HOME & FAMILY

At the wedding of her first daughter, Mrs. S. was in seventh heaven. Every other dance found her inside the kalla's circle, enjoying every minute of hers and her daughter's simcha. After the wedding, as the two sides gathered for family pictures, she exclaimed to the chosson's mother, "Wasn't that a great chasuna? Didn't you have a wonderful time?"

One Bris Leads to Another
A true story as told to Esther Weil

Part II

Synopsis: The narrator knew only two things about Judaism - - that she must marry within her faith, and that male children must be circumcised. The bris of her first son led to her participating in Torah lectures and slowly, taking on mitzvos.

Numeracy
by A. Ross, M.Ed.

By the time a child goes to school, he should be familiar with quite a few number concepts. Incredibly, many of the children whose parents take them for assessment because they are unable to read, have not even begun to grasp basic number concepts.

Sitting Shiva
by Carol Ungar

Everyone came to my father's shiva, everyone -- except my Dad. He was dead, of course, buried in the fresh spring earth, but his soul, which Chazal say still hovers over a man's earthly home for the week following his death, wasn't there. No one invited it in.

Poem and Prose
by Sara Gutfreund

Soroh's Tent

The hot sand scorches my feet. My eyes are blinded by the glare of the desert sun. Suddenly, I see it. Soroh's tent. It is much bigger than I had imagined. Deep, purple canvas walls stretch up into the sky. And indeed, there is a door on every side.

Family Secrets
by R. Chadshai

Q. We have a daughter of sixteen who feels entitled to participate in all suggestions for a shidduch which we contemplate for our eldest daughter. She says she is old enough to be taken into our confidence and is deeply offended when we suggest that she is too young.

POET'S CORNER

Inner Thoughts and Hopes of a Baal Tshuva

by Chana Ryna Trugman

You constantly test us
And it's always hard
We must stay alert
We must stand on guard.
The yetzer hora
Is lurking within us
It knows all our business and buzzwords
And tempts us
With all of the fraudulent delicacies
Of this bogus, mortal mirage. If you please:
"It looks so appealing!
How does it taste?"
(How much of your life can I get you to waste?)
But ask yourself this
While you ponder your worth:
How will you live
While you're stuck here on earth?

Lost in an exile?
Or found in the light?
Blinded by one grain of sand?
Or in flight?
Head in the sky
And feet on the ground
While the world turns in boredom
You're full and you're found.

How hard could it be
To try to be good
And lift yourself out of this muck?
When you have the key
You know that with Torah
You need never feel stuck.

Your body's a tool
A donkey you raise
Let your soul ride it with pleasure
When you use it to serve
And to sing Hashem's praise
You earn a reward beyond measure.

The light of goodness shines within us
We can tap into it
And together
We can bring Moshiach
We can bring
Hashem's holy Name to the nations
And smile / And sing
And dance / And rejoice
As He is revealed.

This is our story!
Hashem, help us live it out!

In Passing

by Ruth Lewis

From a bus window,
I glimpse in passing,
a death notice slapped
just now upon the wall,
yet-wet and wrinkled, creased
as a newborn.

Someone, it seems, is dead, fresh dead,
slabbed, shrouded, covered in
prayer shawl of yellowed white, worn, tattered.
Soon to be hurriedly escorted from the scene.

Somewhere fresh earth lies moist, mounded
beside a hole fresh dug, ground gouged,
scarred, wounded, screaming open-mouthed,
waiting to receive.
Somewhere there are wails, sobbing,
Fresh pain.

Black letters,
glossy bold
as a newborn's eyes.
Paper shining white.
I can almost smell the ink,
almost see the printer -- a rush job.
Picture the poster-plasterer
leaping from his motorbike,
snatching up, unfurling with quick shakes,
a whack of his broad brush,
paste wet dripping,
leaping back aboard, motor revving, roaring,
zooming off to the next scene,
even as, in passing, people gather
to read what's new.

Next week, the notice will be old,
paste hardened, dried...
Paper waxen yellow, tattered, peeling, torn,
letters faded.
Plastered over by
new notices of sales, events.
Unread, unseen in passing.
Old news.

Hole filled, covered, earth dried,
pain dulled, sobs subsided.

Now, wet paste oozes.
Someone, it seems, is dead.
Fresh dead.