to you and demand answers they themselves cannot reach. Because, let's be honest, God only has a direct telephone line with the really important people. And ostensibly, I happen to be one of them.

When the going gets tough, many want someone to blame. The human need to make sense out of tragedy, or a desire for stability and/or sanity, leads many of us to seek a rational answer or cause for the unjustifiable. So we turn to our faith leaders and exclaim, "why is God doing this?"

Why. That word should be a curse. Why did the Holocaust happen? Why did my mother get sick when I was six? Why did I choose to take Crescent Heights this morning instead of Fairfax? Why did I order the steak burrito and not the safe vegetarian option last Thursday? Why is a three-letter word with a Pandora's box of responses. Why leads us in so many different directions, it's like a busted GPS in a crowded city at rush hour. Why - particularly when invoked in times of tragedy - is not the word to reach for.

The truth is, none of us can make sense of what happened in Japan. None of us can fathom how Mother Earth could become so angry that she would shake and rumble to such a violent degree, then send massive waves to wash away entire cities and towns, destroying lives and families and communities. How could there ever be an adequate answer?

The question at this moment shouldn't be why did this happen; rather, it should be: what can we do to help?

On Friday night, one of the rabbis at the congregation spoke beautifully just before the Mi Chamocha, our liturgical reminder of the splitting of the Red Sea. Rabbi M pointed out that the prayer praises God for the moving of the earth and the splitting of the waters, for it led to our redemption and freedom from slavery. Yet, this weekend we saw a sea split again, and it led to total devastation, chaos, and destruction.

She reminded us all of the power of aiming our thoughts and prayers in the direction of those in need. Prayers like the Mi Shebeirach involve us humble humans asking God to help heal the sick and the weak. Our prayers to God have the power to, at the very least, make us feel like we are doing something. By focusing our positive energy and wishes of well-being toward the people who need our help, we feel good. Or, at the very least, we feel better. We feel that we are doing our part as Jews in this strange and surreal cycle of events called life.

The trouble with this, though, is when one prays and prays for a healing that never comes. My dear friend Michael and I shared many conversations this past summer about his mother's tragic death from cancer several years ago. He explained that when she was diagnosed he became "super Jewish," (his words, not mine) praying three times a day, keeping kosher, and observing Shabbat. When she passed away, his faith went out the window. He felt it was all in vain.

Michael is not alone. In my own life I've witnessed so many people turn away from their faith or from God when the going got tough, when someone close to them died, or when they felt failed by a leader or an entire synagogue. I've also met with Holocaust survivors - extraordinary people who have been through things unimaginable in my own mind - who have absolutely no belief whatsoever in God. I cannot say I blame them. And if we're being completely honest here, I'm not sure my own belief in God would be as strong had I survived anything near as traumatic as the Shoah.

Yet, this is who I am: a young woman with an incredible amount of faith in God. I turn to God when the going gets tough like a person would to a best friend, a lover, or a spouse. I turn to God with my thoughts and fears and prayers for healing, not because I necessarily believe God can do something about it, but because that's the relationship I have with God.

This strongly echoes the exceptionally eloquent writing of Rabbi Bradley Shavit Artson, dean of the Ziegler School of Rabbinic Studies at the American Jewish University. Rabbi Artson is a scholar of process theology, a "constellation of ideas sharing the common assertion that the world and God are in continuous, dynamic change of related interaction and becoming.*" For Rabbi Artson, God is an entity of constant evolution - one with whom a relationship is ever-forming, ever present, and ever loving.

This approach to God eliminates the idea that God is responsible for all that happens in the world; it erases the image of God as puppet master, controlling the goings-on of human life. It engages humans in a way of thinking of God in a different way, freeing us from the crises of faith that lead many of us toward anger, resentment, disillusionment, disappointment, or altogether abandonment.

Perhaps God wasn't the entity we all turned to when an 8.9 earthquake and giant tsunami trembled through the Pacific Ocean this past weekend. Perhaps it was family and friends, the warmth of community, a good cry, a house of prayer, or a telephone. Or, perhaps it was the internet. By Friday morning Google had already set up a web page for resources and donations to support victims of the tragedy.

No matter who or what each of us turned to this past weekend, the task is now upon each of us to ask ourselves: how can we help?

As citizens of the world, as human beings who care about other human beings, and at the very least as people who abide by a moral and ethical code which includes supporting the less fortunate, I implore each of us to reach into our pockets, our checkbooks, or simply our thoughts and prayers, and aim that energy toward Japan.

I ask that each of us consider the power of prayer, the impact of foreign aid, and the weight of a kind of support that comes through genuine care, love and concern. For through those very entities of help and hope and giving, we engage in what it truly means to live Jewish.

With love,

Jaclyn

For further resources on how to help Japan, please visit:

The Jewish Coalition for Disaster Relief: https://www.jdc.org/donation/donate.aspx?type=JCDR

The Jewish Joint Distribution Committee: https://jdc.org/donation/donate.aspx

The Jewish Federation: http://www.jewishfederations.org/page.aspx?id=238775

*Shavit Artson, Bradley. BaDerekh: On The Way - A Presentation of Process Theology, p. 1

Jewish camp: It's officially awesome

As many of you in the blogosphere may already know, I am a HUGE fan of Jewish camp. I never attended as a child but began to experience its magic at weekend retreats during the school year in college. Then last summer I worked as a Rosh Eidah (unit head) URJ Camp Newman in Santa Rosa and had the time of my life. I walked away from the experience a total camp convert and full-fledged member of the cult. I'll be returning to Newman this summer as its Education Director and could not possibly be more excited about it.

For me, camp was a phenomenal experience on so many levels. Spiritually, personally, and socially, it filled me with a certain joy and comfort that I had never experienced in my life. My consistent feeling of happiness, acceptance, and empowerment often shocked and moved me. I felt like I was bouncing around on my own cloud 9 nearly every morning and night. And, since I was surrounded by such like-minded and good, kind, passionate people, it felt as if each of us was a Mexican jumping bean, constantly hopping onto each others' respective clouds.

All that jumping does wonders for the soul.

Educationally speaking, camp altered my perception of what it means to teach Jews Judaism. Watching young children up through college-aged staffers experience the joy and passion of their own Jewish identity in a safe, nurturing environment was nothing short of inspiring. Day in and day out, campers and staffers were constantly filled to the brim. Nearly every activity was infused with Jewishness. This was a complete departure for me and my experience in religious school teaching. There were no separated time periods devoted to "Jewish education" and everything else. There was, simply, camp. And as the motto at Newman goes, "Camp is life. The rest is just details."

One of the things I pondered (and wrote about) upon my departure from camp last summer was the rate of Jewish involvement following camp's end. I wondered how Judaism would factor into the lives of campers and staffers once they left their safe summer enclaves. How active were these children and young adults in their respective home congregations or Jewish communities? Was Judaism something that was merely isolated to summer?

Recently the JTA (a news source on all things Jewish) published an article on the success of Jewish camps. Under a survey titled "Camp Works," generated by the Foundation for Jewish Camp, it was found that statistically speaking, those with camp experience have a higher rate of involvement and connection to Judaism and/or Israel. Children and adults with camp backgrounds and experiences are far more likely to embrace their religious identity in the greater world. Through this survey we now can identify that camp, with its myriad social and spiritual offerings, has the statistical backing to affirm its influence on Jewish identity.

Simply put, this article makes it official: camp is one big, lean, mean, successful, identity-forming machine. And for those of us lucky enough to spend summers beneath the redwood trees of Northern California (or Wisconsin... or upstate New York...) we now have proof that our time is time well spent. For the Jewish community to acknowledge the success rate of something so intrinsic to our very fabric is exciting, validating, and downright cool.

You can read the article here. Please feel free to post comments, etc.!

L'machaneh, l'chaim!

To camp, to life!

Jaclyn

From "them" to "us"

Last weekend I had the pleasure of attending InterSem, a gathering of students from Christian, Catholic, and Jewish seminaries across Southern California. It was my second time at InterSem, held at the Steve Breuer Conference Center in Malibu. This interfaith gathering of many young, ambitious, passionate religious leaders is one of the highlights of my year. That I got to be on the planning committee this time around was icing on the cake.

InterSem was founded in 1971 as an opportunity to bridge gaps between religious leaders of varied faiths. Run by the American Jewish Committee, the conference involves students from Claremont School of Theology, St. John's Seminary, Fuller Seminary, Academy for Jewish Religion, American Jewish University, and HUC-JIR. The people who attend are all so fascinating; each of us is deeply committed to our religion and open to learning and growing together. The wide range of beliefs represented runs the gamut: from strict Catholics to liberal Jews, each person openly wearing one's faith on their sleeve.

There is something so inherently powerful about this event. Past interfaith gatherings I've participated in have been lovely and interesting, but this one goes beyond the boundaries so often set by a two-hour interfaith progressive dinner. Since InterSem is a retreat, its length is significant. You have more time to explore conversations, delve deeper, and continue dialogue well into the night. It's far more liberating, freeing, and provides infinitely more opportunities to learn. You share a room with someone of a different faith. Your conversation groups involve people from every program and every religion. When you pray together (which we did three times) each group has the opportunity to showcase what is powerful and meaningful on both personal and communal levels. It's beautiful, moving, and so powerful.

This year I felt comfortable receiving blessings during the Catholic and Protestant services. I was nervous about it last year, for I did not feel I was really "allowed" to do it. But I went for it, for who doesn't need a little bit of blessing in their life? How surprised I was to discover that the words offered to me during the Protestant service echoed the Priestly Blessing of my own faith - may God bless you and keep you, may the light of God's face shine upon you, and may God grant you peace. That this blessing came from a Christian had no bearing on me. It was that it came from a woman of great faith and commitment to God that really moved me to my core.

On a basic level, it is so inspiring to be surrounded by people who share one's commitment to God and community. That they are dedicated to a different set of rituals and beliefs only makes them that much more fascinating. Everyone is so curious to learn about others' religions; therefore, one gets to articulate his or her beliefs throughout the weekend in a positive, healthy way. It translates to positive connections all around, particularly between myself and my Jewishness. As one of the founders of InterSem pointed out, "spending time at InterSem helps me connect even deeper with my own faith." How true it is.

So often I find myself associating only with Jews. I love Jews, and I especially love my dear friends and family, but I am a person who appreciates and embraces diversity. I love to learn and grow from people different than me. I also appreciate good, caring people; mensches, even those who don't know what the heck that means.

InterSem teaches me to live in a global world. It instructs me how to communicate with "The Other," an entity one is mostly shielded from in whilst studying in an extremely demanding, time-consuming, homogeneous program. InterSem is a chance to talk - openly and honestly, facilitated by professionals - about what troubles, concerns, and challenges us as citizens of the world.

More than anything else, it is a weekend where we transition from "them" to "us." For twenty-four hours, each of us participants goes from independent representative of our religion to member of one solidified faith community: the InterSem faith community. The bridges that are built, the bonds that are created, the wisdom exchanged, and the grace we share - each of it makes InterSem such a powerful tool for each of us faith leaders.

It is my sincere hope as a future rabbi that these types of interactions and experiences continue well into my career, both for myself and all those I serve. For there is no limit to how much we can grow when engaged with people who simultaneously inspire and challenge us in whatever we choose to do.

L'shalom, to peace.

Jaclyn

Spirituality on a Saturday Morning

I have a confession to make: I've never really been a big Shabbat-morning shul-goer.

At the synagogue in which I grew up, Shabbat began and ended on Friday night. It took place in a sanctuary filled with lively, joyous music, thought-provoking sermons, the warmth of community, and was followed by delicious Oneg cookies and Israeli dancing. But that's where it ended, unless a friend was celebrating a Bar or Bat Mitzvah the following day.

Consciously I knew Shabbat was Saturday; that Friday night services were merely an introduction to a full day of rest and relaxation. But as it was for so many of my friends, for me Shabbat was a "Friday night thing." Saturday was for soccer games and art classes, visits with friends, going to the movies, trips to 3rd Street Promenade, (thee place to be back in high school) and all sorts of social interactions completely separated from my Jewishness. That is, unless the aforementioned B'nai Mitzvah was taking place.

As the years progressed and the Bar Mitzvah circuit dwindled, Shabbat became entirely isolated to Fridays. There was nothing Jewish about my Saturdays, and I was considered "really religious" by my school friends for attending services (Reform services, mind you) every Friday night.

When I started rabbinical school, my first year took place in Jerusalem. Not only did I live in the capital of frumville, but my apartment and school were located in a particularly religious neighborhood filled with wealthy Anglo immigrants. In Rehavia women dressed modestly, wore wigs, and pushed baby strollers through neighborhood parks with frowns on their faces. The men wore black wool suits with long bears and peos. They had tzitzit dangling from their pants and were constantly rushing off to yeshiva or shul. In my neighborhood, the day was especially set on Jewish time.

At times the stark contrast between my neighbors and my tank-top-wearing, [then] bacon-eating-self were quite striking. I often got frustrated and exhausted by how rigid and detached many of my neighbors could be. But they could also be extremely kind and welcoming, particularly when it came to the Jewish holidays. Thus, I perceived most of my year as an anthropological experiment and an eye-opening experience.

Part of that experience included the Friday afternoon wind-down into Shabbat. Every Friday my friends and I would do our errands, buy our groceries, run to the shuk and the markets and stores, make plans for brunch, and join the hundreds of other citizens of Jerusalem (and Israel) doing the exact same thing. By 3pm the stores would start closing, the traffic would grow lighter, and the smell of roast chicken and potatoes would permeate the air. And, depending on the time of year, sometime in the late afternoon a distant siren would sound, calling the entire country to pay attention: Shabbat had begun.

Saturdays in Jerusalem are silent. They are still. And they are magical. There is something entirely liberating about a city - normally so busy and bursting with life - going completely quiet for one full day. There is something so powerful in that stillness, in that solitude. When the world around you is boarded up and closed, you find that your focus turns inward. With nothing seemingly mundane to distract you, your energy is devoted to that which is more sacred: relationships, rest, and especially prayer.

I started attending services at HUC semi-regularly on Saturday mornings. First it was to support my friends and be with my community, but then it was because I wanted to go. Later on in the year, when getting more sleep became a priority, I would do my own Saturday ritual: wake up late, walk on the tayelet (promenade), pray privately on the veranda overlooking a valley near our apartment, do yoga, nap, mediate, read, prepare simple lunches, spend time with my dear friends, catch up on life, and simply pause.

In Jerusalem, the day of Shabbat became a treasured entity; a sacred endeavor. I did not use that day to become more "religious," or strictly observant, or modify my Jewish practice. But I did use that day to do what the Torah commands: "shamor/zachor et yom ha Shabbat vay'kadshehu." You shall observe/remember the day of Shabbat and make it holy."

I observed, I remembered, and I created holiness in my own special way.

This commandment - uttered twice in our text, (in Exodus and Deuteronomy) once using "zachor" and the other using "shamor," has been integrated into our Friday night liturgy in distinct ways. Pieces of music universally recognized by Reform Jews remind shulgoers to follow these commandments, and those of us who attend services clap and sing along to these verses of scripture in L'cha Dodi, V'sham'ru, and Yis'm'chu.

Yet, the commandment does not command us to remember and observe Friday evening. It's yom ha Shabbat - the day of the Sabbath. As is custom for Jewish time, days begin and end in the evening, hence our Kabbalat Shabbat (welcoming the Sabbath) on a Friday night. But our commandment is the for the day: our Saturday, our Sabbath.

Back in the states, my Shabbat practice dwindled. Life and school and work became so demanding that I craved and needed space from that which dominated my life each and every moment of the week. Plus, I physically needed that Saturday morning sleep. Unless I was down at my student pulpit in El Centro for the weekend, Saturdays quickly became about sleeping and schoolworking.

That is, really, until this past weekend, when I returned to shul on a Saturday morning as a curious congregant.

My school organized a visit to a local synagogue that created an excellent Saturday morning minyan separate from the B'nai Mitzvah. It's strictly for davening, learning, singing, praising, and being with community. Set up in a round, with the cantor and rabbi seated facing each other at a round table, and with natural light flowing in through the skylights and windows, the setting was quite powerful.

Though there were sleepies in my eyes when I arrived and almost no energy in my system when I sat down, I engaged deeper and deeper in T'filah as services went on. Though my voice was hoarse from attending a rock concert the night before, as T'filah went on, I found my strength again. And as the community expanded, people woke up, shook the slumber from their eyelids, and we all started going deeper into that sacred space, together. Throughout the morning I found that I was really engaging with yom ha Shabbat in a way I had not since Jerusalem.

And it felt really, really good.

When I left services and the kiddush luncheon that followed, I felt like I had an entire day to myself; a moment of kedusha (holiness) that was all mine. I took a really satisfying nap and a majorly deep breath. I paused. I relaxed. I detached, in what I deemed to be a completely positive and healthy way. And I bid Shabbat farewell at the end of the day with a newfound energy and sense of calm I had not felt in a long, long time.

So, what next? Well, I would be completely bluffing if I wrote here that I was now going to incorporate Saturday morning prayer into my practice permanently. With my schedule and the demands of my program, I just don't think that's possible at this point in time. But I would be equally bluffing to say this was one isolated incident that won't repeat itself. It reminded me of the power of mitzvah, commandedness. That which brings us closer to God. Who would want to miss out on more opportunities for that?

Instead, my goal is to seek a balance; to return to that unique practice I created for myself in Jerusalem in some fashion. To really pause on Saturdays. To breathe. To reconnect. To carve out that sacred space for myself, not just on Friday nights when the vast majority of my friends and family head off to Kabbalat Shabbat, but on yom ha Shabbat as well.

What a beautiful mitzvah (commandment) to observe and remember this day, and keep it holy. Rest, pause, refrain, reconnect, rejuvnate, refocus.

It is a mitzvah for ourselves, our families, and our mental and physical well-being.

L'shalom, to peace.

Jaclyn

A Prayer for Debbie

Today the world suffered a truly devastating loss. Debbie Friedman, the world-renowned singer-songwriter whose music has influenced millions and who forever changed the face of Jewish prayer, died early this morning in Orange County. From summer camps to synagogue chapels to houses of worship all over the world, Debbie's presence will be deeply felt and sorely missed now and for years to come.

Debbie's music touched and inspired so many people. She was known for combining traditional Jewish liturgy with folksy guitar tunes. Her versions of the Mi Shebeirach and L'chi Lach were staples in siddurim (prayer books) and so many Reform services. Her blending of the old with the modern was revolutionary when she started out as a songleader in the late 1960s, and her style of music has been emulated by countless songleaders in the Reform Movement during the last few decades.

Her impact was monumental, for she taught people how to pray again. She brought on the modernization of Jewish worship. She allowed people to feel; through her music, she elevated what had become staid or stale. She was passionate, dedicated, inspired and inspiring. Debbie had an amazing gift; one that made her one of the most successful, well-known, recognizable Jewish songwriters in history. It's safe to say nearly every person in our Movement knew Debbie's name, or her music.

The world knew her as Debbie Friedman the artist. Yet for the past several months, we at HUC Los Angeles also knew her as Debbie the teacher, Debbie the shaliach tzibbur, Debbie the songleader, and Debbie the friend.

Debbie was brought on to HUC's faculty in 2007, teaching classes in New York, where she lived. This past spring she transfered to HUC's LA campus, and the first time I saw her roaming our halls I froze. I could not believe I was in the same space as Debbie Friedman; the prolific songwriter, this amazingly famous musician. I was so intimidated. I was actually kind of afraid of her, and was advised by several people to keep my distance. According to them, she wasn't nice; she was difficult and moody.

That could not have been farther from the truth.

Debbie was truly one of the warmest, kindest, most genuine people I have ever met. She cared so deeply about everyone she came across. She would wander into conversations and just talk to people about prayer, God, New York food, or her beloved dog Farfel. She was just an eccentric, hilarious, giving, kind, devoted, gracious, passionate human being.

Debbie didn't like to be the center of attention, and at times appeared truly uncomfortable being identified as a Jewish rock star or celebrity. What she cared about was people. She cared about them; their stories, their Jewish involvement, their passions. She was just happy to be with people, and was so moved by the students she surrounded herself with daily. She cared passionately about prayer; about making it accessible, meaningful, and powerful.

Each and every time I saw her she would flash me this huge smile, even before we got to know each other. We led services together in October, shortly after returning to school from High Holiday break. I was much more nervous than I can ever remember being in services, but Debbie calmed me. She calmed everyone. She had faith in me, in you, and in every single person. She reached deep inside you and brought something out you didn't know existed, and she did it through her music - whether or not a guitar was in her hands. She did it through the music of her - she was simply a walking symphony, constantly in motion.

At the Spiritual Retreat I blogged about several months ago, Debbie led a rocking song session. She played all her hits, giving energetic and witty commentary on each and every song. Let me tell you, watching this woman lead Miriam's Song with a group of future rabbis, educators, and communal service professionals was like watching pure joy come flying out of a kaleidescope rainbow. We were dancing and singing and laughing and carrying on, and I remember thinking this woman has had such an impact on every single person in this room. It was magic to behold.

My favorite memory of Debbie is one I keep going back to and will play over and over in my mind these next few days and weeks. At a Monday morning T'filah the week of parshat Lech Lecha, Debbie led the community in her song L'chi Lach as a closer. In that room were not only HUC students and faculty, but about two dozen or so prospective students visiting for the Open House. Debbie had everyone get into a circle with their arms around each other, which does not happen in our T'filot. But she pushed the chairs out of the way and stomped in and sang the heck out of that song. And people had tears in their eyes and hope in their hearts as the words rang true for all of us.

L'chi lach - to a land that I will show you.

Lech l'cha - and all shall praise your name.

L'chi lach - on your journey I will bless you.

And you shall be a blessing.

L'chi lach.

Debbie, wherever you are on your journey, in whatever land you shall roam, I am certain that all will praise your name, and you shall always be a blessing to the millions of souls whose lives you touched.

With deep respect and love,

Jaclyn