They kept telling me that once we got through the terrible summer, the “summer of yuck” as we called it, that I would find light, happiness and health. They tried to reassure me, as we checked each week of chemo off the calendar, that I was one step closer to relief, to a happy ending, to life after cancer. They promised – everyone promised – that I’d feel better, that I’d resume work and parenting and everything in between, and that I’d be able to put cancer far behind me and move on.
As part of a ritual we created to say farewell to our foster daughter, Dafna, below is the story of my family's history of fostering across the generations, from escaping the Nazis to offering shelter to teenagers fleeing Vietnam. We read this during the goodbye ceremony.
Photo by Nomad Nirvana Photography
Jews on college campuses across the continent are forming independent groups they call Judaism on Our Own Terms. The impetus is often constraints by institutions about what topics can be discussed and who counts as a Jew.
On a recent Saturday evening, I found myself in a small artsy theater in downtown Seattle for the debut of an original animated film. When the film ended, the young filmmaker, Frieda, was greeted with thunderous applause. Afterward, she joined me on stage for a Director’s Q&A session, where I interviewed her about both the content and the making of her movie. The topic of the film? Parashat Beshalakh.
