My Hero, the Rabbanit Bracha Kapach

November 27, 2013

One of the world’s Great Souls went to her eternal reward this week.  Her death will receive some coverage in the Israeli media and the religious press, but from my perspective, when a Giant is gone, the world should stop for a moment. Perhaps if she were a CEO, or a general, or a politician, her death would receive more recognition, but make no mistake: The Rabbanit Kapach was a giant of the human spirit.

Her name was Bracha Kapach, but everyone called her The Rabbanit.  (“Rabbanit” is the Hebrew form of the Yiddish “Rebbetzin,” a rabbi’s wife.)  Her husband, Rav Yosef Kapach, was the one of the foremost scholars of Maimonides in the 20th Century and the gadol ha-dor (the great leader of his generation) for the Jews of Yemen.[1]  Every aspect of her early life is remarkable:  married at 11 in order to rescue young Yosef from conscription into the Yemenite army; a mother at 14; arriving in the State of Israel with other Yemenite Jews in what was dubbed “Operation Magic Carpet” in the 1949-50.[2]

Both the Rav Kapach and the Rabbanit were recipients of the Israel Prize, the highest award that the State of Israel bestows upon citizens who make extraordinary contributions to the nation.  They were the only husband-and-wife who both received the award – in completely separate realms for distinct and different contributions to the Jewish people. 

What made her great?  She was the living embodiment of the principles of Tzedakah and Chesed. But that sounds feeble: We often eulogize people with words like those. I mean that sentence absolutely literally:  More than any human being I’ve ever met, her essence was in giving to people in need and caring for people who were hurting.  I’ll explain.

Like most of the Great People whom I’ve met in my life, I was introduced to her by Danny Siegel.  She lived in the heart of Jerusalem, in the neighborhood called “Shaarei Chesed” (“the Gates of Lovingkindness”). Years ago (I met her in 1992) you could get in a taxi and say, “12 Lod Street” and the driver would say, “Are you going to see the Rabbanit?”  And he might then launch into a story of how she had saved or restored the dignity of his cousin, or his brother-in-law, or himself.

For many, she was known as the Wedding Dress Lady – and that’s the context in which I first met her.  Jews from around the world would bring her donated wedding dresses, which she would give to poor brides.  That would be the tip of the iceberg:  she would create entire weddings for brides and grooms who had nothing at all; she would provide the dress, the food, the musicians, and sometimes even the guests.  I was privileged to be a guest a half-dozen times over the years at her weddings for needy brides; there is a special uplift in the soul to be part of this particular Mitzvah.

Then there was the Passover food project.  She and her small cadre of loyal volunteers – mostly elderly Yemenite women from the community, and a bunch of hangers-on like myself – would distribute thousands of Passover food packages to people who otherwise wouldn’t have had a holiday.  In these packages were matzah, wine, sugar, eggs, honey, fruit, and a half-dozen other materials to ensure that the Festival of Freedom could be celebrated with dignity and joy.  When the distribution took place, there would be a patient line of people snaking up Shefaram Street.

In 1993 I had an astounding privilege:  not only to volunteer with the food distribution, but to spend the afternoon with the Rabbanit making food deliveries to homebound people all around Jerusalem.  Throughout that day – it was, in reflection, one of the most important days of my life – I watched her in action.  She knew everyone by name.  She uttered blessings for every person to whom we delivered food.  Before we would enter an alley in Nachla’ot, she would take me by the arm and, with tears in her eyes, tell me, “This is a very sad story…”  My G-d, it seemed like she personally knew every sad, broken, hurting person in Jerusalem.

There were too many poor children in Jerusalem just hanging out on the streets of Jerusalem in the summer when school was out.  So she started a summer camp for them, hundreds of them, that did (and still does) everything that summer camps should do:  sports, activities, hiking adventures, trips to the beach and to water parks.  (My son Jeremy still sleeps in an oversized t-shirt that says, in Hebrew, “The Nachla’ot Summer Camp of the Rabbanit Kapach.”)

Where did the money come from?  “Hashem Ya’azor,” she’d say, “G-d will help.”  And somehow, the money always arrived and the books always balanced – even as the Passover food project grew to thousands and thousands of people (Jerusalem is, disgracefully, the poorest city in Israel). 

You’d sit in her living room, for a moment of juice and cookies and just wanting to be with her to hear her stories.  But you wouldn’t get too far:  The phone would ring every other minute, and in alternating minutes there would be a knock on the door.  People with nowhere else to go knew they could come to her for support to get through the week.  Or visitors were coming to bring her money to distribute, just to be part of the amazing and pure network of Mitzvahs that she created.  No cynicism, no bureaucracy – and no naivete, either:  She knew there were people who might try to take advantage of her, and she wouldn’t have it.  I did, at times, see her turn people away (and I know it pained her).

I also saw, on occasion, a sly sense of humor.  She had a magic in her eye that sad she was no one’s fool, but that it was useful for her to be perceived as genteel and naïve.  I know she knew more English than she let on, but she liked to force people  to speak Hebrew in her presence.  One time I was saying goodbye to her (because it seems like whenever I’m in Israel, I’m always leaving), and she gave me a grin and a told me to follow her into an adjacent room.  She had something she wanted to give me, a volume of the Rav’s commentary on Maimonides.  She pulled some sheets and fabrics aside, looking for the book… and accidentally uncovered the small, confidential television that was hidden underneath.  (Now, the Rabbanit is an extremely religious woman; women like her do not sit in front the TV.)  “What’s that?!”  I said to her.  She grinned a wicked grin and said, “Well, sometimes I watch the news.”  She was acknowledging it was countercultural and slightly subversive – and she trusted me enough to let me see and share the smile.

When someone does a Mitzvah, it is customary to wish him or her “Yasher Koach” (“more strength to you”) or “Tizkeh l’mitzvot” (“may you merit the chance to do many more Mitzvahs”).  She had a retort if you wished her those things.  “Lo!” (“No!”) she’d say, “Nizkeh l’mitzvot.”  That is to say:  “May we merit the chance to do more Mitzvahs – together.” 

I tell my students she was one of the main teachers in my life.  But sometimes they don’t get it; they say, “Oh, what class did she teach?”  No – I mean the essence of teaching; a life’s teacher.  The sort of person who when you leave her presence, you say, “I wish I didn’t have to leave; I have so much more to learn just be being near her and watching her conduct her life.” I’d leave her thinking, this is what I’m supposed to be doing; what we’re all supposed to be doing: Mitzvahs. We’re supposed to be occupying our time feeding hungry people, taking care of children who are alone, bringing joy to needy brides, comforting those who are hurting, etc., etc.  Why do we have to spend so much time in life with tangential, unimportant things?  Mitzvahs:  These are what living is all about. 

Of course, I’d leave her, and after a while those feelings would dissipate.  And I’d want to write to her, or visit her on my next trip to Israel, just to get that inspiration again.  Now where are we supposed to go for that?

Since it’s Erev Chanukah, it’s tempting to link her life to the message of the Season of Light.  But it’s also the week when we read the section of the Torah about Joseph in Egypt; namely, how in a time of famine, Joseph fed everyone who was in need.  Joseph the Tzaddik, our tradition calls him.  My teacher the Rabbanit was a Tzadeket, one of the Righteous Ones:  everyone who was in need in Jerusalem knew her, sought her out, and was fed by her, body and spirit.

She was a Bracha—a true blessing—and the world is dimmer without her.

Zichronah Livracha.  Her memory is a Bracha.  A blessing.

[1] You can read more about Rabbi Kapach in the Encyclopedia Judaica. Sometimes scholarly articles call his last name “Kafih,” or other variant pronunciations, but in my presence they always pronounced their own name “Kapach.”

[2]Her biography is told in a beautiful Hebrew volume “V’zot HaBracha,” and by Danny Siegel in Munbaz II and Other Mitzvah Heroes (1988).

A Hesped for Lou Reed

I have at least three books on my bookshelf about "Jews in Rock." None of those books are great, but each seems to have an agenda to prove: that you can be cool, young, and Jewish, and that some Jews have been at the epicenter of everything fundamentally cool in the second half of the 20th Century. From my perspective, there's something a little desperate about that; after all, what's more uncool than trying to show how cool you are?

Lou Reed, who died last week, never had to establish his credentials in that department; he was often the coolest guy in the room. He started his writing career as the disciple of the legendary Delmore Schwartz ("In Dreams Begin Responsibilities," one of the greatest short stories in American literature) at Syracuse University, and went on to form the Velvet Underground under the tutelage of Andy Warhol. Suffice to say that the VU influenced just about every underground and punk rock band of the past forty years, even while they never particularly sold all that many records (and what could be cooler than that?).

In the 70s and 80s, Lou Reed was one of those cultural figures who seem important even though they are never overwhelmingly popular. Like many of my favorites, he had an ornery streak and thrived on confrontation with his fans; like Dylan, when you thought you could pigeonhole him as one thing, he bucked and came back as something different. With the album Transformer—the closest thing he ever had to a hit—he brought gay consciousness into the mainstream when it was still a cultural stigma. I mean, in 1972 "Walk on the Wild Side," was a top 40 hit, with the lyric "shaved her legs and then he was a she." How in the world did that happen? When I was a teenager, those sorts of gestures meant something: they implied that the world out there was a whole lot funkier than a stifling public high school in the suburbs would indicate. (And I wasn't even gay. For some, those gestures were positively liberating.)

But this is a Jewish blog, and author Steven Lee Beeber called Lou "the zeyde of punk." So is Lou Reed a Jewish rock star or a rock star who happened to be Jewish?

Certainly there is a Jewish trope in his biographical arc: growing up in the middle class suburbs of Long Island; heading off to Syracuse where he discovered new intellectual horizons; making a home in the avant garde scene of downtown New York and shedding the suburbs as much as he could; continuing to run away from his roots by embracing every outrageous image he could throughout the seventies. Then cleaning up, getting sober, and starting to revisit some Jewish themes in his writing. In "Good Evening Mr. Waldheim," from 1989's album New York, he called out Waldheim, Arafat, and Farrakhan for their anti-Semitism and maintained the rest of media were hypocrites when it came to anti-Jewish bigotry: "If I ran for president," he wrote in verse to Jesse Jackson, "and once was a member of the Klan/ wouldn't you call me on it / the way I call you on Farrakhan?"

He appeared in Israel on a handful of occasions, which also is a valuable gesture. In a world where pop figures occasionally buckle to racist boycott and divestment groups, Lou had no problem playing in Israel, which makes him in my book a figure of much greater integrity and honor than the likes of Elvis Costello or Roger Waters.

He certainly didn't show the biblical or Jewish literacy of, say, Dylan. But there is an outrageous scene in Beeber's book of Lou Reed reciting the Four Questions at a hipster "Downtown Seder" and in a heartfelt, not ironic, way.

For me, his most moving album was the follow-up to New York called Magic and Loss. It's a full-length meditation on the death of two friends (legendary songwriter Doc Pomus and Warhol Factory diva Rotten Rita). It follows the mourner through the stages of denial, melancholy, rage against the cosmos, and ultimately, a completely unsentimental sort of transcendence. In my 5th year of rabbinical school, I presented in class the climax song "Magic and Loss," as a valuable text for grappling with death and mourning. Here's part of that song; it is one exquisite hesped.

They say no one person can do it all But you want to in your head
But you can't be Shakespeare
and you can't be Joyce
So what is left instead

You're stuck with yourself
and a rage that can hurt you
You have to start at the beginning again
And just this moment this wonderful fire
Started up again ....

When the past makes you laugh
and you can savor the magic
That let you survive your own war
You find that that fire is passion
And there's a door up ahead not a wall  

As you pass through fire as you pass through fire
Try to remember its name
When you pass through fire licking at your lips
You cannot remain the same
And if the building's burning move towards that door
But don't put the flames out
There's a bit of magic in everything
And then some loss to even things out

'Bye Lou, and thanks for those words. Hope you're slugging it out with Lester Bangs in the olam ha-ba even as we speak.

Marriage Isn't Sacred

Holy Moly! The Supreme Court's smackdown of the so-called Defense of Marriage Act is so very sweet, because it reminds us that sometimes love wins the day. I support marriage equality because it is right, it is just, and it is overdue. 

I also support it because it is American. After all, marriage isn't sacred. 

Let me explain. As a rabbi, I officiate at many weddings and every one of them fills me with awe and delight. Each even gives me a profound sense of G-d's presence. 

So how can I say there is "nothing sacred about marriage"? Of course marriage can and should be sacred. My relationship with my wife is sacred. Sacred, meaning infused with holiness; the very word for marriage in Jewish life is kiddushin, or "a holy relationship." 

When I officiate at a wedding, I actually perform two weddings. One wedding is, to quote the Jewish liturgy, "according to the law of Moses and Israel." It uses the symbolism of centuries of Jewish life: wine, chuppah, ketubah, rings, a smashed glass. It celebrates the Jewish home that this couple will establish. It rejoices in the perpetuation of Jewish life from one generation to the next. And it marks the new family line and the new intimate domain that this couple will share with one another and with no one else (G-d willing). These things conform to my understanding of the sacred. 

However, there is also a second wedding that occurs simultaneously. Before witnesses sign the ketubah, we sign a document issued by the state. This civil marriage license is valid according to the law of the United States of America. And there isn't a thing that is sacred about it because our government shouldn't be in the business of sacredness. The sacred is the realm of religion and the First Amendment to our Constitution protects us from the establishment of official religions. The marriages that the Supreme Court is addressing and the only marriages that the government should be preoccupied with are the civil marriages that occur in the eyes of Uncle Sam, not the laws of (in my case) Moses and the people Israel. 

By "not sacred" I don't mean that civil marriage is not meaningful or profound; of course it is. But from the perspective of our government, marriage should be a relationship that is protected by laws and rights. People who have entered into this legal arrangement with one another are entitled to certain rights and privileges: inheritance, hospital visitation, joint tax returns, veterans' benefits, conflict of interest protections, and 1,133 other rights that heterosexual couples automatically receive when they are wed. None of those rights are inherently Christian. They are secular rights conveyed by our civil system. 

Our society has reached the tipping-point of acknowledging that same-sex marriages are equally entitled to these rights and privileges. All the arguments to the contrary inevitably resort to religious and biblical language but the Bible isn't the law of the land, something for which all Sabbath-violators and cheeseburger-eaters should be grateful. 

Furthermore, despite the hyperbole of the religious right, same-sex marriage is no slippery slope towards permitting every conceivable sort of union. The government retains the right to prohibit any relationship that is inherently abusive, such as incest or polygamy. But no longer can it deny the evidence that is, and has been, perfectly obvious for so long: that same-sex relationships are infused with the same potential for commitment, stability, and love that any straight relationship is capable of. 

That is why same-sex marriage in America is a matter of basic human rights. The astoundingly cynically-named "Defense of Marriage Act" was always a farce, and even its supporters knew it. The sacredness of my marriage was never in need of defending by denying someone else's right to marry. 

If you believe that homosexuality cannot convey sacredness, you have the right to your belief. So does your house of worship, and so does your pastor. America's blessed Bill of Rights will ensure that you never have to enter into a marriage you find morally objectionable, and your clergyperson will never be forced to officiate at such a union against his will. But on Wednesday the Supreme Court affirmed that your pursuit of sacredness does not trump mine or our neighbor's. 

Thank G-d! 

The Black Hole of Antisemitism

May 12, 2013
I hope it’s not too churlish to repost this piece from 2013. Stephen Hawking's contributions to our understanding of the universe entitle him, years from now, to be recalled in the pantheon of Copernicus, Galileo, and Einstein. Deservedly so. And A Brief History of Time continues to impact me as it did when I first read it. But brilliant minds can also be morally flawed, and his blind spot on Israel is a blemish on his public career.

Sad to see that Stephen Hawking has fallen into the black hole of anti-Semitism.

Apparently, Hawking is boycotting an academic conference in Tel Aviv as a vague political statement against the Israeli treatment of the Palestinians. How, exactly, his refusal to come to the Jewish state will improve the lot of the Palestinian people is hard to define. But Hawking, who more than any other physicist of the generation has helped refine Einstein's ideas about relativity, apparently cannot view the complexity of the tragic Israeli-Palestinian situation with any sense of relativity or subtlety. It is simple and narrow: It's all Israel's fault.

Today the Boston Globe chimed in in support of Hawking, in a soporific editorial celebrating his boycott as some sort of victory for non-violent freedom of speech. Well, sure: Hawking and anyone else have the right to refuse any invitation anywhere. But every action has a reaction: a basic principle of physics.

First, Hawking's decision to make a science colloquium a political event is disgraceful, because as he surely knows, this one of the primary loci where modern anti-Semitism is playing itself out, especially in Europe. Israeli scholars in many scientific fields including Nobel laureates are often shunned and banned from scientific forums because of their nationality.

But more importantly, Hawking is on the wrong side. Everyone knows that the world's greatest physicist is even more remarkable because of his devastating disabilities from ALS. It might be self-serving, but where exactly does he think the cure for ALS is going to come from? Gaza? Tehran?

How about this: A January 2013 article from the MDA/ALS Newsmagazine that reports an exciting stem cell therapy for ALS treatment is being accelerated by an Israeli biotech company. It was first pioneered at Hadassah Hospital in Jerusalem, as reported in this article, "Israeli Clinical Study Offers Hope to ALS Patients."

The high-tech miracle that is unfolding in Israel right now includes some of the world's most cutting-edge medical innovations—the sort of scientific discoveries that improve the lives of billions of people, everywhere in the world. Israel's hospitals are noted for treating everybody Jew and Arab alike with some of the most sophisticated medical programs anywhere. Peruse this list of 64 astounding innovations and see the breathtaking research that is coming out of Israeli labs every day:

·      The discovery of a gene responsible for liver disease;
·      Incredible strides towards understanding Parkinson’s Disease;
·      A "robotic exoskeleton" that is literally transitioning people from wheelchairs to         walking, as seen on the TV show Glee!

...to name three revelations at random.

Isn’t it ironic that an intellectual icon like Stephen Hawking would promote a world where these programs are diminished and curtailed, in the name of a superficial and bigoted understanding of a complex political problem? Naïve to say it, I know, but science should be a realm where politics falls by the wayside and the true betterment of all humankind is the prime directive.

Advocates for a two-state SOLUTION to the Israeli-Palestinian dilemma should know better than to stigmatize one side or the other. There are those of good faith out there who genuinely seek to build bridges, promote human rights for all, and to bring real and enduring peace to all the children of the region. These are the people who should be celebrated and promoted and encouraged.

But they’ll have to do their work without the bigoted opinions of the author of A Brief History of Time and certainly without the schmucks on the Globe editorial page.

Death of a Beastie Boy

I was saddened to hear about the death, just before Shabbat, of MCA (Adam Yauch) from the Beastie Boys, because I've always liked their music (there's a band who matured and deepened dramatically over the years) and because MCA always seemed like a righteous guy. 

But his death also prompts a few thoughts about identity. I remember a few years ago there was a news item in the Jerusalem Report about the Beastie Boys' visit to Israel, and how bemused and startled they were when they realized that they had become role models to a generation of Jewish youth. 

They were the real deal, but it makes me think about how in every generation young Jews especially Jewish boys look to other cultures for roots and for escape. We look especially, it seems, towards African-American culture. 

The Beastie Boys were Jewish pioneers in an African-American milieu (hip-hop). That itself is part of a grand history of partnerships between blacks and Jews in American music in blues, R & B, jazz, and funk before the preeminence of rap. And the Beastie Boys stood out because they weren't poseurs; their music was the real deal: complex, exploratory, creative, humorous, righteous, and fun. 

Which is not to say that there should be ghettos of "Jewish music" or that the Beastie Boys didn't have a clear sense of exactly what they were doing. They always seemed to be aware that their work was absolutely authentic and mildly ridiculous at the same time, which is an appealing combination. But all those 80s and 90s Jewish kids in their baggy pants and urban patois didn't generally seem to have the same sense of self-awareness as MCA, Mike D, and Ad-Rock. I got a sense that urban culture for those kids was an escape from the middle- and upper-middle class conformist identities that they had inherited, including a rather tepid form of Judaism. The Beastie Boys became role models because they were recognizably not from the street, but from those similar sorts of Jewish homes; they were cool and undeniably Jewish at the same time. 

If you're like me, you blanch when you have to fill out a biographical form and under "race/ethnic background" your choices are: white/black/Latino/Asian/Aleutian Islander... and you don't know what to check off. Knowing the history of anti-Jewish prejudice, as well as the desire to be something different like all those hip-hop kids, makes it really hard to check off "white." When I'm feeling particularly ornery, I sometimes write in "Jewish" when asked to list my "race." Since when did Jews become "white folks", with all those connotations of bourgeois conformity? (I borrowed the phrase from a study of Jews in America by Karen Brodkin called How Jews Became White Folks and What That Says About Race in America.) 

I happen to think that authentic Judaism is radical, provocative, intellectually rigorous, and potentially dangerous; a far cry from everything that is connoted by the lame term "white." But those of us in Jewish education are still fighting a battle against the mid-century conformist mindset that the Coen Brothers skewered so knowingly in A Serious Man. 

As far as I know, the Beastie Boys never tapped into those Jewish sources to inform their art. Still, there was something very recognizable in their attitude and their music to young Jewish boys, and their desire for something a little... cooler than what they've been handed. The next step, for ourselves and the next generation, is to rediscover that coolness that remains inherent in Judaism. 

Disability

The angel wrenched Jacob’s hip at its socket… The sun rose upon him as he passed Penuel, limping on his hip… Jacob arrived  שָׁלֵם [whole] at the city of Shechem (Genesis 32:26, 32; 33:18).

All of us are damaged in some way; it’s a fundamental part of being human. Also human is the way in which we confront our brokenness; the gracefulness with which accept our imperfections.

My personal disability is rather awkward because it plays itself out so publicly in my life – in the classroom, in meetings (in Buber’s sense of the word), in our sanctuary, and even across a hospital bed. I started losing my hearing a few years ago, at exactly the same age when my father began to lose his. It began to impact my effectiveness in my work. I would get frustrated, angry at myself. I even had a moment of “bottoming out”, to use the language of addiction and recovery, when I sat in the front row for a lecture of which I heard practically nothing. It rocked me deeply.

For a short while I felt sorry for myself. Then I started visiting audiologists and figuring out how I was going to move forward with my problem. Hearing aids have made a difference, although to my chagrin and frustration they have remained “aids” and have never given me 100% of the hearing I’ve desired. This was particularly frustrating, because of all our cherished senses, hearing is especially precious to me. You who know me know that for me listening to music is one of life’s deepest pleasures. The diminishment of that pleasure is a serious heartbreak. 

All of us have fears that awaken us in the middle of the night, when the day’s distractions have dissolved away. Lately mine is the prospect of what my hearing loss will be like when I’m 50, or 60, or beyond. Will I move from “hearing-impaired” to full-fledged deafness? Will I be able to function at my job? Those are real fears I carry in my soul, to some degree of anguish.

But these days those fears don’t slow me down. Quite to the contrary. I’ve become more and more comfortable with saying to students in my classroom, “This is what I’m working to overcome. This is my disability. What’s yours?”

In fact, I find an enormous amount of strength coming forth from our tradition. Personal prayer has become far more intense since I’ve come to grips with my disability. The morning prayers, for instance, contain a remarkable passage that reflects on the body’s delicateness: “You have made the human body filled with tiny holes and orifices… If one of them were opened when it should be closed, or closed when it should be opened, we wouldn’t be able to stand before You for even a moment.” When I reflect that my hearing loss stems from the ossification of the miniscule bones in the inner ear, I share the wonder of the siddur’s poet. It’s a daily miracle how much works so well!

In the Torah, many of our ancestors carried some sort of brokenness. Isaac was blind; so too, perhaps, was Leah. Jacob’s leg was wrenched in his wrestling with the angel; perhaps he limped for the rest of his life. Most famously, Moses stood before G-d at the burning bush and said, in essence, “Why would you choose me to speak before Pharaoh?  After all, my lips…” The Torah is enigmatic about Moses’s shortcoming: Did he stutter?  Did he have a disabled palate? Or was he merely terrified of public speaking? It matters—but not as much as G-d’s response to him, which is, in essence, “I don’t make mistakes. I’ve called you to do a job, to speak truth to the power that is Pharaoh. And if you trust Me, then when the time comes we’ll find the words, together.”

I have no delusions (trust me) of being a Jacob or Moses or Isaac or Leah. But I study their life-stories and try to learn their lessons. Isaac found the words to bless his children. Leah went on to find love and, if you believe the midrash, she also found her sister. Jacob, even with his limp, is still called shalem, “whole” – a poignant reminder that these finite bodies are mere containers for the infinity in our souls. And Moses, G-d’s servant and partner, spoke through damaged lips the words, “Let my people go.” He even found the strength and confidence to lead a people through the wilderness.

I imagine that each of them felt sorry for themselves when they first confronted their disabilities.  Maybe their family and friends supported them in their struggles (maybe they didn’t). But eventually, each of them found a way back to Life; to saying: This is Who I Am. No longer will it hold me back, but I’ll offer myself, anew, in all my brokenness, to do what I was designed to do all along. In faith and tradition and the love of others, I will find my strength.

This is my brokenness. What’s yours?