October 12, 2026 · 7:30 am

The Calling, a Triptych

by Barbara Krasner (Somerset, NJ)

I.

I can still see the cardboard box my father brought to me when he cleaned out his father’s house in late 1969 after my grandfather’s death at ninety-three. I can still see the curled edges of sepia photographs, fading penciled names and places in Yiddish or Cyrillic or German or Polish. I couldn’t read any of those languages then. I can now. I can still see myself on our playroom sofa rifling through the box. Saying to my father, I don’t know who any of these people are. He stashed the box in the basement boiler room.

II.

It has been thirty-five years since I visited his house looking for that box. He turned to me and said, The boiler burst and the room flooded. I felt sick, nauseated, that all that history was gone. My grandfather, being the last of his generation to pass, held onto these artifacts. Irreplaceable. 

I miss the way my father and I talked about his family’s history on the way home from monthly Jewish Genealogical Society meetings. How I could tease out his passive knowledge by offering a bit of what I knew. I am the only person in the family now who knows where our grandparents are buried. The only one who’d been there, placed stones on their graves in remembrance, honoring their memories.

III.

How lucky it was my father and I had that time together. How lucky it was his mother came to America in 1913, before the Great War that drove her family into safety’s diaspora. Before Soviet occupation drove her brother to a Siberian labor camp and Nazi occupation carried the others away, never to return. How lucky it is, dear ancestors, that I am the one you’ve tasked with remembering.

Barbara Krasner holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts and a PhD in Holocaust & Genocide Studies (HGS) from Gratz College, where she teaches in the HGS graduate programs. The author of two poetry chapbooks and three novels in verse, her work has appeared in Jewish Literary Journal, Tiferet, Minyan, Jewishfiction.net, Michigan Quarterly Review, and elsewhere. She serves as Director, Mercer County (NJ) Holocaust, Genocide & Human Rights Education Center.

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October 5, 2026 · 7:30 am

At Sixteen

by Annette Friend

I tell my mother
my honest truth
edged with blades

from a teenage
tongue that knows
only a pinch of the life

my mother suffered.
I am blinded by
my good fortune,

sheltered behind the veil
of my birth here in America
not the streets of the shtetel

in Poland where she grew up,
facing famines and pogroms,
the horrors of World War I,

Russian soldiers pillaging
her small village, friends, family,
when they invaded.

I listen, but don’t hear
the sad stories she tells me,
surrounded by the glow of America

even if the streets she found
weren’t paved with gold.
I scream, I will date whom I choose,

a handsome Italian-Catholic boy
who looks like Paul McCartney
What does my mother know?

This is a new world.
I cut her to the quick
with my sharp knifed words,

standing here well-fed
and clothed in freedom,
instead of buried

in an unmarked green grave
of the Poland she left
now almost Judenfrei

free of Jews as Hitler wanted,
only because of her courage
to book passage in steerage

at sixteen.

Annette Friend, a retired occupational therapist and elementary school teacher, taught both Hebrew and Judaica to a wide range of students. In 2008, she was honored as the Grinspoon-Steinhardt Jewish Educator of the Year from San Diego. Her work has been published in The California Quarterly, Tidepools, Summation, The San Diego Poetry Annual, The Jewish Writing Project, and the Paterson Literary Review. In August 2025, Annette along with artist Judy Langhoff published a book of ekphrastic poetry and paintings titled Pen and Brush: In Contemplation. She was honored to be chosen for third prize for her poem, “The Salvation of Books, Newark, N.J., 1959” in the 2026 Allen Ginsberg Poetry Awards.

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September 28, 2026 · 7:30 am

Holding On

by Lillian Farzan-Kashani (Los Angeles, CA)

I pick up a dandelion

While missiles fly overhead

My 34th birthday may be next weekend

Though I try holding on to any semblance of innocence I can muster 

This life has become a complicated one 

Soldiers to protect and wars I don’t support 

Perhaps it was always this way

Though I may not have been privy to it

I have gotten better 

At placing down the weight of the world 

Reminding myself I am not the governing bodies

Nor people waging wars to sell their weaponry

I am but a person

Celebrating Persian new year 

Holding on to tradition while those in my motherland

Have been cut from the world for 3 weeks and counting 

Only a person

Running to the bomb shelter

Dog leash and water bottle in hand

Perhaps I dissociate daily from the reality of the situation

Perhaps this is how I survive the reality of the situation 

Holding onto joy where I can find it

Maintaining there is still good in people

Even the ones sending the bombs

I suppose anything is possible with empathy

If I could only stretch my mind enough

How I wish the tyrants would do the same

How I wish the simple people were treated as sacred 

Lillian Farzan-Kashani is an Iranian American and Jewish therapist, poet, and speaker based in Los Angeles, CA. Much of her work is rooted in being a child of immigrants and is reflective of her intersectionality. Read more about her professional and creative pursuits at https:www.lillianfarzan.com/

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September 22, 2026 · 7:30 am

My Sukkat Shalom

By Bob Canter (Monticello, FL)

A retiring teacher says goodbye to his long-time classroom

For years, I have had my personal “Sukkah.” It is a room in my synagogue. It is my Religious School classroom.

Not literally a “sukkah,” and certainly not a kosher one by the rules of how a real sukkah is to be constructed. My special sukkah is permanent, not temporary; no palm fronds or branches cover the ceiling, although I can see the stars by looking out the window. It has four walls, windows, and a door that I can shut and lock if I choose. It was there years before I arrived, and will remain years after I am gone.

Not exactly the kind of temporary structure our ancestors constructed in ancient days, and certainly not one with any kind of agricultural connection.

I do not “own” it, of course –- but then again – I do. I refer to it as “my” classroom, the same as a tenant might say “my apartment,” “my house,” or “my place.” You occupy it, you take care of it; you give it life, personality and purpose. It becomes “yours.”

It is my Sukkat Shalom, סכת שלום a shelter of peace.

Now, as I prepare to retire after 12 years of teaching in my current congregation and nearly 25 years as a Jewish Religious School teacher, I am savoring the last months in my Shelter of Peace. On Religious School days I arrive early – typically 45-60 minutes before class time. There is the obvious reason: To prepare for the day with photocopying and other routine duties. But I also use that time to sit and reflect. I recite the yotzer ohr יוצר אור blessing, which I teach my students, thanking God for a new day of life.

I am surrounded by, and immersed in, all things Jewish: Hebrew alef-bet charts and an Israeli flag adorn the walls. My classroom is packed with memories: photos, kids’ drawings, thank you notes and holiday cards my students made and proudly gave to me. Each one is a special memory and a humbling experience. I keep them all.

For me, my classroom is unique – there is literally no other place like it, nowhere else that can provide that level of comfort, peace, and serenity in a totally Jewish environment. It is my escape; my mental and physical sanctuary; a refuge of solitude.

***

On Yom Kippur we take a service break in the afternoon. During this time our synagogue arranges discussion groups. I have attended some in the past, but in recent years I have chosen to spend the service break time, typically 90 minutes, in my classroom, to sit, relax, and reflect on the meaning of the day. It renews me, physically as well as spiritually. I emerge stronger, ready for the afternoon, neilah, and concluding services, refreshed and renewed, perhaps, at least part, of what Yom Kippur represents.

***

No teacher literally “owns” his or her classroom. We are tenants. The “tenancy” may last one year or thirty, but inevitably it ends.

Now, after twelve years as a Religious School teacher, all in the same room, I have elected not to renew my “lease.” I’m moving on, and will clean out so the room will be ready for my successor, the next “tenant.” Some of the objects that provided me with so much warmth and reassurance, such as the Hebrew alef-bet charts, books, and maps of Israel, will remain, hopefully to provide my successor with the same sense of purpose and security that I found in that special room.

Of the many relics, the most valuable and meaningful to me is a simple handwritten sign, one that I made years ago when I first started as a synagogue Religious School teacher, a famous saying from the Pirkei Avot: “As you teach, you learn.” I took that statement to heart from the first day I read it, and I live by it every day. We never stop learning, and my students have been my best teachers.

I did not build it, but together with my students we infused that special classroom with an abundance of life and personality. My classroom is a center of Jewish learning, teaching, fun and connection with kids and their families; my “Laboratory of Jewish Learning,” where I worked to instill and reinforce a sense of pride in my students’ Jewish identity, will ensure in a small way, I hope, the emergence of the next Jewish generation.

The adornments are important, but it is the people – plural – all of us, together, בּיחד — that bring life and meaning to the Jewish classroom.

May every teacher find his or her classroom as a Sukkat Shalom, a true Shelter of Peace.

Bob Canter retired in May, 2026 after 25 years as a synagogue religious school teacher, first at Congregation B’nai Tikvah in Walnut Creek, CA, and the last 12 years at Temple Israel in Tallahassee, FL. Bob and his wife live in Monticello, FL, where he serves on the City Planning Commission and substitutes in the Jefferson County Schools. He remains an active member of Temple Israel, including serving as President of the Temple Brotherhood.

You can read more of his work here: Hebrew: The Metric System of Languages — Transparent Language.com ; For Once, I Didn’t Feel Like a Minority:; and on My Jewish Learning, where he’s written a variety of essays on Jewish life in the South and on lessons that he learned in his religious school classroom.

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September 20, 2026 · 7:30 am

Shalom Aleichem

by Barbara Krasner (Somerset, NJ)

I say hello to you as I drive on the Garden State Parkway

that bisects the cemetery in Newark. I have not been to see you

in years. Visiting Day at the Grove Street Cemetery is only one day

a year, the Sunday between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.

You know the local police are there to protect you, but it’s too late.

The cemetery’s already been vandalized many times over.

I like to think only your decaying bodies lie in those caskets. 

Your spirit is still flying around, maybe inhabiting someone else.

That while I’m driving, you’re making a brisket or cutting up

onions and carrots for stew or soup. That while I’m driving

you’re thinking about your daughters and grandchildren

Over There, the ones you’ll never get to see again. That 

you still refuse to learn English and sometimes

you forget your teeth. I await your Aleichem Shalom.

Barbara Krasner is a New Jersey-based poet whose work has appeared in more than seventy journals, including the Jewish Writing Project, Minyan Magazine, Jewish Literary Journal, Vita Poetica, and Of the Book. Recent books include Insomnia: Poems after Lee Krasner (dancing girl press), The Wanderers: Poems (Shanti Arts), and the forthcoming Memory Collector (Kelsay Books).

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September 18, 2026 · 7:30 am

The Weight of Atonement: A Yom Kippur Turning Point

By Sherry Christiansen (Twin Cities, MN)

The medical-grade Velcro of my abduction sling made a sharp, sacrilegious ripping sound every time I adjusted my weight in the sanctuary seat. It was Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, and I was exactly three weeks post-op from a traumatic shoulder reconstruction.

Although I wasn’t raised Jewish and knew very little about my maternal family’s Jewish heritage growing up, my spiritual journey eventually led me to a year-long conversion and a deep love for Jewish life and tradition. 

I had developed a deep passion for Jewish prayer and tradition. The rhythm of the calendar. The meaning woven into each holiday. Even time itself seemed to carry purpose.

Just a month earlier, I had been the “perfect” conversion student—learning Hebrew transliteration for daily prayers, reading everything I could get my hands on about Jewish history and traditions, and even scouting apartments within walking distance of the synagogue so I could finally embrace a fully observant life.

Of all of the Jewish holidays, Yom Kippur drew me in the most. I loved reading about how the holiday helps us transcend our limitations, mistakes, and ego, offering a day where the evil inclination loses power. In Kabbalah, the esoteric side of Judaism, Yom Kippur connects Jews with their “neshama (soul),” also considered one’s truest essence or “spark of God.”

On a personal level, I was learning that Yom Kippur is a call to stop and take account of who I had been and who I wanted to become. Although it would be my first experience celebrating this holiest day, I intuitively knew that it would be significant, perhaps even life-changing.

Then came the fall. What should have been a simple misstep while watering plants turned into a sudden, forceful surge forward, as if pushed, sending me nearly nine feet from my patio onto the unforgiving concrete driveway. The injury was severe. Surgery followed. Just like that, the version of myself who had everything under control was gone.

The first thing that crossed my mind when I learned I needed surgery wasn’t the operation itself. It was the High Holy Days. I had worked too hard to let surgery pull me away from the most meaningful months of my conversion.

At first, I planned to postpone the surgery until after the holidays. My orthopedic surgeon quickly put an end to that idea. By the time I saw him, nearly two months had already passed since the injury, and he was concerned that waiting any longer could increase the risk of complications and compromise the outcome of the surgical repair.

It was my first real lesson in trusting that Hashem’s timing and my own plans were not always the same. Jewish law teaches that preserving life and health takes precedence over nearly every other commandment. So I took a deep breath, placed the decision in Hashem’s hands, and scheduled the surgery just days before Rosh Hashanah.

I convinced myself I would be “recovered” in time to fully participate in the High Holy Days. I  was wrong. Recovery would mean months of pain, an immobilizing sling, physical therapy, sleepless nights, exhaustion, and the emotional weight of losing my independence. Still, I was determined not to let the injury keep me from experiencing these sacred days. I arranged transportation, coordinated with my mentor, and did everything I could to be present for the most meaningful moments of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur services.

On Yom Kippur, many wear white to reflect purity, humility, and forgiveness, and to remind us that everyone stands equal before God. I stood among a sea of congregants dressed in white, swaying quietly in rhythm. The swaying, often done during prayer, helps bring the body into the words, deepening the focus, particularly during intense moments of reflection. The effect was powerful.

But I was unable to join that rhythm. 

Not just because this was my first Yom Kippur as a conversion candidate, but because I literally could not keep up.

The congregation rose for the Viduy, the confessional prayer, the core ritual of the service where we name our mistakes together while gently tapping the chest.

As the prayer opened, I stood along with everyone else. My surgical arm, balancing the Machzor (High Holy Day prayer book) on the back of the pew in front of me, felt like dead weight. Even the smallest movement strained the healing tendons and aching muscles. 

Supporting the book sent a dull, gripping ache through my upper arm and shoulder. I shifted constantly, trying to find a semi-comfortable position.

Within minutes, the strain in my neck from the constant pull of the sling and weight of the book forced me back into my seat. I scanned the room, hoping to find somewhere to rest the book. A lectern, a ledge, anything. Every surface was already in use.

So I stood again.

With my left hand, I began to tap lightly against my chest.

Once. Then again.

Slower than everyone else. Off-beat. A little unsure.

For a few seconds, I froze. Everyone around me seemed to move in quiet unison. Heads bowed. Hands rhythmically rising and falling against their chests. The sound was soft but steady, like a shared heartbeat.

I realized I could not match it. Not even close.

I paused, wondering if I should remain seated, then suddenly heard a voice inside that said, “Stop performing, just be here.”

And then something completely unexpected happened.

Unable to “do it right,” I stopped focusing on how I appeared. I stopped worrying about keeping pace.

Although my physical struggle continued, something shifted. I began to detach from focusing on the mechanics of the prayer and became immersed in a profound, quiet sense of release.

Tears welled unexpectedly. For the first time in my life, stepping outside my own self-consciousness, a sudden overwhelming wave of peace washed over me. I felt the quiet power of God’s forgiveness for His people, and somehow, despite my imperfections, for me as well. From that moment on, each phrase felt less like a recitation and more like a quiet admission. Not polished. Not practiced. Just real.

As I continued tapping my chest, my attention gradually shifted away from my physical discomfort. Instead, I became acutely aware of something else: a lifelong pattern of moving through my actions on autopilot, rarely pausing to truly own them. 

By the time the prayer ended, a profound shift occurred. It wasn’t a dramatic awakening or a jolt of ecstatic happiness, just a quiet, settled understanding.

When the service ended and people began filing out of the sanctuary, I stayed where I was for a moment longer. My arm still ached. Nothing about my physical discomfort had changed. But something inside me had.

That night I finally understood that the true gift of Yom Kippur is the invitation to show up in raw, unfiltered honesty. Not flawless observance. Not perfect performance. Just the willingness to stand before Hashem exactly as I was. The service unfolded in a way I never could have anticipated, quietly shaping me into someone more aware, more present, and, perhaps for the first time, willing to face myself honestly. 

As I stepped into the cool night air toward my waiting ride, my shoulder still ached, and my arm remained immobilized. Nothing about my physical condition had changed. But I had. I had shown up that night believing I needed to prove I belonged by doing everything right. I left understanding that sometimes the holiest thing we can bring before Hashem is not our strength, but our willingness to stand before Him exactly as we are. 

Sherry Christiansen is a veteran freelance journalist and writer with more than twenty years of experience covering health, wellness, mental health, and medicine. Her work has been published by Verywell Health, Medical News Today, NurseJournal.org, and other respected national health and medical publications. In recent years, her writing has expanded to include personal essays exploring Jewish mysticism, spiritual transformation, and the intersection of ancient wisdom with contemporary life. Her writing portfolio is available at https://slclynn12.journoportfolio.com.

Sherry follows the teachings of the Baal Shem Tov, founder of Chasidism, and draws inspiration from the spiritual legacy of Rebbe Nachman of Breslov. Those influences, together with her own conversion to Judaism, involving 12 months of formal study with a Conservative rabbi and regular Orthodox community involvement, inform her writing on faith, healing, resilience, and the sacred potential of everyday life.

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September 14, 2026 · 7:30 am

To My Best Knowledge, Judaism Is

by Claudine Nash (New York, NY)

an ancient thread

dyed in modern colors

woven into our every action

and outlook,             

to my best knowledge, Judaism is

the comforting cloth

that warms me upon waking,

the string that ties me

to every Jew who ever

stood at the footpath

of the mountain. To

my best knowledge,

Judaism is the fabric

of my family, it is

the holiness laced into

our everyday moments,

our rituals, meals, music,

worship and sacred

times and seasons, to my

best knowledge, it is

the stranger welcomed into

our tent, it is a quilt

of blessings.

Claudine Nash is an award-winning poet who lives and writes in New York.  She has authored five poetry collections, most notably Beginner’s Guide to Loss in the Multiverse (Blue Light Press, 2020) which won the 2020 Blue Light Book Award.  She has also edited three poetry collections and is a practicing psychologist. Widely published, her work has been nominated for the Pulitzer, Pushcart and Best of the Net prizes and briefly travelled through space as part of the Writers on the Moon time capsule of contemporary writing. 

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September 7, 2026 · 7:30 am

Tashlich

by Judith R. Robinson (Pittsburgh, PA)

We live the days

between the days

of awe and lamentation.

Down to the river’s edge

the pale rabbi treks, arrives,

sways, raises a fist

plump full of crumbs

to cast into the sparkling

current of hope.

Where are the fish?

Where are the fish big enough

to swallow these sins?

To eat our sins

and swim off, swim off, fish!

Take our sins with you!

Purify us, save us, 

let us begin again

souls washed clean again,

we pray 

       we pray 

             we pray

one more year 

         one more year 

                one more year.

Judith R. Robinson is an editor, teacher, fiction writer, poet and visual artist. A summa cum laude graduate of the University of Pittsburgh, she is listed in the Directory of American Poets and Writers. She has published 100+ poems, five poetry collections, one fiction collection; one novel; edited or co-edited eleven poetry collections. If you’d like to learn more about her and her work, visit her website: www.judithrrobinson.com

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August 31, 2026 · 7:30 am

Why I Joined a Chevra Kadisha

“The highest act of gemilut chesed is that which is done for the dead, for there can never be any thought of repayment”–Tanhuma Vayehi 107A

by Elliot Zashin (Merrillville, IN)

When I was invited by a longtime friend, a retired doctor and medical maverick, to join a non-orthodox chevra kadisha that was being organized in our area, I had little idea of what it entailed except that the chevra prepared bodies for burial. I felt that I should go to the meeting and find out—should because this was a service to our community and a serious mitzvah; should because I didn’t think I was afraid to see dead bodies close up and perhaps others would shy away.

I’d begun working as a Hillel student center director at this time (c. 1984) and I was more interested in all aspects of Jewish thought and practice than ever before. My work was not likely to involve funerals—my students were all young—but I wanted to be informed. Hillel directors often were rabbis and, not being a rabbi, I didn’t want to seem ignorant. I even considered taking chaplaincy training, and since there was no Jewish chaplain at our university-affiliated hospital, I offered to be available. So Jewish burial practices were not outside my purview. I also was aware that I had relatives whose lives might be ending in the coming years and thought this knowledge might be useful.

Prior to our first taharah (purifying ritual), my friend provided me with a booklet to review, as the procedure is fairly involved. I probably had some qualms after reading it —fear of the unknown, lack of familiarity with the texts—but the gathering was led by one of my friend’s colleagues, also a doctor who was Jewishly pretty knowledgeable, and one of the other “founders” of this group. They both seemed to have studied the rituals and presumably had already participated in several taharot.

Our team of five men was serious and methodical as we began the ritual. The “met” (pronounced “mate”), an elderly man, was naked—he seemed serene. At the outset, we read a number of blessings, then carefully washed his body, very reverentially, and patted it dry. We didn’t ask questions as we did the ritual ablutions and said the prayers, which my friend’s colleague instructed us to repeat, because this might have interfered with the solemnity of the taharah. There was a very specific order to the ablutions— with three whole buckets—and it is not to be interrupted, or the procedure must be repeated. This was the actual purification, or taharah.

Next, using various slipknots, we dressed the met in the ritual garments: a rough white cloth shirt, jacket and trousers, plus a sash, face cover, and kippah. These were supposed to recall the garments of the High Priest when he prepared to enter the Holy of Holies, the inner sanctuary of the Temple, on the Day of Atonement. 

I was already impressed with the seriousness of the ritual, but this feature added something more significant. I had no idea who this elderly man was or what kind of life he had led, but here he was being prepared as if he were the High Priest. I thought I was learning the Jewish way of death and I was very moved. In death, we are all equal and precious—even us ordinary Jews—and we can all be intermediaries for our fellow Jews. There was nothing to fear about the transition from life into the unknown; the met had a role to play and we had our assigned tasks. We were a team working together, helping each other perform the taharah correctly. After the dressing, we read a few more brief excerpts from Numbers, Psalms, and Exodus, then placed the met in the aron (casket), along with a tallit.

I don’t remember how long the whole procedure took, but it seemed far more than an hour, perhaps because three of us were novices. I had felt some tension – it was important that we do the ritual correctly. Yet at the same time, I felt a camaraderie with the other participants as we prepared a fellow Jew to make the final transition from life to death. As l relaxed at the end, I realized that Jewish death rituals are (or can be) communal and reflective, even ennobling.

Another aspect of the taharah appealed to me: we were informed that this was perhaps the only mitzvah for which one could not receive thanks from the recipient. Presumably the only motivation could be the satisfaction of helping a fellow Jew, any Jew—not because of who he was or any personal connection. Perhaps therein lies another bit of Jewish wisdom: Who are we to judge the worth of another human being on this most solemn occasions?

Elliot Zashin was a Hillel director for 13 years at 2 different campuses, after being an academic (political science) for almost 13 years (without tenure). While working for Hillel, he took an MA at the Jewish Theological Seminary during summer breaks.  (That is where he learned about the title Rabbi Ploni, and much else.)  He comes by his sense of Jewishness through his father, who was a self-taught Bible interpreter, leading sessions at the Jewish Home for the Aged in Tucson after he retired from a business in NYC, and who wrote a lot about current events, political issues, and essays usually imbued with Mosaic ethics.

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August 24, 2026 · 7:30 am

Zayda’s Kiddush Cup

by Janice Alper (San Diego, CA)

The small silver cup was stowed
in steerage, it sailed across
an ocean to a new home. It
overflowed with red wine
every Friday night. Zayda’s
hand never trembled as he
mumbled the blessing to usher
in Shabbat. Now I hold it in my
hand carefully, as the wine spills
over to the sixth generation.

Janice Alper writes poems, personal essays, and memoirs. Her work has appeared in the San Diego Poetry Annual, Bristlecone, and California Bards, and other places. She is the author of Sitting on the Stoop: A Girl Grows in Brooklyn, 1944-1957. Janice is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing/Poetry, from San Diego State University. Follow her at www.janicesjottings1.com

Editor’s note: “Zayda’s Kiddush Cup” was originally published on OftheBook (https://ofthebookpress.com) and is reprinted here with permission of the author.

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