| by Sam Glaser October 2009 I’m going to use some Hebrew terminology below…please email me if you need translations. Rashi, the illustrious medieval commentator, held that mitzvot performed outside of the Land of Israel should be considered mere rehearsal. This seems to me to be a fairly harsh view of the plethora of good and holy acts committed in the diaspora. In one case I must agree, however: the celebration of Sukkot. Outside of Israel we may eat in a sukkah, attend a few parties and shake lulav and etrog. In Israel, on the other hand, Sukkot is a totally overwhelming, weeklong round-the-clock rave. Here in Pico-Robertson we average about one sukkah for every other home in a three square mile area. Our forty kosher restaurants all have sukkot attached. There’s a sukkah on top of Ralph’s supermarket. One could conceivably sukkah hop to a different hut every fiv  e minutes of the week and not exhaust the inventory. Last year a lady driving by stopped next to me and said, “what the *#$@ are you people doing with those sticks?”
We have epic parties of our own in our sukkah and have a rich tradition of potlucks with neighboring families each day. I rent out my services over the chol hamo’ed part of the week (when you can drive and play instruments, etc.) to propel revelers into previously unknown realms of joy. My kids each get their own lulav and etrog and we proudly parade every morning holding our species aloft. As a community we relish in the feeling of victory after our  assumed favorable judgment on Rosh Hashanah and whitewashing on Yom Kippur. Most of us have spent nearly two months of heightened scrutiny of ourpersonal balance sheet and reconnection with our true purpose; our elation is heartfelt and not manufactured. That said, Sukkot in LA, or Crown Heights or Borough Park for that matter, doesn’t hold a candle to the Homeland. I experienced my first Sukkot in Israel in 1994, just before my brother Yom Tov’s wedding. He cleverly planned his nuptials just after the week of Sukkot, I’m convinced, to ensure that his extended family would enjoy an experience of Israel that would make the deepest impression. I had been keeping Shabbat for a few years at this point and thought I knew all I needed to know about this harvest holiday. Wrong again! As an extended family we dined and slept in our Old City sukkah and enjoyed celebrations every night. If we weren’t praying or sleeping we were eating. For some reason, Israelis serve coke and orange soda exclusively. No water available at any party. All the cake and candy you could ever want. A dentist’s dream come true. Yom Tov and I spent a few nights of the midweek Sukkot “Simcha Bet Hasho’eva” celebrations visiting the various yeshivot in Me’ah She’arim. On one of the nights we came armed with guitars and played for anyone who would A chassid with a mangy shtreimel, ragged beard and graying peyot circled me while scrutinizing my every square inch. As if I didn’t feel like a turd in a punchbowl already! He seemed to be fascinated by my beardless face and long hair and yet I knew all the Hebrew lyrics and was wearing tzitzit. He finally blurted out: “Ata Yehudi!?” (Are you a Jew!?) I stopped singing and replied that yes, as far as I know I’m a Jew. Before wandering off he muttered, “we’ll see.” Around midnight we stashed our guitars and went to the largest yeshivot to dance. Each place was crammed with a clone army of marchers, in lock step to the reverb drenched, deafening electric klezmer. The dance was more like a circular lemming parade, reaching occasional climaxes when a favorite song would make everyone start jumping in place. The sinks had been rigged to serve red kool aid (yes, I’m serious.) My size 13 ½ feet were battered from being stomped on and my ears ringing because the guys wouldn’t let go of my hands when we passed by the speakers. Around 3:00am, after a full three hours of marching, Yom Tov and I passed out on a table in the cavernous hundred-yard-long Toldos Aharon sukkah. When I asked, “now where do we go?” he replied, “well, there’s only one place that’s still happening, but it’s in the middle of the Arab Quarter.” I have an ill-advised policy that if we want the land we have to walk the land, without fear. Yom Tov and I strolled down the now eerily quiet, littered streets armed only with our guitars. Down a half mile of cobblestone steps and there we were at Shuva Bonim, the Old City Breslov yeshiva. Who decided on this location? You couldn’t imagine more hostile neighbors on every side. I found out that this was the Ba’al Teshuva Breslov yeshiva and was inhabited in a large part by Israeli toughs who had found the Lord. These were big guys. Scary neighborhoods didn’t phase them for a minute. When we walked in they were sprinting as a group around the imposing bookcase in the middle of the main room. We joined the throng running in time to the music until we found that some of the guys were waiting around the corner like the defensive front line of a football team. Everyone went tumbling and then after finding their way free from the dog pile, resumed the jog/dance until the blockers decided to set up their line of defense again. At one point I spied the skinny chassid out of the corner of my eye. That very guy who seven hours earlier asked if I was Jewish. I approached him to wish him a chag sameach and he immediately hugged me and laughed saying, “ken, ata Yehudi!” (Yes, you are Jewish!) He then ripped off his long white coat and motioned that I should put it on. While I did he balanced his furry shtreimel on my head and then LIFTED me up on his shoulders. Me! All 6’3 of me. And he was a skinny five foot something middle-aged yeshiva guy! Next thing I knew I was at the vortex of the frantic dancing, on this guy’s shoulders with my arms outstretched to heaven. Just before 5:00 am the band abruptly stopped and the whole group donned their talleisim and faced the rising sun for the morning service. Looking out the windows I could see the interplay of the orange light reflecting off the stones of the Temple Mount. With my last ounce of strength I prayed with these chassidim, thanking the Creator for the gift of my crazy little brother and the chance to have an unforgettable Sukkot experience where it really counts, in the Promised Land. |
Sukkah on Fire
October 18th, 2009
listen. We sang several of the key Sukkot melodies over and over in the main town square, creating a spontaneous circle of dancers and singers. Many children were surrounding us and gawking. I overheard a few of them stating that I must be a Nazir (one who allows his hair to grow long in order to have the closest connection with G-d.)The Yellow Violin
September 1st, 2009by Sam Glaser
September 2009
Sometimes I am asked if I can remember my individual concerts or if it all becomes a blur. The fact is that certain communities have hosted me many times over the past eighteen years of touring and it feels like a family reunion when I return. Some concerts or Shabbatons I remember distinctly because of a crazed mishap or disaster. And others are memorable because all the stars were aligned and every detail was carefully thought out and went like clockwork. This month I had a weekend that I’d like to share for you to appreciate the sublime nature of the experience.
I had never been to Flemington, NJ. Most of my LA friends said “where??” when I told them about the first stop on this three-week August tour. You must understand that Flemington is in the Delaware River region near the Pennsylvania border and that the entire town is on the Register of Historic Places. Amazing 19th century Victorians line the main boulevard. It’s not just another exit on the turnpike. Their primary claim to 
fame is the courthouse, which is still standing, which was the site of the 1935 Lindbergh “trial of the century.” I was staying in a perfectly restored bed and breakfast just a block away. Perfectly mild summer weather made for beautiful walks over the course of the weekend and many congregants volunteered to accompany me on my explorations. The Jewish community was well primed on my music and the Shabbat prayers and meals were nothing short of ecstatic. All these niceties have little to do with what made this weekend so special. Here’s the story:
In 1925 Chaskel Frand left Dubiecko, Poland for the “Golden Medina,” armed with his sole source of income, his violin. He left behind his wife and kids (and imported them at a later date,) and also had to say goodbye to his extended family of musicians, the Frand Klezmorim. He also traveled with the handwritten music that the band had performed for weddings and for such visiting rabbis as the Belzer and Bluzher Rebbes. 
After the war Chaskel was anguished to discover that all his relatives had perished at the hands of the Nazis.
In 1955 Chaskel decided to move to Israel so that the imminent arrival of the Messiah wouldn’t require that his bones roll all the way from New York to Jerusalem. At the airport he found that he was only allowed one carry-on item (yes, even in those days!) One of his daughters convinced him to choose his tallis and tefilin over the violin…he could buy another violin in Israel. He reluctantly handed it to her and it was stashed in her basement for the next several years. At one point, a cousin came to visit from California. He had just started up the violin and requested his grandfather’s violin on which to practice. After that, the violin floated from house to house over the years and many pieces of the Frand music folio wound up framed and hung in the homes of various relatives for posterity.
Fast forward to 1996: My dear friend Sharon Brooks, fellow veteran of untold number of Coalition for Advancement of Jewish Education conferences, (I’ve now performed at 17 of them!) had a five-year-old daughter who insisted that she wanted to learn to play the violin. Sharon is the granddaughter of Chaskel and her five-year-old had no idea about her klezmer roots. She tracked down the violin, had it sent to New Jersey and found that it was in an awful state of disrepair. At great expense she had it restored and her daughter is playing it to this day. At one point, word got out that the violin was back in use and relatives sent Sharon the portfolio of music so that they could be played once again on the family violin.
Sharon eventually made a trip to Dubiecko, Poland to explore her roots. She found no sign of Jewish presence in spi
te of the fact that they had been over 50% of the town’s population. The cemetery was in total disrepair without even so much as a marker on the mass grave. The headstones had been used by the Nazis to pave a road. She decided to make “lemonade out of lemons:” The recovered music of the Frand Klezmorim would be the very vehicle to shape up the cemetery and honor the memories of her ancestors.
Fast forward to 2009: I recommended that Sharon have this music professionally transcribed so that it could be easily performed by a modern ensemble and to throw a gala concert in her hometown. She hired klezmer flutist extraordinaire, Adrianne Greenbaum to create usable charts out of the Frand musician’s hieroglyphics. After much preparation the big weekend arrived. Whereas many shuls have a completely different crowd between Friday night and Saturday, the entire community came out for the every aspect of the Shabbaton. We found some great local klezmer musicians for the Saturday 
night concert, I brought out one of my favorite studio drummers from New York, and after a set of my songs we presented the grand North American debut of some amazing, beautiful and complex klezmer. This music is not intended to be listened to in a passive manner; Adrianne led the group in the various appropriate dances and we jammed late into the night as the audience clapped, danced and sang along.
Thousands of dollars were raised to restore the cemetery. New music was launched in the klezmer world. The JCC of Flemington had a Shabbaton they will not soon forget. I was so grateful to have a role in this incredible saga. I received an email from my new flutist friend that I want to share:
“I’m not so good with words, I’m afraid. What I want to say is that you brought such vitality to the meaning of Shabbat, with such feelings of being grateful, of what is truly important. You manage to transcend, to explore the meanings in everyday life and not make it hokey or phony. You are the real thing. You speak with such honesty and your conviction reaches out so very simply to others who aren’t yet convinced there is value to taking time off. Taking time to stop. That was your biggest message: Stop. There is a time to stop and great value to stopping. If G-d can stop, why not us little folk? Thanks for an amazing weekend of spirit and song.”
I asked Sharon to fact-check this newsletter and she responded with the following:
“Sam – you asked me a question I never even thought about before. What if my grandfather was able to bring the violin to Israel? Would this music have this new life, this revival of spirit? Perhaps what seemed like such an injustice back then was a part of the master plan. This violin, this music was, like Moses I suppose, never intended to enter the land of Israel.”
I have encouraged Sharon Brooks to dream big. I told her that if she pulled off this remarkable concert weekend, she can do anything. I encouraged her to strive to get this music recorded and published professionally and even produce a concert in the memory of the righteous community of Dubiecko at the very site of the mass grave. I feel like my ability to continue to work full time in the area of Jewish music is an open miracle. I see miracles everyday. One of the best parts of my job is to have the chance to inspire others to live in this realm and once in a while, to see some of them succeed.
Mood Altering Drugs
August 1st, 2009
August 2009
For five years I taught an L.A.-based class called Seasons of Joy. Every week about a dozen Jews by birth and potential Jews by choice joined me for an overview of the Torah portion of the week, basic Jewish law and handy tips for ecstatic Jewish living. One student who frequented the class would typically raise her hand to ask questions that had little to do with the topic at hand. She usually would ask about angels, the soul or the afterlife and would react with authority to my answers. In private conversations I learned that she could hear and see angels and was in a constant dialog with her guides.
On one occasion I was visiting the 613 Mitzvah store in our ‘hood to restock my CDs. This is the best outlet for my music in the US and it’s always great to stop in and schmooze with friends and potential friends who are shopping for books, Judaica and music. I usually make a few sales each time I walk in. Sure enough, this aforementioned student of mine was there and she saw me helping a newcomer pick out a mezuzah. When I picked up a scroll I could feel a tangible energy in the parchment. I explained to the customer that a holy Jew devoted himself to the faithful calligraphy of the text and that a kosher scroll has tremendous spiritual power. Next thing you know, everyone in the store wanted to hold the parchment; whereas not everyone felt that energy, my student reacted like she was mainlining heroin.
Over time her statements in my class grew more bizarre and she developed a tic. Her flower-child dress and observations of auras were scaring away others in the group. I felt bad but on my rabbi’s advice I had to ask her not to make any more comments in class. I later found out that she had been banned from many other shuls and classes around Pico.
This last Shabbat I saw her for the first time in over a year. She was calm and composed, the tic gone, and I found out that she had started taking medication that allowed her to live a “normal” life. In our discourse I learned that she had chosen to sublimate her gift so that she could function in society.
I bring this up to you, my friends, simply to address this
question that I can’t get off my mind. In an age of spiritual disconnection, with all of the sadness and fear due to our crippled economy, with gadgets and media in all forms making profound headway into any shred of quiet time we might enjoy, I wonder if we should be medicating those few people who have access to other realms. How rare does one happen upon someone with true vision and deep perspective, without bias and agenda. Tzadikim that walk with G-d can take on many forms. They are a gift not to be squandered.
At a recent Earth, Wind and Fire concert, my wife and I marveled at the energy of the legendary band, particularly bass virtuoso Verdine White. I’m telling you, you haven’t seen hyperkinetic musical passion until you have seen this guy GROOVE! All night! And he’s in his late 60′s! My wife said to me, “can you imagine if his parents had put him on Ritalin as a kid?” Are we medicating our future Verdine Whites into submission? Getting all of our square peg offspring in round holes, thanks to the miracle of modern pharmaceuticals?
I realize that this former student of mine required intervention. Without the drugs it’s unlikely that we would have been having a conversation last Shabbas. Still, she is one of the few that I have met that possess that “knowing” and have the ability to potentially guide others to share the vision. Three times a day we pour our hearts out in prayer; how often are we really connecting? How rare and valuable is accurate rebuke? How often do we meet that person who can look right into our eyes and perceive our soul, knowing exactly what message we need to hear?
In a world bereft of spiritual insight, perhaps the best antidote is to train oneself to become more sensitive to heavenly messages, to the presence of G-d in our lives. Rabbi Shlomo Carlebach used to say that we have to take moments of personal ecstasy and bring them into our service of G-d. The idea is to summon the memory of a perfect ski run, a vacation in Yosemite, the birth of a child and inject that passion into everyday prayer. Check out the Art of Amazement for some practical methods to capitalize on the gift of wonder.
I’ve heard it said that life is like a perpetual night broken by 
occasional lightning. In those brief flashes we can set our reset our path as we trudge through the darkness. Hold on to those flashes! Keep them close and nurture them. And when you meet someone like my spiritual student, don’t dismiss him or her as a hippie freak but instead take a moment to share that precious bolt of lightning before you move on with your busy day.
I’m posting this on my new blog and I welcome your feedback.
My Family Vacation
July 1st, 2009
by Sam Glaser
July 2009
As a child, I was fortunate to spend my summers backpacking in the Sierras. Something about being surrounded by beauty, the silence of the forest, rushing rivers, heaving oceans, has always captivated my soul. My first album was recorded when I was eleven and featured songs I had written from the age of seven with such titles as Wilderness, This World, The Last Frontier and This Valley. To this day, when I’m on my concert tour and the opportunity arises, I try to fill my days with a walk to a local waterfall, biking trail or surf spot.
Nowadays my kids run the other direction when I propose that we take a hike. I’ve learned not to tell them where we are going and to hide the boots in the back of the van. That way I can get them out of the house without straitjackets. Once we hit the trail, however, they love it, and I marvel as their personalities shift from boredom and sarcasm to innocence and wonder.
I proposed to my sons Max (14) and Jesse (12) that we go for a serious backpack trip, our first together, in the wilderness of Sedona, AZ. After all, they had a week before camp was starting and I had gigs in Tucson. Surprisingly, they were excited about the idea and the itinerary occupied weeks of our conversation. Using their pocketknives and building fires were the primary attractions. My daughter, Sarah Lena, a nine-year-old diva in pink would have to wait a few more years.
How could I remain sequestered in my recording studio knowing my boys were available for an adventure of this magnitude? These days I’m increasingly aware of the nature of their fleeting childhood. What I didn’t realize is that backpacking takes huge amounts of preparation and expense. When you are leaving civilization, you can’t just run to 7-Eleven when you feel like a slurpee. As a kid, all the hard work was done for me. Now I had to rent packs, plan lightweight kosher meals, deal with water purification, acquire sleeping bags and pads, a tent, first aid kit and lots of sunscreen.
I carefully chose CDs to inculcate my boys with essential classic rock for our seven hour drive. To the strains of Boston, Beatles, Kansas, Metallica and AC/DC we rocked through the barren Southwest, arriving in Sedona just as the sun was setting. Thankfully we planned a trial hike climbing one of the red rock buttes on the first day. The sole of Jesse’s boot fell off completely in the first mile and he had to complete the hike in Crocs. After a dip in a spectacularly scenic Oak Creek swimming hole we searched frantically for new boots all over town and got very lucky finding the only pair his size in the city. Those first few nights we stayed with friends and as we soaked in their scenic Jacuzzi we witnessed one of the most amazing shooting stars, tail and everything, that I have ever seen.
Finally, after all this preparation we had packs on our backs. Early the next morning we set out on our fourteen-mile red rock canyon adventure. After the first three miles we had to switch from hiking boots to water sandals since the canyon narrows to the degree that the trail disappears and one has to walk in the river the rest of the way. We saw an assortment of butterflies like I have never seen in my life, gardens of wildflowers in the weeping cliff walls, soaring hawks and herons, freaky spiders and sonorous mountain goats.
By the sixth mile, Jesse was at breaking point. He couldn’t go on. We needed a campsite immediately and there was nothing but rock on either side of us. The final straw was a six-foot deep pool of water with no way to get through it other than swimming. You try swimming with a backpack! Max and I abandoned our packs and opted to scale the cliff wall to see if there was a way around. Sure enough, we found a ledge with a fire ring. Someone else had gotten stuck here and made the best of it. But there was no room for a tent. Max noticed that there was a way to get even higher up the cliff. Sure enough, about sixty feet above the river we found a campsite. A perfect, well-shaded campsite to enjoy for the duration of our trip, with a spot for our tent and a fire ring with log benches all around it. Can you imagine our happy dance? That night we thanked Hashem for the divine providence of our discovery as we pondered the milky way and roasted salami on the open flame.
You may wonder by now why I am dragging you through the anecdotes of our family vacation. You see, it’s all about the campsite. Our campsite was the sweetest campsite in the world. Better than any 5-star hotel. Why? Because we worked so hard for it. Because we sweated out the intensive preparation required to survive half a week in the wilderness, because we drove so far, woke up so early and hiked miles with heavy backpacks. For us, that magical twenty square feet of dirt represented the fact that we were pushed above and beyond our perceived limitations and triumphed.
This dynamic is the essence of Jewish holidays. The intensive pre-Pesach spring cleaning, cooking and seder planning makes for a powerful Passover. The forty-nine day omer countdown to Shavuot gives one the feeling that they too are standing at Sinai. There’s nothing like the first night of Sukkot when you sit in the Sukkah that you shlepped from the storage room, built and decorated. And Rosh Hashanah is as potent as the spiritual work you undertake during the preceding month of Elul.
I’m reminded of a time after a concert in the Berkshires last year when I visited the Norman Rockwell museum. I’ve always loved his art and was amazed to see my favorites on the original large canvases. As I was leaving the museum I noticed that a docent was about to lead a tour group through. I opted to go through the museum a second time with this well-informed woman and this time I had a completely different experience. I saw things in those paintings that I would have never noticed and the characters came alive as I heard the background story of their creation. Similarly, two people can sit side by side in the synagogue and have vastly different experiences proportionate to the preparation they have undertaken and the guidance they have received.
On our last day we broke down the camp and made sure that we didn’t leave a trace of our visit. For lunch we frantically finished all of our food so that we wouldn’t have to carry it. In between mouthfuls two large brown beasts suddenly burst out of the bushes. We screamed as we leapt up ready to protect ourselves with our plastic sporks. Two hungry chocolate Labradors were exploring the canyon and must have smelled our kosher turkey MRE’s. Cocoa and Charlie became our dogs for the rest of the day and made hauling our packs home a lot more fun. As we neared the end of the canyon we heard a voice from above shouting, “Stop calling my dogs!” Sure enough, the owner hadn’t seen his dogs for hours. I followed the voice by climbing up the rock wall and quickly explained to the lone backpacker that we weren’t trying to steal his animals. This guy looked familiar…can you imagine…it was a friend of mine from high school who had moved to Arizona in search of peace and quiet. The only other human that had seen in days!
As Jews, we are about to enter the period of the “three weeks.” We are commanded to always serve G-d with joy, in every situation, everyday. But during this short period of time we “lessen” our joy just a bit. We refrain from such things as live music, weddings and haircuts. Minor inconveniences, but just like preparing for the happier holidays, they make a difference, just enough so that we acquire a sense of mourning that peaks in the observance of Tisha B’Av (the 9th of Av.) This day is the saddest on the calendar and commemorates the destruction of our Temples and many other disasters throughout history. This year it starts at sunset on Wednesday night, July 29th. Those who weep for Jerusalem will merit seeing her rebuilt, with uncontested borders and eternal peace. May it happen speedily in our day.
Life After Shavuot
June 1st, 2009
by Sam Glaser
June 2009
The week before Shavuot made my head spin. I had a few wonderful shows in Northern California and then returned to LA to sing the National Anthem and G-d Bless America at the Dodger-Mets game. Yes, the Dodgers won. The next night I regaled 1200 people at the Beverly Hilton and then drove to San Diego to perform at a beautiful Torah dedication parade and concert. I made it home with an hour to go before candlelighting, hugged my wife and kids and dashed off to shul for the afternoon services for Erev Shavuot.
This is when things got interesting. You see, I have a few rabbis with whom I REALLY connect. Rare individuals that see the big picture, have such a deep knowledge of text and “live” their learning. Shavuot with Rabbi Simcha Weinberg was enlightening to say the least. We learned almost continuously over the three-day weekend. That night he spoke at services and then resumed teaching from 11pm until 5am. The topic, near and dear to my heart, was Hallel! After a powerful sunrise Shachrit (morning service) we picked it up again for the second night of the holiday, which this year also happened to be Shabbat. More inspired classes, incredible celebratory meals and then a final class Sunday Night. I felt like I was opened up, inside out. Firing on all cylinders. With a new enthusiasm for the “same ole’” prayers, new eyes to see the colors of life.
You might wonder what Hashem had in store for me now that I had spiritually awakened from my day-to-day daze. Monday morning I opened up my studio, turned on the various racks of audio gear and started my trusty Mac. My first move is usually to check my email. Since I had been away I had hundreds begging for attention. Two of them caught my eye, both with the heading “Baruch Dayan HaEmet,” or, Blessed is the True Judge. These are the emails that I never want to read. This is the phrase that Jewish people utter when they hear shocking news, usually upon hearing about someone’s death. Just when you might say “oh, it’s not fair” or “where was G-d?” we insist that G-d knows exactly what’s going on and that even though we might not understand, this tragedy is also His will.
Two of our dear friends lost their wives. Unrelated incidents, strangers to one another, one suddenly, one gradually. But both were young mothers, each with three young children. Strikingly beautiful women, righteous, beacons of charity and kindness in their communities. Two agonizing funerals. Intense shiva minyanim (first week of mourning prayers.) After the first funeral I was asked to lead the prayers at the mother’s home. I should have never agreed: I screamed and sobbed throughout the service, starting and stopping and trying again. When acknowledging their guests the husbands would bravely tell anecdotes about their wives and then convulse again in misery. Speechless friends and family watched as prepubescent kids struggled with kaddish.
Midweek I went to the first game of the Laker-Magic finals with my brother Joey. Yes, life is for the living. The energy was palpable as the crowd jumped to its feet with every heroic basket. Such miraculous coordination, control and perseverance. Such a din that I resorted to earplugs halfway through the game. Afterwards, I went to hear some of the greatest musicians in world play at an LA nightclub. No exaggeration. David Garfield led his septet through the brambles of some of the thorniest charts imaginable, bringing waves of unbridled pleasure to this music lover. Spontaneous melodies soaring over the deepest grooves. Seemingly impossible dexterity coupled with restraint and subtlety. Again I was brought to tears, but this time they were the tears joy.
I decided to drive home the long way, over the canyon, rather than the more expedient freeway. At the top I pulled off at a beautiful wilderness area, the headquarters of the environmental group Tree People, and prayed the evening prayer under a nearly full moon. As I pondered the night sky against the shadows of towering pines I had a realization: while dating my wife, the first party that I saw her throw was a benefit for Tree People. I watched her grace and beauty shine as she catered to her guests and made sure every detail was perfect. That’s when I knew she was the one.
We also have three kids. My wife is the light of my life, beloved in our extended family and treasured in our community. The tragedies of the week hit too close to home. How did this figure in G-d’s plan? Where is the “beneficent kindness” in this daunting sadness?
A year and a half ago I played an incredible wedding at the Beverly Wilshire hotel. Everything was done right…the lighting, décor, flowers, huge crowd…I realized that a clip of their wedding video would be perfect to enhance my “Sam at Your Simcha” page on my new website. But how to find the bride after all this time? This week I started my research and eventually tracked down her brother’s email address. I contacted him and received the reply “which sister are you talking about?” The next day I responded and then a few hours later the sister I was looking for sent me an email. She was contacting me to get the sheet music for one of the songs that I had sung for the processional; I could tell from the context that she had no idea that I was trying to find her. I laughed as I explained the coincidence and we both agreed that we don’t necessarily live in a “small world” but instead that it’s a “large world, well managed.”
The same G-d that orchestrated this “coincidence” also arranged for these two women to pass on this week. This is the same G-d that created the universe, that gave the Torah to the Jewish people, that is helping each of us to navigate our lives. This can be our kavanah (focus) every time we say the Sh’ma. We are always receiving divine messages, heavenly love notes. Shavuot is here to open our hearts to this reality and to encourage us to keep the conversation alive. Please, my friends, let’s not go back to sleep.
Website Launch!
April 24th, 2009My new site just launched! Hope you like it…
