Atone of Voice (and Deed)

A Christian friend asked me recently why, if we Jews know our slates will be wiped clean on Yom Kippur, nobody has ever invited him to get in on the action. A reasonable question, I suppose.

Naturally, my first instinct was to get defensive. I get defensive when somebody asks me what time it is. Not wanting him to think I would ever try to keep the secret to everlasting life to myself, I explained to him that I don't really believe slates are wiped clean on Yom Kippur, as if by some heavenly "delete" key. "It's the day of atonement," I told him, "not absolution."

"But what about the people who really do believe?" His religious convictions are so powerful he considers his beliefs to be knowledge, unassailable fact. We've had this argument many times; he will never accept my position, that beliefs are a matter of opinion. I envy his certainty.

Synagogue sanctuaries burst at the seams on the High Holidays, and even the most secular Jews believe strongly enough in the power of God to seal their fate for another year to fast on Yom Kippur. The promise of forgiveness is worth even the price of admission to temple that day, which is steep. If I were terminally ill and somebody charged me an arm and a leg for some alleged (but as yet unproven) miracle cure, I'd be reaching into my wallet faster than you can say chopped herring on a bagel. (I may not make it to the Book of Life, but I always make it to the "break fast.") I'm a cynic but I'm not a complete idiot.

For me, it's more about hope than belief. And though I may possess way more than a scintilla of doubt about the whole story, there's a piece of me that thinks it couldn't hurt. I know that good people who have fasted and apologized up the wazoo die every year while unreformed sinners live on, but it's only human to try to increase your odds.

I don't fast, I don't recite Hebrew prayers all day, and I rarely even go to temple any more. But I reflect -- a lot -- and I make lots of mental lists of my sins -- real, imagined, or even unimagined. And I silently apologize to God -- wherever she is -- and sometimes I even repent out loud to folks I believe I have offended. Whatever the case may be, I know full well that the sincerity of an apology can only be measured by the behavior that follows, and as arduous as a day spent in temple while on the verge of starvation might be, the real work lies ahead.

When I see my Christian friend today, I will not invite him to temple (that would be like inviting him to a stranger's house). But I will share with him my own secret to, if not life everlasting, a life that feels more right. Acknowledging sins, reflecting, and apologizing are positive steps. And if your intentions are good, you can at least let yourself off the hook, even if God or the folks you've offended don't.

Which is, as they say, not chopped liver.

A Love Well Earned

I moved the miniature pewter vase out of the way so I could get a better look at the picture.

“That’s Stanley,” Elaine announced from across the bedroom. I like Elaine a lot. It was unlike her to point out the obvious, that the handsome man in a tuxedo standing next to her in the picture was Stanley, her late husband.

I gave her a watered down version of the exasperated look I generally reserve for my mother. “Yes, I know.”

“No, that’s Stanley,” she said, pointing toward the picture. “And that’s Stanley,” she said, pointing toward the large pewter vase tucked into the shelf on her nightstand. Funny, it looked exactly like the one I had moved to get a better look at the picture.

Urns. Two urns. Filled with Stanley’s ashes. How fun! I couldn’t wait to see my mother’s reaction. (She was in the room with us, but she can’t hear a thing.) I pointed to the large urn on the nightstand and tried to be as deliberate as possible as I mouthed the information. “Stan-ley’s-ash-es-are-in-there!”  She looked horrified. I was delighted.

I had always liked Elaine; now I was simply in awe. She had just sold her house in New Jersey and was showing us her new apartment in Manhattan. It was a daunting move for a woman in her eighties, even one as lively as Elaine. But she was not alone. She had brought her dead husband with her. A little creepy, maybe, but it seemed to make so much sense.

There were so many questions I wanted to ask, like which part of Stanley is in the tiny urn, but I settled on “why two?” Elaine explained that the large urn by the bed, the one containing the bulk of Stanley, was there for bedtime chats. A bit one-sided, I would imagine, but chats involving Stanley and Elaine were always a bit one-sided. I remember marveling at how quiet he was compared to his entertaining wife. Once, I told him I thought she was awesome. “She is the best,” he said, gazing at her with the kind of love in his eyes I had thought only existed in fairy tales.

Elaine explained that the little one traveled with her. Not everywhere but on big trips, so Stanley could always be by her side. Or at least in her purse. They had planned it this way. Ultimately, their ashes would be scattered together, maybe into the ocean from the deck of one of their favorite cruise ships. But as long as one was alive, they would continue to travel, together. And if Elaine went first and Stanley ended up on a cruise with another woman, he was to cast her ashes off the deck into the wind so they would blow into the bitch’s eyes.

It’s a great love story, the story of the two urns. It’s about two well-heeled people who had all the trappings of a great life but had all they needed just by being together. There was no funeral for Stanley. No speeches, no tearful tributes, no chapels packed with people wearing black and not knowing what to say. Just a quiet ride back home with his wife.

Stanley stayed in the apartment while Elaine, my mom, and I went out to dinner. Walking to the car, Elaine confided that she wished Stanley could have been with her to enjoy her new city life. No doubt she went home and told Stanley the same thing.

And, no doubt, he listened to her intently and didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. That’s Stanley.

Passage of Rites

The Jewish holidays are upon us, a bit early this year, but, as always, I am prepared to break with old traditions and create a few new ones.

I began bending the rules last night, showing up at my house while some potential buyers were taking a third look at my house. The broker struck up a conversation with me. He wanted to know what my older children were up to, and he lit up when I told him my son was in Japan. Ah, the Asia connection. He is from Shanghai, as are his clients, the young family still kicking all the tires in my house. Though he has never been to Japan and I have never been to Shanghai, we managed to find some common ground. Neither one of us speaks Japanese, and we both agree that Tokyo is very expensive. I feel very close to him now. Maybe he will put in a good word for my house.

Temple is not on my agenda this year, but I'm okay with that. As long as I connect, somehow, with being Jewish, I feel as if I am celebrating the holidays. We all need to connect with our heritage, even on ordinary days. The young mom from Shanghai looked hopeful last night when she asked me if my neighbors were Asian. She explained she thought they might be because they seem to enjoy gardening. They are not Asian. Her disappointment was obvious.

I spent this morning making deep spiritual connections with the handful of Jews who had snuck into Starbucks while the others are putting on dark suits for temple. We talked of blintzes and tsimmes and cholent and gribenes and schmaltz and our grandmothers' homemade chopped liver. Beats the crap out of listening to a long winded sermon. The other day, I found myself elbow deep in sticky challah dough, helping my friend whip up a few loaves. You haven't lived until you've tasted homemade challah. (You also gain an appreciation for the upper body strength of an old fashioned bubbe.) My daughter and I polished off half of it last night before we went to a restaurant for dinner. We felt satisfied that we had connected with our Jewishness. At the restaurant, she had capellini, I had tilapia, but the folks at the next table were eating matzoh ball soup. Again, we felt satisfied. We had connected with Jews. The holiday spirit was intact.

Some traditions remain unbroken. Tonight, I will have dinner at the home of good friends who, for years, have adopted my family for the holidays. I know exactly what I will eat, from the gefilte fish through dessert. As always, some of the usual guests will be absent. This year, my children are dispersed to various continents, but they'll all be with me at dinner, at least in spirit. They always are.

Hey, it wouldn't be a holiday without some breaks with tradition. As long as nobody takes away the brisket, I'll be all right.