For the Kid with a Gun

Hi,

You don't know me. I'm just some random adult on the internet who is thinking about you today.

I am wondering if you will be inspired by the school shooting yesterday in Highlands Ranch.

I am wondering if you have spent today on the Internet, looking up the details of Columbine, Sandy Hook, Parkland, Arapahoe and imagining yourself with the gun, wandering through the hallways, shooting your fellow students, your teachers, your principal.

I am wondering how the fantasy ends for you -- shot down in a blaze of glory? Wrestled to the ground and walked out in cuffs? Blasting off your own head with your final round?

I am wondering if you go to my child's school.

I am wondering if your parents own handguns or rifles they don't secure properly. And I am wondering if they taught you how to handle them safely as a child and are trusting you to remember those lessons, so you don't shoot yourself or a friend accidentally, tragically.

I am wondering if they every imagined that you would shoot someone on purpose, and that learning how to handle a gun safely wasn't enough.

I am wondering if you have made a plan you're just waiting to carry out. I am wondering if there is a sign or signal you are waiting for.

I am wondering if you have tried to tell your friends and family about your intentions and have they missed the cues.

I am wondering if any of us really know the signs to look for.

I am wondering if there are any signs at all.

I am wondering if you idolize previous mass shooters, see their 'fans' on the Internet and think, I want that for myself.

I am wondering if you walked up to me right now, would I sense anything was off? Would I be able to tell murderous intention from teenage sulky reticence?

I am wondering if you are cruel. I am wondering if you are violent. I am wondering if this will be the first time you injure another human being.

I am wondering whether you're broadcasting your intent on the dark corners of the internet and are people are cheering you on, encouraging you.

I am wondering if your parents know about your struggles and have done everything in their power to help.

I am wondering again if they've locked up their guns.

I am wondering if you understand mortality on more than a superficial level.

I am wondering if we have failed to teach you the value of one human life.

I am wondering if we have failed to teach you how to be kind, and how to accept kindness.

I am wondering if we have simply never said clearly enough that hurting other people is not OK.

I am wondering when you learned, and when you forgot, the lesson about treating others as you would want to be treated.

I am wondering what else on earth could satisfy your blood lust and enable you to solve your problem a different way.

I am wondering if we glamorize villains to our own detriment. I am wondering how many docu-series, documentaries, and 'tortured hero' shows you have watched.

I am wondering if I should have any sympathy for you at all.

I am wondering if you can be stopped.

I am wondering again if you go to my child's school.

Dear Parents (II)

Shalom Religious School Families,

It has been exactly six months since I wrote a very similar letter to you on a somewhat similar Saturday night. Once again, we come out of Shabbat reeling from news of another shooting at a Jewish institution -- this time the Altman Family Chabad Community Center in Poway, California.

Today was not only Shabbat, a day of peace, it was also the final day of Passover, the holiday where we teach our children a story of terrible oppression and a miraculous journey to freedom. We are all wrestling with and trying to process this latest shooting. The early news is that the killer, a 19-year-old male, hated Jews and espoused some of the most harmful and ludicrous conspiracy theories about us.

One person lost her life and at least three people were injured. These congregants had come to synagogue for the exact same reasons we do: to study, to pray, to observe the ending of a holiday, to say Kaddish and observe Yizkor, the Jewish memorial service.

Some have physical wounds to recover from, and we will pray for the complete healing of the victims:
We will mourn the dead.
We will come together as a community to grieve, question, and try to wrap our minds around yet another violent attack on Jews.
We will fight against all forms of anti-Semitism and not shy away because the task is hard. As our sages taught,
      It is not your duty to complete the work.
      Not up to you to finish it.
      But neither are you free to desist from it. (Pirke Avot 2:20,21)

My continuing task is to create a supportive and welcoming Jewish community for you and your children. In that spirit, Religious School will open tomorrow morning as usual at 9:00 am. Please come inside with your children for the all-school shira, which this week includes a special performance by the kids in our PreK/B'resheet program.

Security
... Remind your children that the adults who work at Har Shalom care about their safety. We do this in all sorts of ways: having buildings that lock, having an adult with them at all times, having a security guard onsite, etc. Their teachers will review safety procedures with them -- not to alarm, but to reassure.

A Space for Parents
Please take the time to escort your children into the sanctuary tomorrow and join us for our beginning-of-the-day shira (song) and tefillah (prayer) sessions. We will sing songs of peace and hope, and songs that remind us of our place in healing the world.

After the children are dismissed, we will have time to gather as parents before the community-wide service at 10:00am. We will have an opportunity to draw strength and ideas from one another, and we can discuss how to talk about these events with our children.

Letting the Children Lead
I know not every child will be aware of the attack in Poway, especially the littlest ones. In the classrooms, the teachers will let the children be the guides. There will be space for them to express their feelings and share concerns, and the teachers will be a calm, reassuring presence.

If you have any questions about tomorrow's schedule, security, or just want to let me know something about your children in particular in advance of school, just reply to this email..

You and your children are dear to me, and I look forward to seeing you at school, where we will learn, pray, sing, and study the ways of peace together. May we be strengthened by our kehilah kedosha, our holy community.

B'shalom,

Susan

Haftarah-telling, 5779. Hannah demands some R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

Dear Sarah, Mother of Isaac, Wife of Abraham,

Chana here. It’s our day again – Rosh Hashanah, Take 1. The rabbis must have had something special in mind when they added two of the most famous barren women in the Torah to have their stories told on one of the highest traffic days in the synagogue. 

Did you ever think they’d be telling our stories, Sarah? My son? Yes. But me?

We lived 800 years apart, you and I, and I was around 3,000 years before any of the people in this room were born. But our stories are all here, together, now. (Your family’s story continues tomorrow, but you may not want to read ahead. At the very least, if Isaac asks to go on a hike to Mount Moriah with his Dad, say no.)

We are all here in conversation together. We barren women. We women of hope. You. Rivkah. Rachel. Me. Michal. And Samson’s Mother (Z’llppunith – such a name. No wonder we all just know her as “Samson’s Mom”.) But she had a name, and she had a story.

I am not a prayerful woman, Sarah. My approach was always a little more “Are you there, God? It’s Me, Chanah” than pious devotion. And unlike you, I don’t get angels as regular visitors to my home.

We come to Shiloh, to the temple, this ridiculous family of mine. My husband, Elkanah, always offers the right sacrifices, enough for that wretched second wife of his, Peninah, and all  of their children. I get one portion. I deserve a little more R-E-S-P-E-C-T. You’d better Think, I wanted to tell Elkanah. Think about what you’re tryin to do to me.

Peninah’s worth increases with every child she has following her skirts.

My worth withers as each season passes. And all the while Elkanah is telling me I am his favorite. Do you know what he says to me, Sarah?

“Am I not more devoted to you than ten sons?”

Well, yes. And… no.

And Peninah… year after year she taunts me, reminding me of what I can never forget.

I can usually save face, but this year…this year my heart was overflowing with anger, bitterness, and anguish. I was distraught, Sarah. I could not sleep. I could not eat. I could not stop crying. And all the while Elkanah asking me, why? Why? Why?

My heart broke--it broke into more pieces than I knew it had.

So I left the feast and came to the temple alone.

I can admit this to you, Sarah – I did not have faith, but I had hope, a desperate hope that drew from me an unimaginable promise. I made a deal, a bargain. If God would remember me, notice me, and give me a son, I would dedicate the boy’s life to the service of the Lord. I would have promised anything in that moment. Anything to make the pain stop.

There will come a time, Sarah, when prayers are written down, and people will follow along to someone else’s words. I doubt I could have read anything in that moment.

No, that prayer was ripped from me like a terrible sickness. I threw myself onto the Temple steps and let my despair rush out of me. 

Fall on your knees.

Oh Sarah, you should have seen the priest Eli as he approached me. He thought I was drunk! Can you imagine?

"How long will you make a drunken spectacle of yourself? "’Sober up!".

I told him, “I am not drunk! I have been pouring out my heart, my anguish, my distress.”

He didn’t apologize, but he gave me a little blessing as he gently escorted me out. "…may the God of Israel grant you what you have asked of Him."

At that moment I had no way of knowing if my prayer had been heard, but it had been said. God didn’t answer right away. I had no surety, Sarah, but… maybe even if the gates of prayer are shut, the gates of tears are not.

Elkanah’s ritualistic sacrifice had given me no comfort.

The festive meal no joy.

But the moment of desperation, pleading to be remembered, to be noticed…getting all that ugliness out was like a purge.

I got up off that floor, dried my tears, and went home with Elkanah, Peninah, and her children.

By the time the next yearly pilgrimage came around I was a mother of a son, Samuel (Shmuley to me), whose name means: "I asked the LORD for him."

As soon as I saw him, though, I was sure I’d made a terrible mistake by dedicating him to Temple service. How could I have made such a vow? How would I keep it?

Every year when we returned to the Tabernacle, Elkanah would ask, “So? Are you bringing the boy this year?” and every year I’d put him off.

He’s not old enough.

He doesn’t know his aleph-bet!

He’s not ready.

The truth was, I was not ready. But I did it, Sarah. I kept my vow. I brought him to the temple, and I left him there.

We all do it, don’t we?

We mothers.

We fathers.

At some point we all release our children.

Oh, it’s not always as dramatic as dropping them off for a lifetime of temple service…sometimes it’s the first day of preschool, the bus stop for summer camp, the end of the driveway, an airport gate, a college dorm room. 

We all do it. We open the circle of our embrace and let them walk out into the world. And we stand there, arms wide, waiting for them to step back in.

You did let Isaac go on his trip up the mountain with Abraham. It may have butchered your heart, but you waved good-bye, and you watched them go.

They all go. They all find other men and women to love; they leave our houses and make homes of their own. We give them to the universe and we hope, and maybe pray, that the universe treats them kindly.

Parenthood can make anyone turn to prayer:

Lord, help me get through this day!

Lord, keep her safe…

Misheberach…Please, God, heal him.

So many of the stories we tell from this bimah end in the middle. (Most good stories do.) 

You died offstage, Sarah.  There are 54 parshas in the Torah. One is named after a woman, and you die in the first verse.

After my triumphant declaration of victory at the end of this haftarah, I’m never heard from again. 

My first prayer was the anguish of my heart

My second was a record of my joy, my thanks, my conquest!

It’s not how I’d wanted to be quoted, honestly, and if I could go back and change it, I would.

There’s a little too much bragging.

It’s very self-serving, all “I gloat over my enemies… the barren woman bears seven; the mother of many is forlorn…”

That barb for Peninah was unnecessary. I know you understand the sentiment, Sarah.

It’s so easy to say yes to that ugly impulse inside us, to want to win.

To want someone else to lose.

I understand Peninah much better now.

I’m betting you “get” Hagar as well.

When we felt unnoticed, we were cruel.

When we were blessed, we forgot to be kind.

It was a miserable journey home after leaving Samuel at the temple for the first time. My arms ached with the weight of his absence, feeling his phantom body in my embrace.

We returned to Shiloh every year, and as time passed I had more children to shlep along.

And every year…. Every Year… I’d bring Samuel a new set of robes, guessing how much he’d have grown.

Before I knew it, he was taller than me.

He’d tease me, but I secretly enjoyed looking up to my son, the leader, the prophet, the musician, the artist.

I hope he does not judge me too harshly for my vow, my promise made for him without his permission. It was my words, but his life.

He went on to become a big deal, a real macher. 

He was the last of the judges, and he appointed the first of the kings.  He fought with his elders, and he was a warrior who protected the holy ark, and the covenant inside.

He was gifted with prophecy, but he was always my baby, my little Shmuley. 

My first born. 

My gift from the universe and back to it… the prayer of my heart.

Hollow Words

for Ben

After Sandy Hook, we told you that you are safe. There are over 33,000 elementary schools in the United States, and there has been a shooting at one.

After you heard about Aurora, we told you that you are safe. Millions of people go to the movies every year, safely. Meanwhile we check emergency exits reflexively during films and plan where to run.

After Orlando, we told you that you are safe.

After Paris, we told you that you are safe.

After Las Vegas, we told you that you are safe.

We told you it was OK to go to concerts and festivals and large outdoor gatherings. We played the numbers game.

It’s more likely that you will

• Get hit by a car
• Crash a car
• Get run over by a bus
• Fall down the stairs and break your neck
• Be hit by lightning
• Lose a fight to a wild animal in the woods

We tried to comfort you and assuage your fear by listing other ways you could die.

It’s more likely you will live to 75 and get to know your grandchildren than get shot by someone in your school, a movie, theater, a club, a concert, your workplace, a synagogue.

As you grow older and you listen to the news and your friends and follow social media, where shootings are turned into memes, our “new math” doesn’t diminish your fear. You see the error in the calculus.

Videos of kids huddled in classrooms look like you and your friends. That could be me, you think.

You drill and drill and drill and lock down and lock down and practice for what we tell you is an infinitesimally small probability.

And when you march in protest, someone puts a sticker on your chest that says #AmINext?

And it scares you.

And it scares me.

You walk up to me with that sticker on you and all I can see is that you might be next and that playing the odds is no way to play this game when the house always wins.

My 16 year old son is scared to go to school.

It’s been 19 years since Columbine.

It’s been 5 years since Sandy Hook.

It’s been too many years that we have been trying to keep the barrage of mass shootings from entering his world. The shootings just kept coming, and his access to the media and the news and his friends kept bringing them into his world, into his mind, and into his psyche.

And his mother keeps telling him that he is safe.

And he says, Mom you keep saying that.

You keep saying that.

You. Keep. Saying. That.

You know who else said that Mom?

Every parent of every kid who died in Florida and Vegas and Paris and San Bernadino and that church in Texas and 100 other places that I can’t even name.

Their moms said to them, you are safe. It won’t happen here.

What do you have to say to me now, Mom?

What do you have to say?

8 Songs of Chanukah: 2. Put Your Lights On

Hey now, all you sinners
Put your lights on, put your lights on
Hey now, all you lovers
Put your lights on, put your lights on

Hey now, all you killers
Put your lights on, put your lights on
Hey now, all you children
Leave your lights on, better leave your lights on