On Hope, On Prayer, On Love

It was after the nighttime service, under the stars. It was after the challah was made in circular design. It was after the apples were dipped in honey and the lamb was eaten. It was after family had come, and laughed, and drank, and left. It was after arming my college junior daughter with a sack full of leftovers and telling her goodbye with a hug. It was after the dishes in the sink were reduced to a manageable size.

It was late, late at night when I walked into the darkness of the evening, under the stars of the heavens above to fetch the cars parked blocks away, well after midnight that I found a small moment to reflect.

Hope. Renewal.

This year is harder than most to collect my thoughts. It feels like I'm living in a foreign land, one where kindness and care -- the values I hold most closely to-- are not only ignored, but actively disdained. I have struggled at times to keep up with my own sense of self, to maintain my path in this world that is so tied to service unto others. There are days I can't help but lay down and cry. Times when I know I should be stronger than I am and be more able to rest my soul and bring my peace to this cruel cruel world. But so often this year I have struggled.

And during this night, I laughed and drank and ate and recited the Shehecheyanu (for the first time from memory, without needing the text before me) and I found myself in a place of deep, deep inner contemplation.

This is community. This is family and friends coming together to peer into the future with a glimmer of hope. This group of individuals who are tied by history and tradition to the Torah, to the long and winding history from our creation in the image of God to the present where we struggle to live up to that gift. Where we can look with that hope past this moment that we know is so far from the perfection it could be. We look at the world with a vague but unending desire to see it as we wish it could be.

This is a moment where we grasp at the light visible far off in the distance and cling together knowing that our very gathering is testament to this hope. And we are not alone in that optimism. We share it together.

~~~

Alveinu Malkeinu (Our Father, Our King) is the first prayer in Judaism that I learned the tune for, the first one that reached into me and touched me. As is the tradition, it is sung on this High Holiday. I've been reading a book about this prayer, a collection of essays that dissect the words and the meaning, the history and the power of this prayer. Beyond just the beauty of the tune, beyond the power of a choir singing the beautiful words with that faint echo that speaks to infinity, there is a certain beautiful magic to it.

This prayer started as a spontaneous cry out to God. In what seemed a never ending drought, a rabbi went to the fields, and speaking from his heart, asked God for help.

And the rains came.

The stories go that there was only a verse or two in the beginning, but that this prayer, having been heard and answered by God, was one worth remembering and repeating over the years.

Our Father, Our King, hear our voice.

Our Father, Our King, we have sinned before you.

Our Father, Our King, Have compassion upon us.

And upon our children.

And there are dozens of other verses, dozens of other words. But these are the ones that speak to me.

And here's the thing. As I learn, as I continue to dive deep, I remember that it is not upon God to intercede for us. It is upon us to live up to the creation that was made. To be part of that inherent goodness.

So what does it mean in that context? When we call out to Our Father, Our King? What does it call us to do?

It calls us to remember we are fallible. It calls us to look that failure in the eyes and seek within us His presence that allows us to respond with compassion. It calls us to remember the children.

It calls us to remember the children.

In the new year we enter the darkness of the unknown, but we do so with this prayer of hope.

~~~

Whitney Houston was a favorite of mine as a child. For whatever reason, despite my inability to carry a tune, I couldn't help but belt out the Greatest Love of All every time I heard it. As a kid it was a promise to myself. I believed that children were the future. Afterall, I was a child myself. I knew some day I would grow up, and the possibilities of what I could do, what I could accomplish was infinite. I found myself gravitating with this positive hopeful notion to this idea of being self-reliant and strong for myself. The meaning of this song was one thing when I was a kid. It's another thing entirely now. All the sadness comes through now, all the trials and tribulations in life that force one into that place of only trusting yourself. And yet, now it's even more powerful.

Because I now know the kind of pain and sadness that is hidden in these lyrics, and the loneliness that says you can only rely on yourself. But I also know that I can find within myself this great love, the greatest love of all, deep inside of me. That it exists in there.

And that this love, this ability to love myself, well, it allows me to have these moments around a table with my kids and know that the future is indeed bright.

~~~

My daughter is applying for college and wrote her common essay about being resilient and strong in the face of adversity. Of steeling herself against the world. Of feeling compelled to always keep her composure and to succeed. It is a stunning essay, something that is powerful and meaningful and intense and emotional for a Dad to read.

Her moment of realization is that this trait is both a gift and a curse. She contemplates a future where she is lonely and alone and braving the world and instead chooses to surround herself with community that will support her, one that is collaborative and kind. Take the best of this go-get-em attitude and let a strong group of friends and supporters keep her from feeling alone in it all.

She basically says "I need a tribe" because going it alone is hard work.

I wish I had the wherewithal to have recognized this earlier. I wish I was able to see, like my daughter does, that we all need to be in community to survive and excel in this world. I can look at her and see a brighter light in the distance. I can see that there is hope.

~~~

So this Rosh Hashanah feels a little like my own personal Avinu Malkeinu. And it also feels a little bit Whitney as well.

It is my cry out for help. It is my reminder that this help is within me, within us, all the time.

This year is hard. It's scary. It's desperately trying to bring me down. It's isolating and it's horrifying on so many levels. It's easy to get caught up in all the hate. And yet. and yet. There is hope.

There is always hope.