Judgement Day

No, I'm not talking about Terminator 2. Yes, this was a fabulous movie involving a talking Arnold Schwarzenegger, and some fantastically amazing special effects (that shape shifting dude, awesome) but I'm really talking about the OTHER kind of judgement. And, for some odd reason, maybe because the year 1991 is forever burned in my conscious memory as "a really interesting year" whenever someone starts talking about "Judgement", the first thing that pops into my head is "Judgement Day" and a really buff Arnold kicking some robot keister all over the silver screen.

But, no, I'm not here writing about the Governator (who would have thought??!!) or the Terminator franchise, but the more general topic of judgement. And I'm going to recycle something here that I posted on an internet group because I promised myself I'd try for at least ONE post a month, and this actually could qualifiy as "a post". Yeah, lazy. I am sure the 3.2 individuals who regularly read my writing will feel cheated.

Anyway,

This was in response to someone asking for advice on how to be less judgmental about others, specifically with our very human tendency to pick apart the way we follow Judaism (or any other religion for that matter). And although I am by no means perfect, or over this little destructive habit myself, here is a collection of things I've learned in my 41 years of walking this Earth. And although the original post was about how to judge others who believe differently than we do, I believe we can apply the ideas to pretty much any difference that divides us.

In no particular order, here are some of the things I have realized over the years that have helped me focus and be less judgmental.

#1 I am totally and utterly wrong about at least some of the things I firmly believe right now.

Yes, time has shown me again and again that some of my most firmly held beliefs actually turn out to be totally, and utterly, and absolutely, and ridiculously wrong. Not being vocal and judgmental saves me the horrible experience of having to eat my words (or my thoughts). Now I MAY be right, but, there is also a good chance I am not. And I won’t know for sure until I stand before my creator. So, in the meantime a little humility is a good thing. I am very fortunate that some of my amazing, long standing, incredible friends did not hold grudges over some of the things I did and said to them because I thought I was right. Almost, without exception, I’d like to take those things back.

#2 What I believe now may not bear any resemblance to what I believe ten years from now.

Ten years ago I was a practicing Catholic. Five years ago I was an atheist. Now I'm an orthodox Jew. ‘nuff said on that front. However, this is ALSO true of those other people who have in your life who are bringing on those judgmental feelings. What THEY believe now, probably won’t be the same as what they are going to believe in ten years. And, let’s assume you ARE right (however see #1), if the creator gave you the job of reaching these people then you are going to do a whole lot better job of things if you love them for who and what they are RIGHT NOW, and let Hashem take care of the rest. Belief is a journey. Where I am right now is not where I will be in ten years. And, that is the same of every single one of us here. And, that is healthy. And, there WILL be times when the observant among us want to toss everything to the trash, and there probably will ALSO be times when the more liberal of us start to find beauty in observance. Never say never. My experience is that Hashem delights in making me eat those particular words.

#3 I cannot possibly know what is going on behind the closed doors of someone else’s life.

Need I elaborate? For this one, let me post a link to one of my favorite of my friend Aliza’s previous articles.

http://www.frumsatire.net/2009/09/16/the-rastafarian-beret-and-other-adventures-in-hair-covering/

P.S. I am not posting this so you can say “SEE I told you covering your hair after marriage was STUPID!!” I am posting this because its’ an example of a mitzvah that seems so simple on the outside, that Aliza REALLY wanted to do, but couldn’t because of her health. And, ALL those judgmental people (and there have been many) who have berated her privately and publicly for NOT covering have no idea. They didn’t bother to walk in her shoes (or her hair) before casting judgment. And thanks Aliza for letting me shamelessly steal your writing to make a point. Every time I feel like passing judgment on someone I stop, take a deep breath, and repeat the old adage “Walk a mile in their shoes” over and over to myself until the urge passes.

#4 Feeling that I need to pick apart someone else is a sign that *I* am not in a good place emotionally.

The more confident I am in what I believe, the less I care about what others believe. Yes, trust me, I am always glad to have people around me who think as I do. There is a comfort in this. However, when I am confident in my way of thinking and doing, I don’t worry at all about what others are doing. After all, this is between me and Hashem. When I die, Hashem is not going to ask me about what that OTHER person did. And, I have plenty in my own life I can improve. So, whenever I start to feel like mentally dressing someone else down, I stop and take an emotional inventory. What is going on with ME right now that is making ME feel this way.

#5 I am not meant to, nor do I have to, be friends with everyone.

Judgment is not always bad. Some people are hostile. Some people are out to damage you. Some people don’t respect YOUR personal beliefs. Some people are just not the people you are meant to have in your life right now. Not all judgment is bad. Sometimes judgment (which I will call, instead, discernment) is what helps us rid ourselves of the people in our lives who are not helping us live according to Hashem’s plan.

Decadent Hats in Venice Beach

This past winter break I spent a week with a dear friend in Los Angeles. I stayed in the house of her in-laws who were away, and had graciously allowed me to be there in their absence. Although I was, yes, in LA, I actually did not leave their house very often. After all, they had this huge Jacuzzi bathtub large enough to swim in, a closet full of fluffy romance novels, and a sound system that would rival that of many movie theaters. So, mostly, I slept, ate, read, and took long baths where I managed not once, but twice, to squirt myself in the face with the water jets proving to myself that I definitely was NOT born wealthy. 

I had a few modest goals for my time in LA. I had expressed an interest in hat shopping for an alternative to the scarves I’d been using to cover my hair. So, one evening we went to Venice Beach to shop for hats. The Venice Beach Hat Shop is this trendy, noisy shop filled with every kind of hat you can imagine.  And, I should mention, some particularly delicious looking men with strong Australian accents. Now, I am not sure how this particular shop came to accumulate such a fine looking group of hat salespeople, or how the hiring manager got around discrimination laws to hire ONLY the most amazingly handsome, adorable, men. But, yes, that is the case. And, I will also add, that these men are probably all aspiring actors (this WAS LA) because they sure knew how to flirt outrageously as if you were the positively most gorgeous creature who had walked into their hat shop. I am certain they sell a LOT of hats to women and, well, to men too (after all this IS LA).

Now, I have to explain something. As a married orthodox woman, I am supposed to keep my hair covered in the presence of unrelated men;  Which, as you might understand, is a bit of a dilemma when you are trying on hats. Trying on hats involves removing hats, and then putting on new hats. In the process, hair is exposed. And, at first, I tried to be discrete. I hid in the corner and whipped one hat off, and the other one, as fast as possible trying to ignore the floor to ceiling mirrors, or the wandering sales-gods as they tried to help other customers. But, at some point, Mr. Blond and Muscular must have spotted me and sidled over, hat in hand, and said in a low flirtatious voice… “Here, try THIS hat”.

Hmmm

I stood there for a second in the midst of a great moral struggle. Do I let this scrumptious representative of  maleness see me hatless (oh the scandal)? Now, granted, he had no idea whatsoever the implications. To him, I was just another customer. And, well, I was here to try on hats. And, if he could be cute, and charming, and flirtatious, he might be able to sell me more hats. I understand this. On the other hand, however, you have to try to grasp just how BIG covering your hair is in Orthodox  Judaism. This very act, covering your hair after marriage, is seen as something huge with moral and community implications. You cannot possibly understand if you are not part of that mindset. I had been covering my hair religiously (forgive me) for most of the last two years. In the face of seductive allure of accented foreigners, would I hold true to my newfound Jewish ideals, or cave in glorious temptation?

I caved. 

Mr. Beautiful with the totally sexy accent took off my hat, and then, gently, placed a new hat on my head, stepping back with an appraising look, only to say… “Beautiful”.  Which, I must say, was true. This was one HECK of a hat, and I looked pretty darned cute, I might add. And, after that, the die was tossed, and Mr. Wonderful brought me several other hats to try, and I succumbed. At the end of the night, I did buy several lovely hats, which have served me well since. But, the experience got me to thinking about how much I have changed in the last three years.

Now, you need to understand something about me. Although I have never been someone who “displayed her wares” (so to speak) by wearing tight, revealing clothing, neither was I one who was particularly worried about nakedness. I mean, clothing covered the body, and bodies were just bodies. I’d never been one to be all too worried about undressing in the gym. And, of course, there had been that streaking episode in college.  And, yes, none of this was particularly “sexual” to me. And although I kept my clothing on MOST of the time, I didn’t  tend to notice people who were mostly undressed, and nor did I take special notice of the effect my clothing had on those around me. I dressed to suit myself, in clothing that was comfortable, and that was all.

However, starting about three years ago I started experimenting with the Jewish idea of tzunis which, loosely translated, means modesty. I could explain the basics of modesty in dress, however, this wouldn’t really go very far to explain what “tzunis” really means, which is more of an overall mindset and attitude than anything else. However, what is most visible, of course, is how one is expected to dress. Tzuinis, for women, involves dressing so that you are covered from collarbone, to elbow, to knee in clothing that is attractive, but not revealing. The process for me started with abandoning my shorts, tank tops, and spaghetti straps in one fell swoop of inspired cleaning, figuring that not having them around would lower the temptation of wearing them, especially in the heat of the unrelenting Arizona summer. 

For awhile I settled on Jeans, and T-shirts which, I might add, is not a huge departure for me as I have always been a Jean and T-shirt kinda gal. Not enough to make me stand out as particularly “tzunis” with one exception:

I covered my hair. 

Now, I have to explain this. Why? Why cover your hair? At the time, I was NOT Jewishly married by any stretch of the imagination, and had no real reason to cover my hair. And, I was still comfortably sporting jeans, and T-shirts, that would make me look VERY out of place in any religious Jewish community. So, why a head cover? To explain this, you have to understand that when I first started looking into Judaism, I fell firmly into the “liberal” camp, and looked askance at “Orthodox Jews” as, at best, quaint representatives of a closed-minded dead religion, and at worst this oppressive, male dominated, group of sexist men, and women who put up with things for some reason I couldn’t quite fathom.  And, covering one’s hair seemed, on the surface, one of the MOST clear expressions of domination I could imagine, something akin to the hajib for Islamic women.  

We need not dwell on my ignorance. 

But, at some point, my mind began to open, and my attitude soften, toward orthodoxy. But, I still wasn’t quite sure that I could manage to live my life with all the restrictions placed on me, including giving up my cherished jeans, and, yes, covering my hair. So, I decided, instead of wondering if I COULD do this, I would just try. And, I made the decision to try out the single most obviously obnoxious part of dressing tzunis I could imagine. I decided to try covering my hair, every day, every time I went out of the house, for the foreseeable future, as a way to see to what degree I felt the practice to be obnoxious and oppressive.

To my shock, covering my hair was not nearly the “big deal” I had expected. For one thing, my life was immeasurably simplified in some practical ways. I could get up, throw on a scarf, and go out the door without worrying if my hair was presentable. No curling, no primping, no worrying about how I looked. Secondly, I was, well, shocked by the way people started treating me. More respectfully, especially the men, who were more likely to open doors, to speak to me kindly, and to avoid the kind of “once over” appraisal I’d become unconsciously used to as a woman. Granted, maybe they all figured me for some kind of cancer survivor, however, there was a decided difference to how people, both men and women, treated me. 

Before long, the rest of my clothing caught up with my hair. I ditched all but one pair of my jeans, invested in a variety of flattering skirts, and traded in all my T-shirts for shirts that covered my elbows. And, the transition seemed natural, and came, totally, from within, not from any kind of pressure to adhere to any kind of “imposed” external standard. And instead of feeling oppressed and dominated, I was feeling liberated, and strong in ways that I could not have imagined. I liked how I felt, I liked what I represented. And, I found that dressing this way also had clear advantages. Men looked at me appreciatively (after all they still are men) but in a different way, as if they were seeing the entire me, and not just whatever body part of me they preferred. My students responded to me with more respect, and with less tendency to misbehave, as if dressing this way commanded more respect and authority. And, people, religious and not, in all venues treated me respectfully, as if what I said and did suddenly had more importance, and more weight.  

Which, three years later, brings me to a hat shop in Venice. 

I now own three hats. But, more importantly I have an understanding that what we wear DOES matter in our attitudes, how we think about ourselves, and in what we portray to others. And, if I had to realize this in a hat shop in Venice beach, then I can’t think of a more entertaining way to have the point made. However, next time, I’ll probably decline the sales help.

A Million Little Pieces

No, this entry is not really about the mostly fictitious autobiography that made the headlines a few years back. Actually, I think the title REALLY is more appropriate for the autobiography of your average mother because 1,000,000 little pieces is what we end up picking up off the floor each and every day.

Yes, for some reason toy manufacturers seem to delight in making toys that have about 5 bazillion parts, and the older the child, the smaller the parts. So, I spend a healthy portion of each day picking up said parts off the floor, fishing them out of the couch, and removing them from under the fridge. And, yes, I always "make" the kids help. The problem is, of course, that MAKING a mess is hugely more fun than picking up a mess. And, making children pick up these toys is almost more work than picking up the darned things yourself. I have had to, more than one time, resort to the "vacuum threat" (as in, pick up all this S*** or I'll suck it all up in the vacuum) BUT, as things happen, I usually end up with a pick up job at the end of the day anyway.

For some reason, this "gathering of pieces" thing seems to be a female trait cause my husband can blissfully step over these parts and walk on by without a second thought. And, his method of "cleaning up" is to pick up everything and throw it all jumbled together in a box. This, of course, drives me INSANE because throwing the parts all mixed together in a box is not the same thing at all as actually putting them away. Putting Them Away means you have to go find the box, open the box, and place the items BACK in the box. And, for some reason, I always feel compelled to do this. Even though the child might have about 1000 rectangular blue legos, I simply can't bring myself to toss the one blue lego that somehow lodged behind the fridge no matter how dusty and dirt encrusted.

The worst part of this is that EACH of my children went through this preschool/toddler stage where they enjoyed stuffing the small parts under and into things. My third child is in that stage right now, and I am regularly fishing huge numbers of objects out from under the couch, under the television, and beneath the fridge. This stage is often accompanied by the inexplicable desire to "feed" the VHS player. A friend of mine once fished out two army men, a playing card, two legos, and half a dozen pennies when her VCR ground to a halt one afternoon. Toddlers also treat the house as ONE huge shape sorter, meaning that they walk around with objects trying to see where they might possibly fit. And, yes, although I appreciate this as a sign that the little booger's brains are click clacking around, the thought is no consolation when you are fishing your oldest son's favorite toy out of the toilet.

Anyway, back to the one million pieces: I think someone should design these toys with mothers in mind. I mean, I LOVE legos and K'nex and Lincoln Logs. They are marvelous, open ended, educational toys. BUT, they are also FULL of, you guessed it, one million little pieces that end up everywhere. Maybe the designers could put little homing devices in the toys so they all "jump" back in their boxes once the play time is over. Or, maybe someone could design one of those little RHOOMBA robots that can selectively suck up certain toys and spit them back in the box.

Maybe I could make such a thing, and then make a million little dollars and HIRE someone to do all this picking up for me. Yeah, that is a nice fantasy. In the meantime I'll be writing my autobiography. I intend to entitle it: One Million Little Legos.

The Death of a Marriage

The glance lasted maybe a few seconds. But, the softness of his gaze told me all I needed to know. We were “exchanging the children” as I like to call the process, something we have done close to 15 times in the three years since I threw the kids in the car and headed off for the unknown leaving everything I took for granted behind me. Since then, I’ve grown, changed. I’m happier and healthier; the children are healthier and happier. Maybe he is as well. Still, despite all the time, pain, and separation, he loves me. 

Let’s be clear here. The marriage was irretrievably broken. I was damaged beyond recovery and nothing could have rescued us. I know this. I also know that my children are joyful and relaxed in ways they never could have been when we were all living together in that endless twilight of a dead marriage. They deserved a mother who wasn’t half paralyzed by depression and a crushed spirit. They deserved a home without discord and unspoken anger. I did what was necessary, and in my moments of clarity I realize how much better I am, how much happier they are, and no matter how much struggle we have had in the last three years, the end of that marriage was a blessing. Admittedly, I go through long stretches where I don’t think about him at all; where he exists only in the dim recesses of a memory, pushed aside by the daily challenges and joys of a life as a (mostly) single mom.

But there are moments. Sometimes a song, perhaps one we used to listen to on his fold out bed in that crappy Philadelphia apartment where we would fall asleep in a tangle of blankets and awake to the sounds of the neighbor’s trashy garage band that always seemed to practice way too early on a Sunday morning. Or maybe taking the children to the Grand Canyon where the view not only reminds me of the grandeur of G-d, but also of that trip he and I took on Christmas Eve where we hiked to the bottom and out while I was 8 weeks pregnant with my first child. Or a glance, that fills me simultaneously with regret, and guilt, and flooded with memory of a marriage that began with such hope and promise on a hot, sunny day in June, and ended in such desperation on an equally hot day 14 years later in April. 

I want to know if there will be a time when I can drive through the places we used to go, or see the house where my oldest was born, and not be overwhelmed with equal parts memory and pain. Will there come a time when I don’t spend moments for the week or two after seeing him, gripped with regret, the tears freely flowing. When will I release the guilt from realizing that to survive, I had to damage the man whom I had promised to love “till death do we part”.

March Already

So, its March. I didn't QUITE make my goal of a new blog post every six months, although at the time this seemed like something I could, maybe, manage. Yet, alas. Most days I can hardly manage to find my keys, and get out the door having eating breakfast, and without wearing my coffee. I have what you might call a disorganization problem.

Sadly, all three of my lovely children inherited what I will call the "disorganization gene" which means, as a family, we move in this sad disaster of disorganization on an almost constant basis. And, trust me, you "born organized" people. I try. I really, really try. But, managing my own disorganized self, plus my three walking tornadoes, is really more than I can manage most days, especially since my children don't seem to care how organized (or not organized) they are.

Case in point: My lovely 6 year old has a tendency to leave shoes everywhere and anywhere they fall off her feet. And socks, as well, but that is another story. But, as to the shoes, shoes are totally expendable, and something of a modern nuisance. If she could manage to go without them, she would. As things stand, she sheds them as soon as she can, with absolutely no regard to where she is, and when she might need them again. Which means, we often spend 10-15 minutes in the morning looking for where she last put her shoes. And, trust me, I am allergic to morning, and I am not particularly kind or sunny when I am forced to delay our departure over, yet again, misplaced shoes. Yes (shh born organized people) I KNOW that if I just enforced the rule that she had to put her shoes in the same place every day, then we would not have this problem. I know this. However, you understand this requires that I actually be organized enough to remember that I have to enforce that she put her shoes in the right place every time. Which, if you haven't figured out yet, is... well.. let's just say consistency is not my strong suit right.

So, comes Monday morning and we are headed out the door for school and I look down and realize that there is only one shoe. I ask my daughter, where is the other shoe. She doesn't know. Of course she doesn't know. How could she possibly remember where she took off a shoe? We looked in all the logical places (where we found the other shoe) and some illogical places (the bathtub, the toy box) but no shoe was found. And, let's just say, in one of my less than steller "insane mom moments" I was less than pleasant. So, I said. FIND a shoe to wear (through gritted teeth). I don't CARE what the shoe is or what this looks like (with a few colorful adjectives thrown in). And, when you get home tonight, you WILL find that shoe cause I am not going to spend another precious few hours of my time looking for shoes AGAIN! And, no, I am not buying you more shoes.

So, my lovely 6 year old went off and found a shoe: A bright pink sandal with Dinsney Princesses and she went to school that way wearing one princess sandal, and one brown loafer, both left feet.

 So, yes, in my SMM (stellar mothering moment) of the day, I managed to lose my temper, use profanity, AND send my child to school with two left shoes all in the same monday morning. But, at LEAST, I thought to myself, this is what all those parenting classes and books talk about: "Enforcing Natural Consequences". In other words, the fact that she had to go to school wearing one princess sandal and one brown loafer (both left feet) might possibly reinforce to her the wisdom of putting her shoes in the same place every day. And, as an added bonus, I don't have to be the nagging mother to remind her to find her shoes every night because "Natural Consequences" will teach her better than I could anyway. Problem solved, right?

You can see where this is going, I think.

So, lovely 6 year old comes home, and I say.

"How were your shoes today?"

"Fine"

"Didn't wearing those shoes bother you? They weren't a little uncomfortable?"

"No"

"Are you ready to find your other shoe?"

"No"

Which, I guess, was not a priority for her because she continued to wear her "shoes" for the next week and a half until I (yes I) finally found her shoe in the middle of the backyard where it had been covered by a snowdrift for much of the last two weeks.

Natural Consequences 0
Child with a mind of her own 1

Life in a Small Town

We live in a small town. Not a tiny town, but small enough that you tend to run into the same people over and over. In fact, today, I ran into someone I know from attending Temple on Friday nights.

Normally, this would be a totally uninteresting encounter, but the place I "ran into" this person from the temple was at the local office for economic support. Economic support, as in.... the place you go when you are bordering on not being able to support your kids on your income and you sign up for things like medicaid, food stamps, and things of that ilk.

Granted, I'm not ashamed of needing help. I need help. The help is temporary, and there will be a point in my life where I don't need to turn to the government for assistance. But, I have to admit having a conversation with people you know from other realms of life WHILE standing in the stinky, crowded, depressing "economic security" office is a little disconcerting.

The conversation goes something like this:

Her: "Hi, how are you doing??!!"

Me: "Fine.... "

Awkward silence...

Me: "Well, obviously things COULD be better or I wouldn't be standing HERE looking for economic security, but all in all I can't complain."

Her: Strained smile as she tries to decide if I am joking....

Well, you get the picture.


And, since we are on this topic, I thought I might post something I wrote awhile ago when I realized my "facebook friends" were all joining some group that wanted to force women like me to get mandatory drug testing so we could qualify for benefits.

Enjoy:

I'm on welfare. I'm white (not that it should matter what color I am). I'm educated. I have not only a bachelor's degree, I have a master's degree. I work four jobs totaling more than 40 hours a week. I do have three children, but they are all from the same father. Right now I need assistance. And, I, like many many many other women my situation who are in our place through no fault of or own (divorced, widowed, abused, abandoned), am human.

Requiring me to take a drug test assumes that people who are in my shoes are more likely to be drug users (we aren't). This assumes that we don't have the right to privacy (we should). And assumes that we need public assistance because of some kind of character flaw. And, I can tell you that the overburdened public system that administers welfare is not going to be helped by adding more levels of "administration".

MOST people who get welfare are poor not because they don't want to work, but because they can't FIND work, or never had the chance to get the same kind of education people take for granted. Many people on welfare have an education, but lose their job, become disabled, become ill, end up caring for sick or aging parents (or children). These things can happen to anyone of us, at any time, no matter how much education we have, and how moral we think we are.

As for, who gets welfare? We are your friends, your classmates, your child's teacher, your neighbor, the person who attends your church. You don't know about us, because the process of getting welfare is humiliating, dehumanizing, and embarrassing. We aren't going to tell you, especially when you project an attitude that we are somehow "worse" than you are because you have been lucky enough so far to escape the need for some assistance.

How many of you know the stats on welfare? Do you know that MOST people who receive welfare are white? Most welfare recipients are American citizens? Most welfare reciepients not only work, but work more than one job for long hours at terrible pay doing jobs no one else wants?

And, as for the small minority that meet your view. Do the children of drug addicts deserve to eat? Do the children of women "who pop out all those babies" deserve to be fed? How about their elderly parents? If that addict was your brother/father/mother (its possible) would you be so glad to watch them starve?

For shame.

A Starting Point: So, why did you go and turn all Jewish, anyway?

 So, I thought I'd start out this new blog by answering the question of how I got here. This, of course, is the truncated and semi-sanitized version. But, a starting point, since everything here is about starting. So, here you go:

So, why did you go and turn all Jewish, anyway??

I’ve always been interested in Judaism. Although I am old enough to have few clear memories of my childhood, one memory that sticks with me is when I visited a synagogue with my Girl Scout Troup when I was about 8 years old. The Rabbi took the Torah out for us, and I still remember the feelings I had. I was filled with awe, and the experience, although brief, left a lasting impression. I continued to be interested in a Jewish life and the Jewish people. In high school I babysat for an orthodox family who kept kosher, and after I would get the children to school in the morning, I would sit and look through their Hebrew lettering books and wish I could read. I had my first thoughts of actually becoming Jewish on and off once I went to college. However, a good Catholic girl doesn’t shock and upset her entire family by converting to Judaism!  When I finally did approach my mother with the subject many years later, she was not unsupportive, but at that point I was married and had children and she counseled me to wait until my children were grown so as not to upset the family situation further. I agreed with her on a practical level, and I kept my feelings to myself, although I often secretly imagined myself Jewish, and prayed for guidance.

I finally became committed to conversion about 2.5 years ago. I like to joke, but half seriously, that I finally considered Judaism when my life was such a mess that converting couldn’t make things worse. I know that doesn’t sound like a resounding affirmation of my commitment, but I hope that my meaning is clear. I had 100 excuses why I couldn’t convert, and only when each excuse was ripped from me one by one did I finally allow myself to consider changing my entire life around to become Jewish. I do know that I had come to the point where I was spiritually and nearly physically dead, without hope for the future, and lost in an darkness that did not include a benevolent creator.

I am not sure how long I existed in this state of desperate spiritual emptiness. I struggled deeply with the existence of G-d. And, although I claimed not to believe, the thought of there being no ultimate creator, no higher power, filled me with such profound emptiness that I continued to struggle, to look, and to try to find answers. I was sure there was no G-d. But, on the other hand, I was sure I had to believe in one.

Around this point, I started to have dreams where I was sitting in front of a book filled with Hebrew characters. I realized that I had this deep desire to read Hebrew, and I started to look for a class on Biblical Hebrew. Soon after, I took on the name “Eve” (which means life) as an affirmation of the fact that I refused to lay down and die. After this, I don’t remember clearly all the details. I know that I essentially put my toe in a puddle, only to find that the puddle was an ocean, and I was caught in the undertow. From that moment on, my journey was instinctual, unconscious, and driven by a deep need to connect with the truth I sensed in Judaism. Three and a half later, I am here, without a clear, conscious idea of how I ended up where I am. I can only say for certain that I belong.

I converted orthodox 8 months ago. I have three children who have not converted, and I am married to a frum from birth sabra (oh my). I’d like to say that Judiasm solved all my problems, however, that would be a lie. Life is still complicated, challenging, and sometimes impossible. Yet, Judaism has given me a spiritual core, and a sense of peace. This is the faith I had been searching for my entire life, and I have finally come home.