The Partners in Torah Blog

When I showed up for my first day of formal Jewish learning at the Jewish teen-girls winter retreat, I was a full vessel. At sixteen I didn’t think I knew everything—I was sure of it. But I was a bit of a wild-child back then, and I was in need of a few brownie points with my mom. When she mentioned this Jewish study course that was happening over my winter break, I could tell by her tone that the only acceptable response was, “Sure, Mom. I’d love to.” Truth be told, a Jewish education course was the furthest thing from mind. I was way more concerned about rising in the ranks of “cool” with my public high school friends. A Jewish study program didn’t really fit in with my plans at all.

But I was a good kid and wanted to please my mom, so I packed my bags anyway thinking all the while that I’d put in a few days in this Jewish learning program and then ramble on to wherever the wind might take me next. I had absolutely zero intention of falling in love with what I was learning. But funnily enough, that’s exactly what happened. For the first time in my life—which at the time seemed pretty long to me—I began to feel truly comfortable in my own skin. I felt a part of something and connected to the people I was meeting.

Although the Jewish texts we were learning were written hundreds of years earlier, the message I was getting was totally current, totally relevant, and—surprise, surprise—totally cool. I remember learning about relationships and love through the stories of our matriarchs and patriarchs—Torah stories about jealousy and lust, longing and hope. These were all the kinds of things I thought were unique to my high school experience and modern fiction. We learned in pairs, and with the help of my chavruta, my study partner, I began to draw connections from the Torah’s story to my own life’s story.

Before this immersion in classic Jewish learning, I had always imagined Torah learning as an ancient, religious, intellectual pursuit, and therefore boring and flavorless, kind of like a rice cracker. But the Torah concepts I was learning were anything but boring. They were, as the Jewish saying goes, “geshmachdt,” tasty and satisfying, like a good meal. And the folks I was learning with were cool! They were educated, cultured, warm, colorful, funny, and holy, to boot. That was something I did not even realize I was missing—the holy part.

In Hebrew, the word for holy, kadosh, translates as “separate” or “different.” That is exactly the experience I, a young teenage girl, was so afraid of. I don’t know any high school kid who chooses to be different. But as I’ve come to see in life, the thing that we resist the most is precisely the place G-d wants us to go. It’s that place just outside of our comfort zone where the meaning of life starts to come into sharp focus.

I am so grateful that I listened to my Mom and opened myself to the opportunity to learn something new. My adventures in Jewish learning continuously bring me home to the timeless instruction that I have come to depend on; I’ve learned the value of having a bottom line and the freedom that comes from following a code of law. Boundaries and borders which I once found stifling, like observing the laws of Shabbat, I now find liberating and essential to the peace in our home. It is within the boundaries of a committed Jewish life that I find the space to be the woman I was intended to be. The ancient pages of our Holy Torah are always ripe with a current and relevant lesson for my life. How cool is that?

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I remember being a kid at a science museum and staring up at a towering canvas filled with tiny, multicolored dots. They looked like miniature, polished gumballs. I loved the colors and how they danced all over the canvas. It was beautiful. I followed my older brother upstairs to another section of the museum, and as I looked down from the second floor, I saw the canvas from a different perspective, a second-story perspective. From this new vantage point, the dots disappeared; in their stead was a larger-than-life portrait of a smiling, young, tow-headed boy holding a yellow pail and a shovel. I was shocked by this new information and felt betrayed by my eyes. I ran up and down the stairs several times in awe and wonder, comparing my original vision of tiny dots with my new perspective of a cohesive picture. On that day I learned how different things can look depending on where I stand.

Throughout my life I have been amazed and bewildered by countless people and things that began looking one way and turn out to be something else. I have been stunned by kindness performed by heavily tattooed and pierced strangers, and I have been scared silly by the most righteously costumed punks. I have learned that assuming who someone is based on how they look, speak, or behave is like pulling out one pixel out of thousands and saying with arrogance, “I know what that picture is.”

I think that’s part of the reason G-d commands us not to judge each other. Because as wide and as all encompassing as we fancy our lens to be, it will never be wide enough to take in the totality of a human complexity with our joys, neuroses, and lifetimes of baggage. We are each a tiny pixel and a whole portrait at the same time, and it takes a special kind of vision to take in all the details and not lose focus of the entire picture. All too often we zoom in on a specific aspect or impression of a person, their style of dress, the neighborhood they live in, the number of children they have, without proper perspective, and we wind up cheapening each other’s resolution and tarnishing each other’s image. G-d expects more from us than that. After all, we are created in His image.

The Torah teaches us that when we camped out at the foot of Mount Sinai ready to receive the Torah, we were like “one man with one heart” (commentary Rashi, on parshat Yitro, 19:2). This is a beautiful sentiment, but interesting in that the singular event in Jewish history that expresses perfect unity is when we were camping. Wouldn’t it seem more appropriate to have had that kind of harmony when we were doing something spiritual, like praying together or receiving the Torah or building the holy temple? Camping? Really?

Here’s the thing about camping, though … it is an intensely physical experience. Everybody’s stuff is sort of plopped down and hanging out there for the rest of the campground to see – dirty socks, dishes, empty water bottles. I find it challenging enough to love my neighbor and see him favorably when a fence and a driveway separates our yards, but camping is tougher because the boundaries between my space and my neighbor’s are so easily blurred. Yet it was in that place—during the mundane and physical experience of camping—where we as a nation sharpened our personal and collective lenses and figured out how to be like G-d. Dirty laundry, sandy food, and all, we pulled it together and saw each other as G-d sees us—as one.

We are given opportunities to express that level of unity daily. Smiling at someone who looks different than we do, helping someone in need, speaking favorably about another, or inviting a lonely soul into our homes, are all simple things that bind us to each other. If we look from the right perspective, we begin to  see the little babies playing peek-a-boo, and Israeli soldiers buying a falafel, and young pig-tailed school girl skipping to class, and we recognize that they are each a perfect and precious pixel, a whole and complete dot in the larger and ever evolving portrait of the Jewish people. By valuing and respecting each other, we show G-d that we’re grateful to be chosen for His canvas. That’s how we live in G-d’s image.

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Thoughts on tefilla and attachment

When I was growing up, I didn’t know many Jewish prayers—in fact, I didn’t know how to pray at all. I remember being told at some point that if I were ever in a bind, I should say the words “Shema Yisrael,” but beyond that I never received any formal instruction in Jewish prayer. I did however check in with G-d every so often to give Him a status update. When I was scared, or in pain, I often asked Him for help and guidance. When something particularly beautiful or wonderful crossed my path, like an amazing sunset or a timely job offer, I complimented Him on His work. And from time to time I submitted a wish list that ranged from the profoundly spiritual matters, like faith and providence, to the intensely mundane, like weight loss and prom dates. After a topsy-turvy high school experience spent knee deep in all kinds of off-the-beat and path soul-searching, I decided to narrow my search for self and focus on my Jewish roots. I threw myself into classic Jewish study in yeshiva in Israel with a “go hard or go home” attitude. The more I learned, the more I came to understand that all those years of simply “checking in with G-d,” I had been praying all along.

The Hebrew word for prayer is tefillah, which is generally translated as “prayer.” But the English word “prayer” implies two distinct entities: one inferior (me) making a request of the superior other (G-d). Bakasha is a better word for the English word “prayer.” Tefillah is a lot more than prayer. It implies communion and attachment—a genuine effort to join mind and spirit in honest communication with G-d. Although I wasn’t raised with a formal Jewish education and was pretty unclear about the how-to’s of Jewish prayer, when I included G-d in my life and communicated with Him in my own language while asking for help or offering thank you’s, I was indeed nailing it in the tefillah department.

The Torah refers to prayer as “service of the heart.” Anytime we offer thanks to the Creator or plead for help with health matters or even ask for help finding a parking spot, we are praying. To pray is to attach ourselves to G-d, to realize that there is something bigger than ourselves, and to communicate from that place. The famed sage Maimonides writes that “prayer without concentration is akin to a lifeless body.” In other words, it’s not only the words we chose to communicate to G-d, but the intention behind the words that give rise to a prayer.

There was a time in Jewish history when Jewish prayer didn’t include specific times or defined text; everyone sort of “shot from the hip” when they addressed the Divine. But when the Jews were exiled to Babylon, the Men of the Great Assembly saw that the younger generation had difficulty finding the words to communicate with G-d in the way their fathers and mothers had. So Ezra the Scribe, together with the Men of the Great Assembly, established a standard text for prayer in Hebrew and set three times a day (morning, afternoon, and evening) for tefillah.

As I began to learn about the structure of Jewish prayer, I remember getting a little panicky. How was I supposed to serve G-d with my heart using someone else’s words? How genuine of a connection could that be? Then I thought about all the great music I grew up listening to and how I found the voice of my soul in other people’s lyrics. I learned that my feelings of yearning, joy, power, vulnerability and angst were not unique to me alone. Hearing versions of my own story told through popular music helped me understand that I was not alone. Similarly, as I tuned into prayer-book prayer, I began to connect with those words as if they were lyrics in a timeless song: “My G-d, the soul You have placed within me is pure.” The holy words of the Hebrew prayer book helped me confirm that my presence in this world matters, and that my experience is shared. When I get myself in the right headspace, I can hear mandolins and jazz pianos accompanying those words, and they become my own song.

Another groovy thing about tefillah is that you can do it just about anywhere. Owning a Jewish soul means that you’ve got a wireless connection with G-d, so whether you are following the opus that our Sages so brilliantly composed for us, or simply riffing with your Creator and producing your own sound– as long as you are speaking honestly and coming from your heart, then you’re praying Jewish. Just like music, words that come from the heart enter the heart.

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Thoughts on family life and tikkun olam – fixing the world through the simple things

These days, weather has become background music to my life. I love the variation of sound, feeling, and texture that a winter day in our life in Israel provides –the chill, the wind, the pitter-patter of rainfall. We moved to the Golan Heights this past summer after eleven years of living in Beit Shemesh in the center of Israel, and for two decades before that in southern California. The experience of wide-ranging weather conditions of the Golan is pretty new to me.  In San Diego, where I grew up, the weather varied from different expressions of warm and sunny. During our time in Beit Shemesh, save for a few rainy days throughout the winter months, it was hot-pretty much all the time.  But here in the Golan, we’ve had all kinds of weather.  We’ve experienced wind so strong that if I didn’t hold on to my steering-wheel tightly enough, my car would have begun to swerve off the road.  We’ve had snowy days that have taught me the meaning of “bone chilling”.  Cold fronts have afforded me a new and deeply dependent relationship with wool socks, hot water bottles, and cinnamon tea.  This winter we have been blessed with heavy rains that have turned ditches into creeks and painted the rolling hills around us the color of emeralds.   We’ve had sun-kissed, cloudless days under the biggest sky I’ve ever seen.  On days like those, I feel like a brush stroke on the canvas of an illustrious masterpiece.  Sometimes the landscape is so beautiful, I literally have to pause and catch my breath.

I love the way these weather changes inform my day and set my pace. This morning I left my house to drive the kids to their bus stop. The fog was so dense I couldn’t see two feet in front of my headlights. It was like a heavy, white blanket, so thick it looked like I could cut a slice out of it and hold it in my palm. As I inched along the long, country road that lies between my house and my children’s bus stop, there were occasional breaks in the fog. For a few fleeting moments, the clouds thinned and revealed green rolling hills, or a 16-wheeler truck, or a grazing cow. Every time the fog lifted, it was like the world around me was playing peekaboo.

I can’t help but think about that beautiful, foggy ride as an instruction for my life. There are days when I am so bogged down by my perspective that it seems like nothing else exists. Because I  am blessed with Jewish family life involving, thankfully, raising children, it’s easy to get lost in my own personal dramas and lose sight of the beauty and opportunity that exists all around me. I can easily trap myself under a thick blanket of responsibilities that I have assigned myself—deadlines, phone calls, laundry, food prep, pick-ups, drop-offs—and allow precious moments of family life to disappear from my view. Just like the fog can hide the road in front of me, I far too often allow my demanding schedule to hide the things that matter the most to me. Things as simple as playing a card game with my kids, or taking a family stroll can get clouded by the list of duties I have deemed more important than that moment.

As I witnessed thick fog lifting in patches on a winter day over our Jewish homeland, I imagined my son asking for another bedtime story. I saw my daughter, with her hairbrush held to her mouth, lip-syncing to my favorite song, beckoning me to dance with her. I pictured all the things that appear more time sensitive than they really are, and I saw myself choosing to see my family and our home without any fog blurring my vision. What a perfect and whole scene it was. Our Sages call that kind of wholeness “Tikkun Olam,” a fixing and healing of this world.  Tikkun Olam starts in our own backyards, with our very own eyes.

Thanks to G-d, the ultimate Weather Man, for providing us with such a beautiful landscape and such kind instruction.

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Maybe it’s because I’m a Libra and balance is supposed to be my thing, or maybe it’s because I consistently spread myself too thin in so many areas of my life, but to me the very concept of a “truly balanced life” seems like a faraway land.  I seek to imbibe my life and family with Judaism, but to have a fully “Jewish mom balance?” It’s beyond my comprehension. I do my best to find harmony and equilibrium between the different parts of me– the mom, the Jewish woman, the educator, the doula, and the scullery maid–but more times than not, I feel like a tightrope walker in hiking boots – teeth clenched, butterflies in my stomach, wondering how in the world I am going to make it safely to the other side.  At the same time, I’d like to offer some insights into this idea of a Jewish mom balance.

A lot of us have a vision of a balanced life being a perfectly sliced pie: equal portions of attention to specific slices of life. But that’s not real, and I’m not sure it should be. To expect that I will be able to apportion my attention equally among my children, my clients, my husband, my laundry, and my thirsty Jewish soul is to set myself up for failure. Life is messy, and laundry and Jewish souls can be very taxing on this “Jewish mom balance”. For me, it’s not about equal division of attention; instead, being balanced means that I am sturdy enough within myself to choose who and what gets my attention in this moment.

Real balance means that my core is connected with a purpose of being, and everything I do emanates from that centered place. Having balance means understanding that at any given time some aspect of my life may take a cut, but whatever does get my attention is going to get a good dose of it. Again, the Jewish mom balance means figuring out what G-d wants from me in this moment. Whether it’s washing asphalt off a skinned knee or putting a wet washcloth on a laboring mother’s forehead, my job is to commit to being there and giving all that I’ve got.

We’re not designed to compartmentalize and maintain a perfect balance among everything, and where’s the fun in that anyway? That’s like saying “I pushed my kid for ten minutes on the swing today (check in the good parenting box). Now it’s time to pray for ten minutes so I can ‘check’ the spirituality box.” That’s not Jewish mom balance, that’s just going through the motions. Harmony comes when there is a natural flow from one place to another. Talking to your kid about something that matters deeply to him while you are playing together at the park, that’s balanced, that’s spiritual, and that’s beautiful.

As passionate as many of us are about our various life slices, we all fall off our self-imposed tightropes … plenty. But losing balance is the easy part. Taking a deep breath, remembering to invite G-d back into our lives, and trusting that we have the tools to complete whatever assignment is in front of us — now that takes skill, and that’s a tightrope worth walking.

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Yesterday I was served a face full of humble-pie and I’m still trying to figure out what I did to deserve it.

I was strolling through the supermarket doing my thing: piling mounds of fresh, Israeli produce into my cart, fantasizing about all the yummy Shabbat soups and dips it would become. Abuzz with anticipation, I rolled my hunger-induced shopping spree into the checkout line and awaited my bill. A man was standing behind me with an armload of fresh-baked rolls. The atmosphere was cheerful, and the checkout clerk was chatty and friendly. I was nearing the end of my purchase when the cashier said to both me and the fresh-roll-man behind me, “You know, those rolls will only cost you (him) 5 shekel with a purchase of over 150 shekel. Why don’t you join this (my) purchase and pay this woman (me) the 5 shekel directly?”

The other shopper and I were pleased with the idea, but as he fished around in his pocket for the money, he realized that he didn’t have exact change, so he said with total sincerity, “No. It’s fine. I’ll pay full price.” Emboldened by the jovial atmosphere and the heaps of fresh, lush produce I was purchasing, I asked the checker to put his purchase through anyway. “So what if you don’t have exact change,” I said to him in an “I-got-this-one” voice. “Five shekel for fresh-baked bread is a bargain. I’d like to buy you a gift.”

Suddenly the good-humored atmosphere of Jewish giving came to a screeching halt … “Do I look like I need your charity? I can buy them myself thank you very much.” Ouch.

Since that humbling experience, I’ve thought a lot about where I went wrong. Here’s what I’ve come up with so far. For starters, thinking that this man was in need of my gift never occurred to me. I was not judging his financial holdings—I was just trying to be nice and practice what I always preach by performing a random act of kindness. But somehow my gesture was blown entirely out of proportion.

My first conclusion was that I cannot control the responses or actions of others. I can try to anticipate reactions or imagine myself in another’s place, but at the end of the day, the only things under my jurisdiction are my choices. Second, the fact that this man couldn’t receive the gift I offered is not my issue. But did I do the right thing by offering to pay for his groceries? Not in this instance. I embarrassed him, which means that the way I chose to give him a gift was not as pure as it should have been. Giving in its purest form is about the receiver, not the giver. It would have made me feel good to buy him a gift, but it didn’t make him feel good to receive it.

No matter how kind or altruistic a random act of kindness may be, if it could cramp someone else’s style, I need to check myself by going back to my starting point and making sure I’m shooting from an ego-free space. We have a commandment to give what is called tzedakah.  Tzedakah is generally translated to mean “charity,” but that is not its full meaning. Tzedakah literally means “justice” or “righteousness.” In other words, giving tzedakah is about doing the right thing.  If a hungry person crosses my path, my job is to feed him. My kindness and generosity are irrelevant; feeding a hungry person is simply the right thing to do.

Had I brushed up on Maimonides’ eight levels of giving, I could have spared myself the embarrassment of embarrassing the other shopper. Maimonides (also known as the Rambam) writes that the highest level of giving is providing a person with the means to make a living. The second best way to give is anonymously so that the giver doesn’t know to whom he is giving and the receiver has no idea who he’s receiving from.

I missed both of those steps in the checkout line yesterday. Not only did I make my giving a public event, but worse, by offering that man a gift, I implied that he was beholden to me, somehow dependent upon my generosity to get a good deal. Although I was altogether well intentioned, I let the generous spirit of the supermarket cloud my judgment about how that gift would translate to him. Honestly, I’m not sure I could have received that kind of gift from a stranger if the tables had been turned. I’m pretty sure I would have politely declined the kind offer.

At the end of the day, what I offered had more of “me” in it than it should have. Kindness is meant to transcend self – not become saturated within self. That was one grocery cart full of food for thought.

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Bar Mitzvahs and Wailers

The older I get, the more I cry at joyous events. It’s funny because when I actually want to cry, I can barely squeeze out a tear. When things feel scary to me, I clean more than I cry. Even something as seemingly simple as feeling deep emotion during prayer is a challenge for me.

I’ve always envied the wailers of the world. If you’ve ever visited a Jewish holy site in Israel, you probably know what a wailer looks like. I can’t attest to what’s going on the men’s side, but on our side of the Western Wall or Rachel’s’ tomb you can almost always see an old, sun-stained woman howling and wailing. She looks as if she were carved out of ancient stone. Her wrinkled hands, swollen ankles, and glassy eyes appear to have seen more pain than any soul should bear. I don’t envy the pain or the events that I imagine sparked her emotion, but I would love to feel so intimate with G-d that I could cry with as much inhibition—like a child sobbing on her father’s sleeve. I rarely access that depth of raw emotion during normal, everyday life events—either in or out of prayer—but give me a Jewish wedding or bar mitzvah, and “fawgetaboutit”; my emotional floodgates open.

This past shabbat is a case in point. My family was invited to the bar mitzvah of our dear friend’s son. Hearing this boy read his Torah portion with his sweet, boy-becoming-a-man voice (just slightly deeper than the voice I remember him using years before to ask his mommy for more juice in his sippy cup) sounding loud and proud, I got so verklempt, I had to ask a stranger for a tissue … twice.

As the boy stood in front of the packed synagogue chanting ancient verses from the Torah, I saw his father and grandfather standing nearby, swaying in rhythm with his voice. His younger brothers, with their matching, stripped sweaters, were wide-eyed and pride-filled as they watched their oldest brother evolve into a young man. His mother, grandmother, and great grandmother looked like royalty as they beamed love and joy towards him from their front row seats in the pews above. In that moment I realized how utterly alive and relevant our Torah is. “They are my sons who G-d gave me here … Now bring them near to me so that I may bless them,” the bar-mitzvah boy chanted. I caught his mom’s eye, and as we smiled at each other, more tears flooded my eyes. I became overcome with the grandness of it all.

My daughters were sitting next to me. They watched me anxiously with “What’s going on with Mommy?” looks on their faces. I just smiled, squeezed their hands, and let my tears flow.

In between readings, my eleven-year-old whispered, “Why are you crying, Mommy?”

“Because I’m so happy and grateful, love.”

“Then why don’t you just smile?”

It was a good question. I’ve thought about it a lot since she asked and have come to the following conclusions. The older I get, the wider my lens and frame of reference become. As I age and experience more, my capacity to feel and internalize expands. That allows me to be touched by things that did not even make a blip on the emotional radar screen of my past. Also, the very experience of being a wife and mother has opened my heart to a depth of love that leaves me fuller and emptier than I ever knew possible. I have learned that where there is love, there is also vulnerability; loving deeply allows for the possibility of being hurt deeply—and that awareness tends to choke me up.

As I watched and listened to this beautiful bar mitzvah boy read the story of our people, I realized that I could, indeed, have intimate and honest communion with G-d, just like that wailer, but without the sadness and pain. I could wail with the vulnerability of love. And so I did … As I cried, I thanked G-d for the very lives of those I love. For the blessing of community. For the ability to spot my husband instantly in a sea of skull-capped men. For the synagogue’s “candyman” who cares enough to make sure this house of prayer is a sweet place for my kids. I thanked G-d for our great-grandparents, who risked their lives to make ours worth living. I thanked Him for our sweet and holy Torah, the blessing of continuity, the endurance of our people, and hope for all that is to come.

Blessedly, the composition of my tears is heavier on joy than it is on pain, and I hope it forever stays that way. May we all be so blessed that we can cry to G-d with joy and embrace the day when, as the psalmist King David says, “Those who sow in tears will reap with tears of joy.”

In the meantime, I appreciate that emotions are still relatively simple in my daughter’s mind. She smiles when she’s happy and cries when she’s not. I’ll look forward to the time when she gazes, punch drunk in love, into her daughter’s eyes and cries just for the joy of having her.

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I’m known by different names to different people. I’m called “Mommy,” “ Honey,” “Mrs. Zadok,” and “Hi!” on a daily basis. I’ve been addressed as “Gevert” (Hebrew for “Miss”), “Girlfriend” (as in “Hey, girlfriend!”), “Morah Sarah,” and “Excuse me?” Each one of these names brings forth a response in me from a slightly different place. When I’m called “Mommy” or “Honey” my heart tends to be the first to show up to the call. With “Geveret” and “Excuse me,” not so much. When I am called by my full name, Sarah Ruth, all of me shows up.

I started thinking about the power of the full-name-call recently as I yelled from the kitchen for one of my daughters: “Ma’ayan Bracha!” (Her name means wellspring of blessing). She came in kind of sheepishly. I think she was expecting a talking-to because usually I call her “Ma’ayani” or “Nani” or “Fa’sheen-Bean” (don’t ask, because I have no idea where that nickname came from). But this time I just felt like saying her full, beautiful name. Her anxious reaction made me realize that all too often I call my kids by their full names when I have something serious to convey. Sadly, in response to hearing her full, glorious, Jewish name shouted across the house, my daughter was expecting trouble. Shame on me.

In whatever context names are used, it seems that for Jews and non-Jews alike the pull of a biblical name ranks high on parents’ priority lists. There is a distinct trend toward the use of Hebrew baby names in the Diaspora. According to the American Social Security’s registry of the most popular baby names of the last decade, four out of the top ten most popular boys’ names are biblical names. Jacob ranked highest, Joshua third, Daniel fifth, and Joseph ninth. For the girls’ team, Hannah and Abigail pulled numbers five and six respectively. A peek through the lens of our Jewish mystics gives us deeper insight into the universal appeal of Hebrew names.

Our Sages teach that the twenty-two sacred letters of the Hebrew alef-bet are the spiritual “building blocks” of all created reality. Hebrew letters are vessels that hold within them divine meaning and instruction. The Holy Arizal (Rabbi Isaac Halevi Luria, 1534-1572), known affectionately as “the Ari,” writes that the name by which a person is called constitutes his soul and his vital force. This idea is hinted to by the Hebrew word for soul, “neshamah.” The middle two letters of the word “neshamah” spell the word shem, which means “name.” In other words, the letters of  peoples’ Jewish names are the pipelines through which their souls, vitality, and life force are drawn into their bodies. In fact, when we want to revive someone who has fainted, or simply wake someone who is sleeping, we call them by their name. Pretty compelling logic for Hebrew baby naming.

This week’s Torah portion begins with the words “And these are the names (shemot) of the sons of Israel who came to Egypt … Reuven, Shimon …” The Torah mentions the names of the Tribes because they played a pivotal role in the eventual redemption from Egyptian exile. The Midrash says that the Jews merited redemption from Egypt because they didn’t adopt the culture of their host nation. They never changed their Jewish names; they continued speaking in the Holy Tongue; and they maintained their distinctively Jewish garb. “Reuven and Shimon went down [to Egypt], Reuven and Shimon left [Egypt], for they did not change their names.” (Midrash Rabba 32,8) Interestingly, the entire Book of Exodus, which discusses the redemption and all that followed, is called Shemot, “The Book of Names.”

The Talmud states that the great sage Rabbi Meir would look at a person’s name in order to understand that person’s essence. Our very name speaks of our essence. In light of this, it’s no wonder why so many people name their children after righteous biblical men and women. At our core, all parents want to help their children reveal the essence of their souls. The names we choose for our children set the tone for who they will become. It’s fascinating that the Talmud goes on to say that a parent’s choice of a name constitutes a “minor prophecy” (a whopping 1/16^th of prophesy!). Being a little shy on prophetic vision myself, I am thrilled to know that G-d spoke through my husband and me, just a bit, as we named our sweet babies.

I will try to remember that the next time I yell across the house to one of my kids … I will remember that G-d whispered to us, and call for them with the all the love that and honor that they deserve.

Choosing your child’s name is a big deal. Given the spiritual punch that a Jewish name packs, parents can sometimes feel a bit overwhelmed by the thousands of options for Jewish baby names. Here are some ideas to help demystify the process a bit:

Keeping Ashkenazi custom. Many folks, especially of the Ashkenazi variety, keep the custom of naming after departed loved ones. This is a wonderful way to keep memories alive and instill the beautiful character traits that the child’s ancestors embodied. Just make sure you and your spouse are on the same page when Bubby leans over the table in your ninth month and whispers, “You know, no one in the family has named after my dear grandmother Fruma Shaindel Chaya-Hinda Ziesel Miriam yet …”

Keeping Sephardic custom. Sephardic Jews often name after living relatives. Sometimes they even double up on their first and last names, as in “David David.” If that’s your custom – groovy groovy.

Living with the times. Sometimes the circumstances surrounding the pregnancy and birth play a big role in the naming of a child. The weekly Torah portion or a Jewish holiday may be a factor in finding your baby’s Jewish name. So stay present and tuned in to what’s happening around you; you may just find your baby’s name hiding inside a verse.

Being authentic rather than original. What sounds cool and hip for your baby today may sound outdated and bizarre a few decades from now. Don’t forget, you’re not just naming a baby; you’re also naming a teenager, a parent, and G-d willing, a great-grandparent many times over. Keep your eye on the long play, and find a name that your child can feel good about living with forever.

Customarily a Jewish name is one that is found somewhere in the Written or the Oral Torah. However a Hebrew baby name is not limited to conventional biblical figures alone. If you’re giving your child a Hebrew name, then go for it and use it!

Here are some popular Hebrew names used in Israel today (all of these words appear somewhere in Tan’ach):

Biblical Names:

Boys: Aaron (the high priest) Amitay (name of the father of Jonah, the prophet), Amnon (flower, pansy), Amram (lofty nation), Barak (lightning), Ari (baby lion) Avi (my father), Avraham (father), Avshalom (the father of peace), Adam (man), Daniel (God is my judge), David (my beloved), Gideon (Judge), Eldad (love of God), Elchanan (God is gracious), Ethan (Strong, firm, impetuous), Ezra (helper, support), Issac (He will laugh), Noah (comfort), Shlomo (God’s peace), Yaakov (held by the heel) , Yoseph (He will enlarge), Reuven (Behold, A Son), Levi (attached), Rafi (holding high), Yoni (Gift of God), Zvi (Deer), Eli (Ascend; My god), Gabbi (Hero of God), Jonathan (gift of God), Joshua (God rescues), Matti (gift of God), Menachem (comforter), Michael (messenger of God), Uri (my light)

Girls: Abigail (my father rejoices), Bat-Sheva (Daughter of an oath), Carmela (Garden; orchard; vineyard), Elah (oak tree), Esther (Star), Eve (life giver), Deborah (bee), Dinah (judgment), Hannah (favored; grace), Leah (weary; tired), Rachel (little lamb; daughter), Naomi (Loveable; my delight), Rebecca (Captivating; beautiful), Sarah (princess), Sharon (A plain; flat pasture), Ruth (friend), Gabby (Hero of God)

Nature names:

Boys: Tzvi (deer), Aryeh (lion), Alon (oak tree), Aviv (spring)

Girls: Nitzah (flower bud), Ayala (deer), Hadas (myrtle branch), Ela (a type of tree)

Concepts in Torah:

Boys: Matan (gift), Baruch (blessing), Shalom (peace), Tzion (Zion), Zohar (radiance – boy or girl)

Girls: Tiferet (harmony), Geula (redemption), Atara (crown), Tikvah (hope), Menucha (comfort),

Bringing in G-d’s name:

Boys: Zachariah (G-d remembers), Ovadiah (G-d’s servent), Neria ( G-d’s candle – boy or girl), Girls: Hodaya (G-d’s praise), Talya (G-d’s dew), Batya/Bitya (G-d’s daughter),

Rooted to The Land:

Boys: Golan, Eitamar (a yishuv in Israel and the name of Aron’s son), Gilad, Elkana (also the name of the prophetess Chana’s father)

Girls: Kinneret, Efrat, Moriah, Eden (garden of Eden), For a guide to more Jewish baby names click here.

Mazal tov to all you new parents out there … let the prophesy begin.

This past week I was asked to participate in a Jewish meditation seminar. As appealing as it was to spend Shabbat in the hills of the Galilee—where fresh, healthy salads and sprouted grains abound—the thought of sitting still and spending that much private, quiet time with just me and G-d made me downright anxious. I have no problem breaking a sweat for G-d, but hours of stillness with an emphasis on being as opposed to doing is a tall order for me.

My misgivings about the weekend inspired me to look inward into why I tend to get so fidgety in the sound of silence. I’ve always been a “go-hard-or-go-home” kind of gal. This attitude serves me well during aerobics classes and my family’s early morning shuffle (getting five kids fed, dressed, and school-ready by 7 A.M. is quite a workout), but this hard-hitting attitude tends to cramp my style during the lower-impact moments of life. When it comes to childbirth or carrying heavy loads, I’m pretty strong. When dealing with such mortal subjects as medical emergencies or loss, I’m pretty tough. But as far as being still and tranquil of mind for long stretches of time … not so much.

It’s not that I fear intimacy with myself or with G-d; in fact, I’m rather fond of the both of us. It’s just that too much quiet invariably leads me to think about the things I cannot control, and when I feel out of control, I move around a lot—I fidget, I talk, I clean. I guess my desire for activity is wrapped up in my desire to feel important, but regardless of the egocentric root of my aversion to sitting on the floor and “shal-om-ing” in unison, it is simply not the way I roll.

As a Jewish mother, an abundance of mitzvot keeps my life busy and abuzz inside and outside my home. I am important to a lot of people. I have skinned knees to bandage, wounded prides to boost, challahs to bake, and carpools to drive. There is always someone who needs a home cooked meal, a friendly visit, or help getting his or her proverbial dreidel to spin. My approach to the tasks of my day, both the holy and the mundane, is much like my approach to an aerobics class—I hit it hard and thrive on an upbeat tempo.

While discussing my stillness dilemma with a friend, I began to doubt myself and question whether I am too amped up. Maybe I would be better off, a better person, if I was a patchouli-smelling woman who dressed in white, drank herbal tea grown in my garden, and radiated inner calm. My girlfriend laughed and reminded me of a wonderful story told by the great sage Rabbi Zusha from Anipoli. He once told his students this: “When I ascend to Heaven and I am asked ‘Why weren’t you like Abraham our forefather?’ I will answer, ‘Because I wasn’t Abraham.’ If I am inquired, ‘Why didn’t you match the greatness of Moses?’ I can answer that I wasn’t Moses. Even if I am compared to my holy brother Reb Elimelech, I can still say that I wasn’t Elimelech. But if I am asked why I wasn’t I the best Zusha I could be … to that I will have no answer.”

I am certainly no Reb Zusha, but I don’t need to be anyone other than the person G-d created me to be. I am a high-energy, high-powered Jewish woman who does my best to give it up to G-d whenever possible, even when it means addressing the uncomfortable reality that I am not in control at all. I am also a work in progress. Every day I get to know more about who I am and where my strengths lie. I am a person who is more comfortable with motion than I am with stillness. When I tap into that energy and harness it toward the areas it needs to go, I am exactly who I need to be.

Yes, I have areas in my spiritual and corporeal life that could benefit from some lower-impact performance, but at the end of the day, I am who I am. And as long as I make time to slow down enough to be present for the ones who need me the most, for now I’m just fine marching to the beat of a faster-paced drummer.