What if G-d laughs when we get to heaven

The Jewish Star
Issue of August 20, 2010/ 10 Elul 5770

I am fasting. It is Tisha b’Av. And I believe this was a mistake. Not the fact that I am fasting today, specifically, but the fact that so many of us do, so many times each year. A misinterpretation perhaps, more than a mistake. An exaggeration. From the bottom of my heart, I harbor doubt that we Jews were supposed to fast this often, for this long. I think, perhaps, some well-meaning people of religious power took the gift of Yom Kippur and decided more is more, or less is more depending on how you look at it.

Scold me, stone me, scowl at me but this is my truth.

So why am I fasting?

I have fasted every Tisha B’Av since I was 11 (minus one where I stuffed a huge piece of babka in my mouth while on a teen trip to Israel, forgive me.) I have fasted more than two decades worth of Yom Kippurs, Taanit Esthers and Shiva Asar b’Tammuzes. But habit makes not the monk.

I have friends who find this incomprehensible. How could I, someone ready to argue a reason for everything, subject myself to bodily negligence without believing it is what G-d intended for me to do? It seems to me that I fast because of a Rashi and a ride.

I have a horrible memory and recall surprisingly little of what I learned throughout school (a fact that brings great pain with the arrival of each tuition bill.) Yet, a Rashi in Devarim 17:11 made its home somewhere in my cerebral cortex in the early 80s. The text indicates that one “should not deviate (lo tasur) to the right or to the left” from that which he is instructed by the Sanhedrim to do. Rashi cites the Sifrei who states that we must follow them even if it appears that what they tell us is right is really left and left is really right. (Of course, there are various interpretations and disagreements on this point.)

Even as a schoolgirl surrounded by the smell of pencil shavings, it struck me as accurate that while the Torah was given to us all, its interpretation is best left to the few. We are encouraged to question and to draw inspiration, but the conclusions that heed action must come from a learned, able and willing minority if we are to have order in society. And I like order. I felt that this principle must hold true even when we do not understand a rule; even … wait for it… when the rabbis are wrong.

Wrong rabbis!? Forgive me again please, but they were human, were they not?
So what if this is all nonsense? What if these “fences,” as we often refer to rabbinical prohibitions, were best left open? What if there is no reason not to top my chicken sandwich with melted cheese and wash it all down with a chocolate milkshake? Am I a hypocrite or just a culinarily deprived fool? What if G-d laughs when we arrive in heaven, each balancing bags of Ase and Lo Tase mitzvot garnered by following a bunch of rabbis to the left and then to the right until we were spinning in circles? Should order reign over reason? Tradition trump responsibility?

This brings me to the ride I mentioned. My stepfather, a teacher and dedicated chauffer for his children (and now grandchildren), shared more than traffic reports and a love of “Imus in the Morning” as he drove me to and from school every day. He imparted thoughts on life, liberty and the sorry state of writing skills among high school students. On one such ride he noted that, with regard to religious practices, he believed that if actions he took as a religious Jew caused no harm to others, and further, improved or enhanced the lives of those around him… it was all good.

So how much is gained or lost in daily life by following the directions of other human beings? I find the rabbinical laws, be they arbitrary or G-d-sent, do not negatively impact my life and for the most part are designed to positively affect the lives of those around me. In fact, I find great comfort in knowing that when faced with a proverbial crossroad, I can make a decision guided by the wisdom of others.

So the same way that I brake for a stop sign even on an empty street or wait in line for the ladies room when the men’s room is empty… I often do not really care whether every rabbinical decree is “right.”

But fasting, I do care. I hate it. I challenge the notion. It does not bring me to a higher spiritual level, nor help me ponder the pain of my ancestors. I do not feel it makes me a better person. It makes me nervous, tired, dizzy, angry and … it forces me to ponder in frustration.

Fasting conjures my doubts. It compels me to contemplate my commitment. To wonder why I follow this “rule” I am so unsure of and by association, the thousands of others provided by the same sources. And ultimately, to surrender, each time I fast, to the fact that in total, I do respect the interpretations of our Rabbeim. I appreciate the rules and restrictions and the freedom they paradoxically avail. I realize that I am a person of faith, not blind faith, but thoughtful faith. Hungry still for the something that religion provides.

And hungry for that apple on the table before me. There is more to say, but the fast is ending, and I can now think of nothing more than that apple on the table, the pizza that will follow and the ice cream that is calling me back to the distractions of every day.

Ilya Welfeld stops to cherish the chaos, writing about balancing work, life and faith for The Jewish Star. Share your thoughts with her at ilyawelfeld@gmail.com.

Remembering Ellie

It was about this time last year. E had gone into the hospital for stomach surgery. A bowel obstruction. A few months later we stood by her grave, hurting as her three-year-old yelled the impossible questions above our sniffles, “Why they putting my Momma down there? Is Momma in there?”

The days I spent with her in the hospital are not hazy. Not really the blur you expect one year later. Crystal clear instead. Her nearly unrecognizable face, swollen with fluid, her untamed eyebrows and grey hair roots signaling the time since she’d been “free.”
As her husband interviewed nannies with urgency, I walked the hospital halls with a potential candidate’s toddler, purporting to keep her company as she kept mine.

By the time we let E go, it was a relief. Stomach surgery such as hers can be routine. But nothing for E was routine. Born with a congenital illness, my childhood friend lived a life I dare not imagine.

On the first day of third grade, E, a gap-toothed eight-year-old welcomed me with a huge smile and a thermos of mysterious enzyme drink. An empty desk pushed opposite hers seemed to be waiting for me. At eight, E wore her illness on her sleeve, but it was like a small pocket there, sometimes overflowing, but often unnoticed, blending into the fabric of the bright eyed, old-souled child she was. It was one of the first things we discussed, on par with Judy Blume and first crushes.

By the time we were nine another classmate “S” announced to the lunchroom that her mother was a nurse who said E would die as a teenager. I ran after E as she went crashing through the bathroom doors and into a stall to cry. She stunned me by explaining the horrible prediction was likely a fact. But we were kids and went on to fumble our way together through puberty with interludes during which she spent several weeks each year in the hospital “recharging.”

Decades later, when I visited E in her Riverdale apartment, looking so cool in her cute jeans and long hair, refereeing toy tug-of-war between our two babies, I felt like we were sticking it to “S” and her nurse mother. I was mesmerized and befuddled by her each time we spoke, enjoyed sushi, or compared novels. I enjoyed being her “chariot ride” away from the NYC hospital that cared for her each time she needed treatments. A social worker by trade, the master’s degree she earned was only a mark of distinction for those who did not know her. She was a born listener, always able to offer firm guidance with a snarky humor. E would have made an unrealistic character in a novel, a girl who faced death at every turn but knew she deserved the education, the guy, the house, the kids and even the cats. One would have to suspend disbelief to imagine her world.

For the last years of her life, E lived states away. The day before she moved, I hijacked her for a makeover at Bloomingdales and wondered as I dropped her off at home whether I would see her again. It was always like that, each time we parted, I wondered. Over the years, we bridged the gaps created by children, jobs, and ultimately the distance of her move midwest with the wonder of instant messaging. Late night chats were heady, a blend of parenting woes and work stress punctuated by frustration about the increasing challenges to her health.

Today I find myself looking at the SUV on my right or the dinner table to my left wondering – what loss have they sustained? And marveling that here we are, the living, inexplicably going about our daily activities, hopefully making the most of them as best as we know how. It’s so cliché to talk about what we’ve learned from those we’ve lost. E could have waited for the death she knew would come before she’d lived a full life. Instead she defined living as what we do when we make the most of every day we have.

Just before she went into the hospital for the last time, E saw the movie Up with her boys. She cried a little too much, a little too long. But this is the sentiment she shared with her friends later that week. “Thanks for the adventure. Now go have one of your own.”

In which flood could have put out fire

Published in The Jewish StarIssue of April 30, 2010/ 16 Iyar, 5770


I needed an egg. It was 47 minutes before Shabbos and the kugel batter was ready to go in the oven… if only it had an egg.

Stepping out the front door, I had to think fast. Head next door to the B’s? I had recently borrowed a candle…or five, just moments before it was time to light. Wouldn’t want them to think last minute pre-Shabbos preparation was typical over here.

Down the block to the E’s or the R’s? Probably not enough time, with the houses in between and the pleasantries that would be required.

Across the street to the J’s? They had newborn twins, a one-year-old and a three-year-old. But it was only an egg, so I crossed the street barefoot and knocked on the door.

Cue the harps.

The house was eat-off-the-floor immaculate with nary a teething toy in sight. Children with newly washed hair smiled at me from the sofa, just behind the bouquet of red roses sitting on the sill. The aroma of warm, freshly baked challah wafted through the living room, greeting me at the front door.

And of course, they were more than happy to oblige. I rushed back into my house, egg in hand, cracked, mixed, poured and cranked up the oven.

But that was last year…

…and I’d be lying if I said the neighbor’s serene scene inspired anything but awe.

Here, we still specialize in Frantic Fridays. I sometimes feel like I greet the Shabbat Kallah like a flustered lover, smoothing my hair and clothing after dealing dinner plates like playing cards and joining my husband in a well-rehearsed kitchen dance involving mini hotdogs, hotplates and fridge-light tapings.

Our weeks are packed with carpools, homework, groceries, cooking, laundry, little league and employment. Husband and I both squeeze in more work hours than I care to recount here. I say the work gets squeezed in, but those who juggle professional careers with family and religion know that everything gets squeezed. It is our exhausting reality, cherished if not always graceful.

Which brings me to last week.

I pride myself on being an organized, master multi-tasker, so when Father-in-Law stopped by on Friday afternoon, we chatted and I smugly baked a chicken, washed sweet potatoes, prepped a cholent, answered emails, mixed cookie batter and put portabella mushrooms in the broiler. When Husband came home, he took over the proceedings (which included plugging in the cholent pot I had left disconnected) and I raced into the home office to put out a client fire.


Until the smell of smoke brought me back to the kitchen.

Black clouds rippled from the stovetop and flames burst from inside when we opened the oven door. We led the kids out the back door and called the fire department. Shoeless on the front lawn, the children worried about favorite toys and I wondering if we’d have food for Shabbos…

“Which reminds me,” I said to my husband as I took mental inventory of the various items in the oven, “I put some mushrooms in the broiler; they are probably ready by now.”

Moments later, when the fireman held charred tinfoil in his right glove and radioed the verdict to the dispatcher, “Portabellas in the broiler,” I felt like Gracie Allen. And, with the entire squad fewer than 10 feet away, I checked the time, proceeded to (casually as I could) pull five candles from a drawer, strike a match and light them one by one in candlesticks on the console. Three arm waves and a prayer later (two prayers actually, both the bracha and a request that I not be written up as a pyromaniac) and it was Shabbos. The nearly dozen firemen took their industrial fans, rolled their fireman eyes, swallowed their fireman smirks and departed.

The kids reveled in reliving the excitement and mocking my mushrooms during dinner. I noted that somehow most of the food was perfect – even enhanced slightly by the hint of smoke, when I realized that I had not given my daughter her bath.

“I know,” said Husband. “You left the water running.”

No recollection on my part.

“Upstairs? The bath?” he prodded. “When I went up to open windows and let out the smoke, I couldn’t help but notice the bathroom was flooded.”

Oh yes. The bath.

He applauded my trifecta (the cholent pot, the fire, the flood) and, G-d bless him, laughed with me. The kids joined in because kids love to see their parents laugh even if they don’t know exactly what is funny. And like every other week, the chaos melted into a cocoon.

Maybe I do need to multitask less. Maybe there is an easier way to manage it all.

Perhaps, if I am honest, there is a part of me that savors the sharp contrast, the wonder of going from total Tohu Va’vohu to a little bit of Gan Eden on earth each Friday night.

Or maybe, I just need more sleep.

“Good Night, Gracie,” I thought to myself as I got into bed. “Good night, Gracie, and good Shabbos too.”

Ilya Welfeld, stops to cherish the chaos, writing about balancing work, life and religion for The Jewish Star. Email her at ilyawelfeld@gmail.com.

Opening the Door

by Ilya Welfeld
Issue of March 26, 2010/ 11 Nissan 5770


As I wind down from some frenzied Pesach prep it is with a sigh of relief and fair measure of guilt that Passover in my home differs rather drastically from that of my childhood.

Surrounded by good food and a motley crew of family friends, I often felt like a polite spectator at what could have been a precursor to reality TV. Most years, my ever-patient, deeply knowledgeable and good spirited stepfather would answer endless questions, settle raucous debates, sing himself hoarse, toast my mother and down the four obligatory glasses of wine … probably more obligatory than I imagined at the time.


Our tiny home played host to an-ever evolving crew of the downtrodden. Each year, the cast changed slightly but, without fail, those most in need of open arms and warm kneidelach would find their way to our doorstep where they would join the regulars: four children of a single mother, two ex-wives of abusive husbands, three recent converts, a non-Jewish neighbor, an ex-con and his family.

Newly observant (my mother, brother and I joined my stepfather on the journey when I was mid-elementary school) I was sorry my beloved aunts, uncles and cousins rarely partook in the ritual festivities. But my parents made quite the effort to fill our home with celebration. Eager newbies, we took to heart the charge to open our doors for the lonely, tired and poor of our community (Kohl Difchin…) And we took care to race through Shfoch Chamatcha without translation, taking into account my funny, non-Jewish best friend, invited in part because my parents knew I would be in need of some comic relief.

Even at the time, I was immensely proud of my parents for fulfilling the mitzvah of V’ahavta L’reacha, and each year, my heart would tug as I thought about the challenges faced each day by our guests. It was so easy to appreciate all I had, when witnessing their gratitude in the face of such troubles.

Yet, I often dreaded those nights; I remember joking that I was partaking in the mitzvah of experiencing the pain of leaving Egypt. I was somewhat jealous of the brilliant postulations offered by our young guests, exhausted by their tireless questioning and toneless singing and more than a little resentful of the attention so kindly dolled out by my parents during sedarim that often lasted mercilessly into the wee hours of the night. I smiled, tried to keep my eyes open and helped shuttle soup and sweet potato casserole to and from the kitchen, all the while longing for a quiet, drama-less, family-only seder culminating in a pre-midnight Chadgadya.
Now, a parent myself, I am still surprised that my husband and I are old enough to hold a seder, let alone host family of our own. We celebrate with three and even four generations, sometimes at my parents’ (they have retired from hosting the world) or in-laws homes and sometimes in ours. Here, we have created our own traditions. I like to fill the table with plastic cattle and throw little green frogs and toy vermin around from time to time.

I set blocks in the living room so the younger children can build pyramids while we read through Magid. We even walk through a sea of parted blue cellophane before we break out the brisket. In time, these antics will soon annoy and embarrass my children and our sedarim will surely evolve.

But for the time being, these are intimate, family affairs, full of little questions from small children eager to lean to the left, sip sugary grape juice and stay up past bedtime. Yet each year, another question lingers in my mind, am I depriving my children of the experience I once resented? Surely my kids have fewer questions about the agenda of the night because they benefit from a yeshiva education. They and their peers are blessed to ask questions from the perspective of children who know, who believe and who are secure. And these blessed facts sometimes make me wonder whether as we open the door for Elijah, leave the glass on the table … they feel less in need of salvation, less beguiled by the possibility of an open door than did I, new to it all, surrounded by those in real pain and need for more.

So as I switch dishes and swap pans I am struck by how honestly grateful I am to my parents for opening the door of our small home to let the needy in … and the world with it. I hope that while I may not yet have the proclivity to invite the downtrodden en masse to my table, I might be able to impart to my children some of the empathy learned in my youth.

My wish this year for my children and for everyone else who is safe and sound is that, without suffering ignorance, loss or pain you may learn to love and appreciate the freedom to retell our story, practice our religion and ask questions. And that each year, you may exercise the right, the obligation, to look around the table and to appreciate the food, the traditions, the history and whatever motley crew surrounds you.

This Little Piggy Went to Shul

Published in The Jewish Star
Issue of March 5, 2010/ 20 Adar 5770

When my friends were dressing as Queen Esther, I donned red spots and a long tail and went to school as Vashti. So I get it. I get not wanting to dress like Esther, despite the fact that she was both beauty queen and brave heroine – the stuff of Disney dreams. I enjoy originality and surprise in daily life. And to this day, I am nearly as excited as my children when I dress up for megilah reading on Purim.

Between the fantastic story, the costumes and the candy, it is no wonder Purim ranks high on the list of holidays for young children. While the kids were counting down the hours until Purim last week, my 8-year-old explained that we dress in costume to conceal our identities as a reminder that Hashem hid his face (hester panim) and his involvement in rescuing the Jews from Haman. We discussed the fact that even without obvious signs, like the splitting of a sea, if we pay attention, we can witness Hashem’s miracles even today.

My husband and I set guidelines for Purim costumes: no guns, no swords, no guts and no gore. And each costume must meet with our approval. The boys have been through the drill before, so our 2010 Purim costume pursuit ended rather safely for them, with one confirmed football player and one eager alien. However, we were a tad unprepared for the challenge presented by our 3-year-old daughter. She wanted nothing to do with Queen Esther or Cinderella, Dora or Daisy. Instead, she insisted, repeatedly, that she would only be a pig for Purim.

The child in question is inexplicably obsessed with pigs. Pink pigs, black pigs, clean pigs, muddy pigs, stuffed pigs and live pigs. They are all “soooo cute” in the eyes of our little beholder.

I take some responsibility. I gave each of my children a super soft, large Ganz plush stuffed animal at birth. A blue bear and faded-purple hippo, both with frayed satin paws, are now cherished old friends. By the time our daughter was born, Ganz was no longer making these plush animals so I hit the laptop to search for discontinued toys. Google’s top-secret algorithm sleuthed … a pink pig. It wasn’t the ideal choice but it seemed to be the last Ganz on earth and I wanted her to have it.

As expected, “Piggy” served an important role as the first stuffed pet. But, unlike her predecessors, Piggy seems to have inspired a deep love of all things swine for my daughter. Over the years, family and friends have indulged and enabled, and now we have an impressive collection of pigs, plastic, plush, battery-operated, singing (Elvis songs) and dancing pigs. What more could a girl want?

A pig costume, of course.

While the plethora of pig paraphernalia leads me to believe she is not the only young child enchanted by pigs, something tells me she may be the only Orthodox Jewish toddler to find such favor in swine.

In truth, pigs have been a dirty little family secret of late. When our daughter came home from school last year in a panic that Old McDonald no longer had pigs on his farm, we learned that the Israeli day care preferred not to even acknowledge the existence of the breed.

Evidently, our day care is not alone and pigs have been banished from the vernacular in schools from Borough Park to Bergenfield. As a matter of fact, in Israel, where pig-related laws come straight from the Knesset, it is illegal to raise pigs and they are often referred to by euphemism as “white meat.” (Once, while at a fleshig kosher restaurant in Israel, my stepfather, aiming for an order of chicken, requested “white meat,” to the horror of his waiter.) As noted by Daphne

Barak-Erez, author of “Outlawed Pigs: Law, Religion, and Culture in Israel,” the pig is no more un-kosher than a bunny rabbit or even the Hoopoe, Israel’s state bird.

“The Torah does not set apart the pig as uniquely abhorrent,” she writes.
Nonetheless, pigs have come to represent all things treif.

With this in mind, I wondered how everyone would react if we brought a little piggy to shul? I did what every good Jew should do and asked a rabbi whether pigs are off-limits entirely, or just for eating. And then I did what every good Jew should not do… and asked another rabbi, and another and another. Luckily for me, each rabbi gave the same answer. A pig costume would be fine. I was thrilled. If I am honest, I think it is hysterical that she loves pigs and have been a willing enabler of the unfortunate obsession.

So with some help from Amazon.com, we escorted our pro-football player, alien and proud little piggy to shul. I totally shepped some nachas that what she lacked in jewels and sparkle, she made up for with spunk and originally. While friends did chuckle (and her great-grandmother feared for future shidduchim) no one seemed offended by her choice.

By the time we left shul, it was way past our daughter’s bedtime and she was pooped. As the carnival music faded behind us, I watched her waddle through the snow holding her tail with one hand while trying to keep up with her brothers. We followed them by a few steps and though they were all still in disguise, I saw under a football helmet, an alien mask and soft pig ears — the miracles that are part of my every day.

Truth or Dare Shabbat Edition

Published by The Jewish Star
by Ilya Welfeld
Issue of February 19, 2010/ 6 Adar 5770

“Mommy. What do you love more? Your kids or Shabbos?”

My six-year-old stared at me with expectant eyes from across the table. He gloated a bit in anticipation…figured he had me. And he was right. After a few helpless glances at my husband, I conceded, “I’m out.” I felt I couldn’t respond in honesty to this question of truth without great risk. He giggled triumphantly as imaginary images from Jewish history flickered through my brain.
We were playing our usual Friday night game of Truth or Dare, and as always, the kids surprised me with their creative challenges. The same six-year-old had just completed a round of pushups followed by his brother’s admission that he didn’t actually “hate” school. I stood up to clear the table for dessert.

I realize that condoning (read: encouraging) ‘Shabbos Truth or Dare’ may not make me eligible for the Jewish Mother of the Year Award; but allow me to explain.

Several months ago, on a Friday night, our third grader mentioned that a classmate had dared him to do something gross. Said son however, explained that he doesn’t “do dares.” I shepped some nachas, taking pride in his maturity and self-confidence, before suddenly remembering myself hunched in the dark basement of a classmate’s house, knots in my stomach, panicked over an impending junior high school dare. My son, at eight, felt protected from peer pressure. I decided this would be as good a time as ever to add some armor to that shield. As the kids ate dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets, I told them about a game they would likely be invited to play as they got older. They wondered how I could know what would happen in the future, but they took my word; I am their mother, after all, and they are all still young.

I told them there would come a time when friends will challenge them to a game of “Truth or Dare.” My husband and I tried to explain the way the game works but while our three-year-old daughter loudly repeated “Troof or Dare,” the boys remained baffled. They couldn’t grasp the finer points so I offered examples, underscoring the fact that if a friend should ever suggest they do anything that makes them uncomfortable — they must simply say no. No to anything remotely dangerous (agreement); no to hurting someone else (agreement again); and no to kissing a girl (cheers).

I am not exactly sure how we went from the explanation to active play but we did. And in that first Friday night game of Truth or Dare, I confessed my adoration for chocolate over candy, ran 20 laps around the living room while nearly exploding with laughter and confirmed, with relief, that our children are still a safe distance from developing kiddie crushes. Both boys bailed out by the time we dared them to down some broccoli, but I realized that this game might have a place at our table in the years ahead. Would Shabbos Truth or Dare with willing parents provide the perfect forum for honest discussion with a balancing dose of fun?

I assumed it would be quite some time before we got to the deep questions that parents both hope and hate for the their children to ask. But I was wrong.

“Mommy. What do you love more? Your kids or Shabbos?” asked the six-year-old last Shabbos.

Once we tucked them into bed, I thought more about the question and how I might have answered. If I’d told them I loved them more than Shabbos, would they one day hold that against me in the face of a future mini religious rebellion? And how could a mother say she loves anything more than her children? A day? A moment repeated each week? No, it would be impossible to tell a child that he was not more beloved than all things in the world, right?

Yet keeping the Sabbath is on G-d’s Top Ten list and an intentional violation merited death by skilah (stoning), back in the day. I had just finished reading the third in the Rashi’s Daughter’s trilogy, an easy and enjoyable read punctuated by little things like the First Crusade, during which mothers stabbed their children rather than letting them fall prey to Christianity. Was my son asking whether I loved Hashem more than my children? Whether I would forsake one for the other? Surely not, but, in a way …wasn’t he?

On the other hand, (intended nod to Tevye) could I tell my children I love them more than all things? More than the Sabbath that Hashem commanded us to keep? More than the Creator who blessed us with these same children to cherish and love? And isn’t it a little bit true? Don’t I love Shabbos because of the time it avails me with my children, love it because of them and not actually independently from them?

So while at first I thought I had stumbled upon a game that would offer moments of absolute truth to my children, I see there will be questions that we as parents will not answer. But maybe it is the asking that matters more.

And so now, on Friday nights, along with sharing divrei Torah from the weekly parsha and granting one shining moment for each and every tree-killing school project completed that week, together as a family, we face the truth.
I dare you to try this at home.

Ilya Welfeld, stops to cherish the chaos, writing about balancing work, life and religion for The Jewish Star.