A yeshiva outgrew its downtown quarters and moved to the former site of an upstate boys\’ academy. Finding a boathouse on the property, the Rosh Yeshiva called in one of the rabbis and ordered him to organize a rowing team.
My neighbors completed an around-the-world trip. It was their dream, the trip of a lifetime. When we gathered to welcome them home, they eagerly described the journey\’s highlights — the Sheraton in Bangkok, the Kentucky Fried Chicken in Beijing, a Clint Eastwood film in a Calcutta theater, Budweiser in Holland and Kellogg\’s Corn Flakes in Great Britain.
I learned most of my theology not from my teachers but from my children. When my daughter, Nessa, was 3 years old, we had a routine. Each night, I would tuck her into bed, sing our bedtime prayers, kiss her good night and attempt to sneak out of the room. Halfway down the hall, she began to scream, \”Abba!\” An avid reader of Parents magazine, the Torah of parenting, I knew what to do: I walked back to the child\’s room and turned on every light. I looked under the bed. \”No alligator, Nessa.\” I checked the closet. \”No monsters, Nessa.\” I surveyed the ceiling. \”No spiders, Nessa. Now go to bed. Tomorrow is coming, and you\’ve got to get to sleep,\” I\’d say. \”Everything is safe. Good night.\” \”OK, Abba,\” she said, \”but leave the light on.\”
Because of our sins were we exiled from our land, and displaced far from our soil.\”
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