November 2001
Dear G.U.C.I. Staff:
Last weekend I participated in a camp-style Shabbat service along with Danny Nichols at Fairmount Temple in Cleveland, Ohio. It is always uplifting for me to see campers conduct T’fillot in their home synagogues and hear their perceptions of camp. But in this particular service, because of all of the tumult in our world, one of the prayers that Danny sang jumped out and pulled at my heart. The Hebrew words, “Shalom Rav Al Yisrael Amcha, Tasim L’olam,” never seemed to have more meaning. It’s sung in a melody that pleads for God to give God’s people, Israel, a great and everlasting peace. I really sang it out last Friday, as if saying the words could or would make it happen .
I don’t know how you feel about prayer, but I’m usually pretty cynical. Don’t get me wrong, I love going to services, I always find some new idea in the liturgy or come up with some new thought (sometimes not even close, I admit, to what’s happening in the synagogue, but new, nonetheless) that stays with me long after I’ve brushed the crumbs of the Oneg off of my tie. But, for me, the power of prayer moves in an inward rather than outward direction. I don’t expect God to grant peace. I know that we have to make peace if peace is to happen at all. Yet I say the words and they have power. How is that? How can that be? I’d like not to think of myself as a hypocrite, so how can I reconcile having a feeling of contentment and even joy in prayer, while not expecting prayers to be answered?
The answers to these questions don’t come easily. I’m sure that the communal environment of a Shabbat worship service is part of it. Being together with other Jews, saying and singing together, knowing that others around the world are doing the same, all bring me a feeling of comfort and belonging. And in the case of praying for peace, during these dangerous days here and in Israel, perhaps simply the joining of voices in a group wish is enough to reach in and tug at heartstrings. I find that sometimes prayer can have a great impact on me. It often does here at camp where I sit surrounded by children and listen to their prayers. That definitely gives me strength and hope, and makes me smile.
But there was something in that Shalom Rav last Shabbat that went beyond the group wish. There was some distant hope I felt…as if by singing the words with full Kavanah, devotion, just maybe there was an outside chance that it could happen. Like I said, I don’t expect prayers to be answered. But maybe, just this once, just this once. SHALOM RAV AL YISRAEL AMCHA TASIM L’OLAM.
Maybe just this once! Let it be.
Ron
Showing posts with label Prayer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Prayer. Show all posts
Thursday, November 1, 2001
Saturday, February 1, 1997
Sunsets
February 1997
Dear GUCI Staff:
I’ve always had a special feeling, a fascination with sunsets. For me, no matter what the day brings forth, a dramatic sunset is a sign of hope. As I think about it, I realize that I’ve gone out of my way to watch sunsets wherever I’ve been. Sunsets are glorious spectacles of elapsing time dramatically punctuated by their slowly changing color schemes. They inspire me with their magnitude, make me feel small and part of something big, all at once.
When I was a Unit Head at Olin-Sang-Ruby up in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin I had a private Erev Shabbat ritual. At a certain point during Shabbat dinner, I would quietly leave my unit and walk out back of the Chadar Ochel. There I would take my seat, all alone, on a wooden storage box and watch the Western skies turn to fire as Shabbat descended. I liked to think that the colors in the sky were the train on Shabbat’s royal gown. Later I’d think about the prayer in the evening service which credits God with causing the evening to fall and setting the stars in their heavenly courses. It’s hard to feel Shabbat peace when you are a camp staff member with ongoing responsibilities, but those Shabbat sunsets out back of the Chadar Ochel were my fifteen minutes of Shabbat Shalom. I was a Unit Head for six summers. Every clear Erev Shabbat I managed to make it to my designated sunset spot. I remember the calm and the beauty of it.
Last spring, Juca and I spent a week on the West coast of Florida. We joined all the others in that beautiful place each evening quietly watching the sun touch down on the water. We always thought and sometimes remarked at how quickly the sun went down. It seemed to plunge into the Gulf and disappear. One almost expected to hear it sizzle. But what came next was the clincher. After the sun was gone, a full half-hour of reds turning to purple turning to wisps of pastels. Someone told me the colors are just the sun’s reflection off of the air pollution. “Finally,” I thought, “something good from pollution.”
Yesterday I spoke to my son Michael on the phone. It was a big deal for me because he’s away, far away studying for the semester in Tel Aviv. That was the first time we had spoken since he left. It’s true that I hear his voice speaking the words he writes me on the e-mail, but in my heart, not my ears. So it was great to actually hear him yesterday. He had a lot to tell me, but one of the stories was about going to the beach to watch the sun set. I think he told me this because he knows that I am moved by the thought of it. And now I have these thoughts too; thoughts of my son in Israel, celebrating his independence, touching his Jewish roots, growing up, sitting on the beach taking it all in, in Technicolor.
Each evening we bless God for making the evening fall and setting the stars in their heavenly courses. And in our hearts a special blessing for alowing us to witness this greatness; and living to hear our children tell of this majesty, from 8,000 miles away.
Ron
So now it's 2015, fifteen years later, and I'm still looking at sunsets with awe. As Thanksgiving approaches, being in the sunset years of my life, I can't help but be thankful for two wonderful and successful sons, two amazing daughters-in-law, two (I can't say enough about) granddaughters, and, in all caps, JUCA .
Here's a sunset (a bit enhanced) from our porch in Bloomington...Awesome!
Dear GUCI Staff:
I’ve always had a special feeling, a fascination with sunsets. For me, no matter what the day brings forth, a dramatic sunset is a sign of hope. As I think about it, I realize that I’ve gone out of my way to watch sunsets wherever I’ve been. Sunsets are glorious spectacles of elapsing time dramatically punctuated by their slowly changing color schemes. They inspire me with their magnitude, make me feel small and part of something big, all at once.
When I was a Unit Head at Olin-Sang-Ruby up in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin I had a private Erev Shabbat ritual. At a certain point during Shabbat dinner, I would quietly leave my unit and walk out back of the Chadar Ochel. There I would take my seat, all alone, on a wooden storage box and watch the Western skies turn to fire as Shabbat descended. I liked to think that the colors in the sky were the train on Shabbat’s royal gown. Later I’d think about the prayer in the evening service which credits God with causing the evening to fall and setting the stars in their heavenly courses. It’s hard to feel Shabbat peace when you are a camp staff member with ongoing responsibilities, but those Shabbat sunsets out back of the Chadar Ochel were my fifteen minutes of Shabbat Shalom. I was a Unit Head for six summers. Every clear Erev Shabbat I managed to make it to my designated sunset spot. I remember the calm and the beauty of it.
Last spring, Juca and I spent a week on the West coast of Florida. We joined all the others in that beautiful place each evening quietly watching the sun touch down on the water. We always thought and sometimes remarked at how quickly the sun went down. It seemed to plunge into the Gulf and disappear. One almost expected to hear it sizzle. But what came next was the clincher. After the sun was gone, a full half-hour of reds turning to purple turning to wisps of pastels. Someone told me the colors are just the sun’s reflection off of the air pollution. “Finally,” I thought, “something good from pollution.”
Yesterday I spoke to my son Michael on the phone. It was a big deal for me because he’s away, far away studying for the semester in Tel Aviv. That was the first time we had spoken since he left. It’s true that I hear his voice speaking the words he writes me on the e-mail, but in my heart, not my ears. So it was great to actually hear him yesterday. He had a lot to tell me, but one of the stories was about going to the beach to watch the sun set. I think he told me this because he knows that I am moved by the thought of it. And now I have these thoughts too; thoughts of my son in Israel, celebrating his independence, touching his Jewish roots, growing up, sitting on the beach taking it all in, in Technicolor.
Each evening we bless God for making the evening fall and setting the stars in their heavenly courses. And in our hearts a special blessing for alowing us to witness this greatness; and living to hear our children tell of this majesty, from 8,000 miles away.
Ron
So now it's 2015, fifteen years later, and I'm still looking at sunsets with awe. As Thanksgiving approaches, being in the sunset years of my life, I can't help but be thankful for two wonderful and successful sons, two amazing daughters-in-law, two (I can't say enough about) granddaughters, and, in all caps, JUCA .
Here's a sunset (a bit enhanced) from our porch in Bloomington...Awesome!
Friday, October 1, 1993
A Beautiful Sunset
October, 1993
Dear G.U.C.I. Staff:
Well, I have once again taken to the highways with slide projector in hand, to
converse with kids about coming to camp, and persuade their parents to part
with their progeny by sending their sons and siblings and savings to us for
another summer ("A" for alliteration). So, I'm out promoting camp, right? So,
it's weekends around the region, long stretches on the road, usually a familiar
face or two at each destination, and a lot of time to think.
So, an amazing thing happened to me on this, my first trip. I left camp about 4:00
in the afternoon last Thursday, heading west to St. Louis, on my way to K.C.
and Des Moines. It was the beginning of a 1300 mile trek, probably the longest
weekend trip of the year. So, I'm westbound on I-70, around Terra Haute at
5:30 P.M., and the sun is setting right into my eyeballs. So, I pull down the
visor and focus on the few yards of highway I can see between it and the dash.
It was a beautiful fall day and Indiana was breathtakingly technicolored. So,
about a hour goes by when I decide to raise the visor and see if there is a
world out there beyond the highway immediately in front of my bumper. That's
when it happened.
As I raised the visor, I was confronted, no, surprised by a most magnificent
sunset. While hidden behind my visor it had spread its pinks and reds across
the entire horizon. In and of itself, this sunset was remarkable, but my
immediate response to the surprise gift of seeing it is what lingers in my
mind. I would have expected the first words to jump into my mind to be, "Holy
cow," or "Wow," but my mood had moved me to a different place. My first
thoughts at that moment (I kid you not) were the words, "Ma'ariv Aravim,"
("...who makes the evening fall"). It's from the prayer we say each evening,
"Baruch Ata Adonai Ha Ma'ariv Aravim." " Blessed are you Adonai, who makes the
evening fall." That I should respond to the sudden beauty before me with a
prayer, in an almost automatic kind of way, was as eye-opening as the sight
itself.
So, I watched the reds become purples and the blues blacken. I thought of
another line, this from the morning T'filla,"... Michadesh B'chol Yom Tamid
Ma'asey B'raysheet," "...Who renews daily the acts of creation." These were
the words in my heart at that particular moment in time, expressing my feelings
of gratitude for the gift of that beauty.
So, for 45 minutes, while evening became night and headlights replaced the
sunset, I thought about these prayers and how naturally they came to me there
in the front seat of my Pontiac; and how real they felt. I decided that my
liturgical response made me happy. It was like the first time I responded to a
question in Hebrew, without having to think in English. The Hebrew had become
a part of me; so had the prayer.
So, now it's on to various parts of our camp region, north, south, east, and
west. With long stretches of highway before me, jazz and cups of coffee for
companions, and lots of time to think.
Ron
Dear G.U.C.I. Staff:
Well, I have once again taken to the highways with slide projector in hand, to
converse with kids about coming to camp, and persuade their parents to part
with their progeny by sending their sons and siblings and savings to us for
another summer ("A" for alliteration). So, I'm out promoting camp, right? So,
it's weekends around the region, long stretches on the road, usually a familiar
face or two at each destination, and a lot of time to think.
So, an amazing thing happened to me on this, my first trip. I left camp about 4:00
in the afternoon last Thursday, heading west to St. Louis, on my way to K.C.
and Des Moines. It was the beginning of a 1300 mile trek, probably the longest
weekend trip of the year. So, I'm westbound on I-70, around Terra Haute at
5:30 P.M., and the sun is setting right into my eyeballs. So, I pull down the
visor and focus on the few yards of highway I can see between it and the dash.
It was a beautiful fall day and Indiana was breathtakingly technicolored. So,
about a hour goes by when I decide to raise the visor and see if there is a
world out there beyond the highway immediately in front of my bumper. That's
when it happened.
As I raised the visor, I was confronted, no, surprised by a most magnificent
sunset. While hidden behind my visor it had spread its pinks and reds across
the entire horizon. In and of itself, this sunset was remarkable, but my
immediate response to the surprise gift of seeing it is what lingers in my
mind. I would have expected the first words to jump into my mind to be, "Holy
cow," or "Wow," but my mood had moved me to a different place. My first
thoughts at that moment (I kid you not) were the words, "Ma'ariv Aravim,"
("...who makes the evening fall"). It's from the prayer we say each evening,
"Baruch Ata Adonai Ha Ma'ariv Aravim." " Blessed are you Adonai, who makes the
evening fall." That I should respond to the sudden beauty before me with a
prayer, in an almost automatic kind of way, was as eye-opening as the sight
itself.
So, I watched the reds become purples and the blues blacken. I thought of
another line, this from the morning T'filla,"... Michadesh B'chol Yom Tamid
Ma'asey B'raysheet," "...Who renews daily the acts of creation." These were
the words in my heart at that particular moment in time, expressing my feelings
of gratitude for the gift of that beauty.
So, for 45 minutes, while evening became night and headlights replaced the
sunset, I thought about these prayers and how naturally they came to me there
in the front seat of my Pontiac; and how real they felt. I decided that my
liturgical response made me happy. It was like the first time I responded to a
question in Hebrew, without having to think in English. The Hebrew had become
a part of me; so had the prayer.
So, now it's on to various parts of our camp region, north, south, east, and
west. With long stretches of highway before me, jazz and cups of coffee for
companions, and lots of time to think.
Ron
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