Thanksgiving

For heat and electricity, for POWER and warmth.

For partners, for service, and for rest.

For solid structures and strong foundations.

For nature, for nurture, and for hope.

For vocations and vacations.

For relief and aid.

For Iron Domes, the power of choice, and for the

     promise of a new tomorrow.

Modim anahnu Lach --We thank you, God, for these

   gifts.

From survival to success to significance

Imagine sitting in a room with several hundred of your "closest friends."
Imagine listening to your preacher deliver one of the most important sermons of the year.
Imagine he begins a sentence with "I look in the mirror and I wonder, 'Am I living a life of significance?'"
And then imagine what comes next.
Just imagine.

Imagine he looks out across a sea of faces and catches your eye for just a second.
"I look in the mirror and I wonder, 'Am I living a life of significance?' Then I think of (insert your name here)..."

I can't tell you exactly what came next. Because I think I stopped breathing. And I definitely stopped blinking. And, for the first time in almost a decade, I finally felt like I wasn't crazy. When Rabbi Avi Weiss said "...Then I think of Ann Lapin,..." I felt like he "got it."

As flattered as I am that Rabbi Weiss spoke about the work that we do with our babies during his "Shabbat Shuvah Discourse" (And, oh.em.gee, I AM.) I was more overcome with a feeling of belonging, with a feeling of, "Yes, YES! THAT'S why I do it! That's why we do what we do! To make a difference. To BE SIGNIFICANT."

Over the next few weeks, Rabbi Weiss traveled to different institutions, delivering similar talks. His speech to S.A.R. was recorded and posted to YouTube. I've had my hands on it for a little while and am only sharing it here now in part because I am, of course, reticent to toot my own horn but also because up until now, I had been focusing on the part where he mentions me. But that's not what's important. What's valuable is that we are part of a community where action is valued. We are part of a community where we care for the other. We are part of a community where significance is taught. And modeled.

I guess I knew that all along. But it took holding onto this video for me to realize that.

Imagine that.

"Make something up!"

We had no idea how our lives would change.  We had no way of knowing how the relationship would form or how, eight years later, we would feel like the rug had been yanked out from under us.

On March 11, 2005, James had a surgery that would change our lives. Everything was OK, thank goodness:  he had no adverse reaction to anesthesia; he was discharged from the hospital in good time. It was nothing medical that changed us, per se. It was the connection we formed with the family on the other end of his surgery.  On March 11, 2005, James donated his kidney. To a perfect stranger. Well, I guess that’s not entirely true. We met. Approximately 45 minutes before surgery. But over the years, we became more like family than like friends. Whatever the “aunt” version of “in loco parentis” was, that was what Shani was to me.

“Ann…I heard you hurt yourself?”

“Um, yeah…I lost my temper and put my hand through a glass window…?”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk…just make something up.”

“Sorry?”

“Make something up! I got so tired of people asking me how I twisted my ankle, once, I started telling people I did it bungee jumping! They’re going to talk, anyway…”

In June of this year, my phone rang. Both of them, actually. I finally checked caller ID and saw that it was a local friend—someone with whom I hadn’t chatted in a while.

“Hi, Ann…I hate to be the bearer of bad news…unless, did someone already reach James?”

                “Shira, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

                “Shani died this morning.”

The string of expletives that left my mouth were certainly more than Shira had bargained for. I called James. I texted him. Finally, in desperation, I called his boss and sobbed that she had to find him for me so I could pick him up and take him to a funeral.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I said when I finally reached him.

“Why?”

“I can’t imagine what you’re feeling right now.”

“Nothing, actually. I don’t feel anything.”

In the eight plus years since James’ surgery, nothing changed. Nothing. Not the procedure, not the recovery, nothing. Except *we* had changed. Our children have parents with THREE kidneys between them. Not four. Forget that. We have CHILDREN.

I had thought about everything before James’ surgery. I assure you I had. All of your ignorant, unsupportive questions (Sorry. I’m still a little bitter.) I had already considered. I grilled the surgeon, I interrogated the nurses. I stalked the nephrologist. And when people asked, “But what if Gavriella needs a kidney?” I confidently answered, “James isn’t her blood type anyway. I am.”

I am.

Yet somehow, I forgot.

Shortly before Shani’s death, she shared with us that she was ill and the search had begun for another kidney. Not one to replace James’, as she said, but one to “help” it. What she didn’t know—what YOU don’t know—is that I had taken the preliminary steps to begin testing for a donor nephrectomy. In plain English, I wanted to donate my kidney, too.

But despite the more than positive experience we had with James’ surgery, with Shani, indeed with her whole family, the fact remains that I am mother to three children. And until they can step forward and donate to each other, I plan to hang on to both of my kidneys.

I’m not sure it’s the right choice, but it is the choice I’ve made.

For now.

For more information on kidney donation, please visit www.HODS.org.

May Shani’s memory forever be a blessing.

"She'll be okay."

"Are they taking her tomorrow?"
"Yes, that's exactly the way it feels."
"I'm sorry, honey. She'll be okay. Do you want to come over in the afternoon?"

I met Melody's parents before today. Twice. The first time they were two hours late to their visit with her. The second time they barely looked up from their phones when I brought her into the room. They don't look anything like me. And I don't mean their skin color. Dad has multiple facial piercings and Mom has arms full of tattoos. And no ring. But they made the decision to take her home after almost two months in my care. So today I brought her back to the agency so they could have her. So they could take her from me.

I walked into the room wondering how much sadder I would be after the "return." How much more will I doubt their ability to parent? Will they be dressed nicely today? Will they pay attention to her?

Am I being racist?
Yes.
No. Classist.
Maybe "just" judgmental.

Melody's beautiful. She smiles and she coos. And I wonder what will happen if she has to "do without" or if she's ignored. Will she stop sounding so happy? Stop looking so pleasant?

Her parents are on time. They seemed happy to see me--to see us. But, God, was I skeptical.

We walked into the room. I've been in that room before. I placed Jibraan into the arms of his biological father in that room--a man who didn't know he had a son until Jibraan was six weeks old. I introduced April to her moms in that room and listened as her forever mother, Rachel, presented April's birth mom with a book of poetry. My eyes filled with tears in that room as Jonathan's father promised his birth mother they would love him and take care of them.

Melody's parents sat down and I leaned over to hand her to one of them. Her father took her from me and, in that moment, there may as well have been no one else in that room. He tucked Melody into the crook of his arm, began to whisper, and she began to coo. She was home.

Can you live on love? I'm not so sure. But at least she would have that. She will definitely have that.

"Do you have any questions for Ann?" asked the social worker.
Melody's parents looked at each other.
"Just...thank you for taking care of her. Thank you...don't start crying now...Okay?"

Okay. She'll be okay.

Home

It's time you know the truth.

Just before Thanksgiving, three years ago, the daughter of friends was diagnosed with Stage 4 cancer. She needed platelets as part of her treatment. As so many in our community, I dutifully clicked on the link provided by my friend and took out my calendar to schedule my platelet donation. For whatever reason I first checked the FAQ’s to ensure that I was, in fact, eligible to donate platelets.

But I was a nursing mother.

And, therefore, ineligible to give platelets.

I considered encouraging Rami to wean. Because, if you’re doing the math, Rami was about two years old and we had enjoyed nursing for a good amount of time. But the little girl’s mom was an avid nurser, herself, and I knew wouldn’t advocate my weaning my son, even to help her own daughter.

 

Rami weaned on his own soon enough and I set out to donate platelets at the end of the month. A Sunday would be most convenient for me, after all, and the next available Sunday would be in three weeks.

Two weeks went by and I got on the scale. And found I had lost all of my “baby weight.” Enviable, right? You’re jealous, aren’t you? 

But I’m only 5’1” and have a fairly petite frame and having “lost all my baby weight” actually meant I didn’t weigh enough. 

Not enough to give blood to help save the life of a stranger and not enough to donate platelets to help the daughter of a friend.

I was crushed.

I considered trying to put the weight back on.

I continued to struggle with how to help this family and the other two families in our community dealing with cancer diagnoses. I signed up to make meals. “No lasagna,” said one vegetarian family. “No sugar,” requested one carnivorous family. “Organic is preferable,” said the third family. So, I ordered pizza and boiled pasta and all but gave up. I would receive an email request to make a meal for one friend in the morning and close it thinking, “I can’t cook!” Then I’d reopen it in the evening, resigned to making just one meal (How hard could it be?!) only to find that now not a single meal was needed for that month.

I felt helpless.

I prayed. I gave charity.

It just wasn’t enough. Not for me, anyway. I wanted to heal the sick. I wanted to wipe away all the pain their families were experiencing. But I couldn’t.

Then I received an email. It was distributed on a community listserv. There was a need for families to act as interim care providers for newborn babies awaiting adoption. It was short-term. Weeks, usually.

That! THAT I can do. I can’t donate platelets or give blood or even cook. But I can take care of newborns. I can feed them, I can bathe them, I can diaper them, I can hold them.

And I do.

As I type, five-week-old Melody is slowly falling asleep on my lap. She will soon join her family in her new home. 

Two friends have had babies in the past month and I haven’t signed up to make a single meal.

We had take-out for dinner, tomorrow’s lunches haven’t been made, and there are dishes piled high in the sink.

But Gavri changes diapers, Sariti gives bottles, Rami has learned to dry newborns’ tears, and James has perfected his technique of eating his meals with an infant sleeping on his knees.

Over the past two years, we have cared for 12 newborns in our home. And now you know why.

Because, “that! THAT, I can do.”

I'm sorry.

Teshuvah...Repentance...I'm sorry.

(Originally delivered in September, 2010 at The Hebrew Institute of Riverdale, The Bayit)

The truth is, if I had to give you my “bucket list,” my list of things to do before I die, saying “I’m sorry” probably wouldn’t be on there.  It’s just not among my priorities.  But, shouldn’t it be?

Professionally, I know two things: Jewish education…and award winning skin care.  Now, although I can offer you a plethora of products designed to help turn back the hands of time, Mary Kay offers very few teachings on repentance.

Thanks to the PJ Library, my children’s bedroom is well-equipped with holiday-related, and other Jewishly themed books.  So nestled amongst the great rebbes: Angelina Ballerina, Arthur and D.W., Fancy Nancy, and Skippyjohn Jones, I found New Year at the Pier, A Rosh haShanah story that takes place just outside one of my former Hebrew schools.  When Rabbi Neil explains that tashlich (the symbolic ritual of casting off one’s sins) “is like cleaning your heart’s closet,” young Izzy reflects on how he and his sister had cleaned their toy closet over the summer, given a lot away, and now it “seems bigger.  Sometimes he just opens the closet to see how clean it is.”  At the end, he enjoys walking home with a “clean, wide-open” heart.

Open our hearts.  It should be easy for us.  At the Bayit, we are asked on a regular basis to open our hearts.  Do we do it?

When I was 15, a young friend of mine was killed in a car accident.  At his funeral, his best friend was quiet.  But the boy who I would call his enemy was beside himself, sobbing.  Ethan and Justin were friends; Ethan was totally at peace with Justin’s death.  Daniel and Justin had fought, bitterly, in the months before Justin’s accident.  There was nothing anyone could do or say to console the 13 year old boy.  He had never apologized, never repented.  And, now, he couldn’t speak the words he had never said.

I once read of a funeral where the rabbi found himself trying to cajole a grieving husband to join the rest of the family and return home to begin Shiva.  Lingering over the grave he said, “You don’t understand Rabbi, I loved my wife.”  “I’m sure you did but you’ve been here a very long time.  You should go now.”  “You don’t understand, I loved my wife.” Again the rabbi urged him to leave.  “But you don’t understand, I loved my wife—and once I almost told her.”

Open our hearts.  Clean, wide-open.  Repent.  Do teshuvah.  Before it’s too late and we’re REALLY sorry.  Say the words you’ve maybe never said.  Say “I’m sorry.”  Two days ago it wasn’t on my bucket list.  Maybe today it should be.

Shanah tovah.

...But I'll gladly care for your newborn baby.

I.

Can’t.

Cook.

I’m not good at it, I don’t enjoy it.
I can’t cook.

Now, my children, my husband, none of us are starving. We’re doing OK. But, when I get an email from TakeThemAMeal.com, I don’t groan inwardly. I whine. Audibly. And then I close my email.

BUT

I belong to the Bayit. And with that elite membership comes an exclusive responsibility. One taught in this space and modeled in the sweetest way.
One member of our clergy has been known to stock up on cereal bars to hand out to the homeless. One has coordinated meals for congregants who had a new baby or a sick child.
One…well…the week Rami was born, I got a call from a telemarketer. I knew it was a telemarketer because the caller i.d. showed a long string of digits. My mother ran to the hallway to listen to the answering machine and I called after her “Ignore it! It’s a telemarketer!” Then the machine picked up...“ohohohsimansimantov, ohohoomazalmazaltov…” “ANN! IT’S NOT A TELEMARKETER! IT’S THE RABBI!! HE’S CALLING FROM ROMANIA!!!”

Our children haven’t learned about those who came before them through yahrzeit plaques on the walls of our sanctuary; rather, they’ve learned to know and love members young and old through the intergenerational services of our spiritual home. Our pulpit doesn’t have ornate chairs to allow our clergy and board members places to sit throughout the service because we have clergy and board members who sit among us, willing to give up their seats to welcome newcomers. We have a membership that ‘s made a name for itself by carrying mattresses and residents down the stairs of a local home during a power outage, for opening our homes to guests of all kinds, for caring for children when their parents are unavailable, for donating platelets, visiting the sick, comforting the mourner, and easing the sometimes difficult first few days of new parents.

I belong to the Bayit. And with that elite membership comes an exclusive responsibility. One taught in this space and modeled in the sweetest way.

So, when I reopen my email at the end of the day, resigned to making one easy meal for that family in need, I am, of course, too late. All the slots have been taken, all the meals provided for. The sign of a lesson learned—a lesson taught by all of you who teach: Kol Yisrael Areivim Zeh LaZeh.—All Israel is responsible one for another. Which is a good thing.
Because I.
Can’t cook.

The folks usually responsible for my Rosh HaShanah meals.