This Too Shall Pass -- גם זה יעבור

         One day, King Solomon decided to give his most trusted minister, Benaiah ben Yehoyada, a task, to see how trust-worthy he really was. He said to him, "There is a certain ring that I want you to bring to me. I wish to wear it for Sukkot which gives you six months to find it." 
         "If it exists anywhere on earth, your majesty," replied Benaiah, "I will find it and bring it to you, but what makes the ring so special?" 
         "It has magic powers," answered the king. "It can make the happiest man in the world sad, and the saddest man in the world happy." Solomon knew that no such ring existed in the world, but he wished to see how ambitious his most trusted minister really was. 
         So, the Benaiah set out to find Solomon his ring. Spring passed and then summer, and still Benaiah had no idea where he could find the ring. He searched far and wide: at expensive jewelry shops and ring makers. Nobody had any idea where to find such a ring.
         On the night before Sukkot, he decided to take a walk in one of he poorest quarters of Jerusalem. He passed by a merchant who had begun to set out the day's wares on a shabby carpet. "Have you by any chance heard of a magic ring that could make the happy wearer forget his joy and the broken-hearted wearer forget his sorrows?" asked Benaiah. 
         The merchant thought for a minute. Then Benaiah watched the old man take a plain gold ring from his carpet and engrave something on it. When Benaiah read the words on the ring, his face broke out in a wide smile. 
         That night the entire city welcomed in the holiday of Sukkot with great festivity. "Well, my friend," said Solomon, "have you found what I sent you after?" All the ministers laughed and Solomon himself smiled. 
         To everyone's surprise, Benaiah held up a small gold ring and declared, "Here it is, your majesty!" As soon as Solomon read the inscription, the smile vanished from his face. The jeweler had written three Hebrew letters on the gold band: ג (gimel), ז (zayin), י (yud), which began the words "גם זה יעבור" (Gam zeh ya'avor) -- "This too shall pass." 
         At that moment Solomon realized that all his wisdom and fabulous wealth and tremendous power were but fleeting things, for one day he would be nothing but dust.



So, to everyone who reads this, and to everyone who has gone through the horrible tragedy that I have this summer, always remember that however hard it may seem, גם זה יעבור. This too shall pass.

72 Strong

         Right now, I'm not entirely sure what to say. However, what I am sure of is that I have to say something. I can't just take this in silence.


         I returned to my home yesterday, and I know that I have changed. I know that things around me have changed. It felt empty this morning when Lauren or Alex or Rosie wasn't standing over me telling me to wake up. It felt empty without 11 other girls waking up around me. I don't know what to do with myself now, and I'm not sure how to handle the outside world yet.
         In my mind, I have a pretty decent grip on things. But in reality, I hardly know anything. I don't know what people will say and I don't know what people will think. Frankly, I'm scared. I don't want to face the outside world. I'll still stand up and be strong, but I don't know how long I can keep up the act that everything's simply okay. Because it's not.


         As some of you may know, a terrible tragedy occurred this past summer (6-19-11). (And this is where I don't know what to say.) I'll say that my summer was unforgettable.
         Andrew Silvershein, otherwise known as Sunshine, made up part of our Gesher. He was part of our 72. But the thing is, he's still part of that 72. We all are, no matter how far apart we may be. He was and is a defining part of our Gesher. We will always remember him as the amazing person that he was.
         At this point in time, I'm not willing to tell the story. I'm not ready to do that. Right now, I'm raw emotion, and I'm not ready to expose that. I have to face myself before I can face the rest of the world. So, this is all that I'm willing to say right now.
         We just all have to remember that we are Gesher '11. And we will always be 72 Strong.

Believe in the sun, even when it is not shining                                         מאמין בשמש גם כשהיא לא זורחת       

Post 4: The Unknown Soldier (page 274)

            I'm not quite sure what this story is about, and I think that's the way it's supposed to be. I both liked and disliked this passage. Each paragraph has a theme of it’s own and they tell a story in themselves. Each sentence is like a story of it’s own. You can link sentences in each paragraph to ones in the previous. This is a unique style of writing that makes you really wonder what’s going on. You never really find out because you have too many contradicting answers to choose from.

This story was very difficult to follow because it really didn’t make much sense. The subject and story changed in every sentence, which made it nearly impossible to understand. To follow the story, you can’t follow the direct information; you have to follow the theme of each paragraph. For example, in the first paragraph, it has a series of sentences starting with “The last thing I saw was…” This implies that the man is dying. So, that would be your first theme and the first piece of the story. At least, this is what I tried to do to follow the story (and it still didn’t work very well).

One thing I did like about this story, however, was how it made you want to keep reading. Since it jumped around so much, you wanted to see if it ever came to an end. You wanted to see if it ever resolved or started to make sense at one point or another. (It never did.) But it did leave a lot of room for imagination.

That’s one thing I would change about this story if I were the one writing it: I’d have a solid resolution. The point of a story is to tell the reader a story. If the reader can’t follow what you’re telling them, there’s not really much of a story.

Post 3: The Tefillin that Ties us Together

The shel yad. The box pointing towards your heart, the prayer pointing towards your heart, wrap it around the top of your left arm. Wrap tightly. Tightly enough so that it leaves an imprint when you take it off. Now wrap it. Two times on the upper part of your arm. Now move to the forearm. Wrap. Seven times around. Only seven. Whisper the prayer as you count. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Wrap it around your hand and hold it. For now, just hold it.


         My family moved to the United States three to four generations ago. We lived in mostly Russia and some in Germany and Hungary. We got out before things got bad. Before World War II, before the Holocaust really got bad, we got out. That's why we're still here.
         But this move did not come without consequence. Names were changed. Friends were lost. Family. Lost. The immigration officials changed our names. But they could not change who we were. And no one can change who we are now.


The shel rosh. Out of the bag it comes. The smell of old leather fills the air. Remove the casing and unwrap. State the prayer, kiss, and place. On your head. The box resting gently and lightly on your forehead. The prayer silently sleeping inside. The straps trail down your shoulders. Always a reminder above your eyes.


         My name is Hadassah Michal Lipnick. His name is Jesse August Lipnick. Her name is Corinne Elise Lipnick. But they are not. Not really. He is not Jesse August Lipnick; he is Yishai Ari ben Baruch v'Chaya Tova. She is Not Corinne Elise Lipnick; she is Tzipporah bat Patiel v'Feina Surra. And I am not Hadassah Michal Lipnick; I am Hadassah Michal bat Yishai Ari v'Tzipporah.
         Our family goes back generations and generations. On and on. So do our names. We can never run away from our culture. We can never run away from our heritage. It is embedded in our names. It is embedded in our lives. It helps define who we are. It is part of our pride. It simply is who we are.
         My brother and I are the most recent generation in our family. We have begun to abandon out religion. Begun to ignore our heritage, our culture. Camp reels me back in. Unfortunately, I fear that there is nothing left to keep him with us anymore, at least in that sense.


The shel yad. Back to your hand. Only unwrap what is there. What's on your arm does not change. Wrap around the back of your hand and through the center of your palm once. The beginning of the shin. Over your ring finger and around your middle finger. Now around just your middle finger. Daled. One more time, around your middle finger. Yud. Back over your ring finger and around the bottom of your hand. Wrap once more around the back of your hand. In the center. The end of the shin. Wrap until the strap runs out. Done.
Look. Shin daled yud: Shadai, one of the names of God. This is holy. This is given to us and commanded unto us:
"You shall bind them as a sign upon your hand, and they shall be a reminder above your eyes."


Kippah on your head. Tallit around your back. Shel yad at your heart. Shel rosh above your eyes. Bend. Bow. And up again. Pray. This is the tefillin that ties us together.

.שמע ישראל יהוה אלהינו יהוה אחד

"Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is One."

Post 2: Camp--My Home

It’s my home.  Ever since I was a little girl, this is where I’ve gone.  Just about every summer, without fail.  I met my best friend here.  You can’t miss him: the kind of short one; crazy as anything.  I met him in the Beitam.  I was just sitting there on the bleachers when he walked up and said hi.  I had met him before, but never thought much of him.  He’s now the one person in my life who I have no secrets with.  We tell each other everything.

We spent that summer linked as if we were conjoined twins.  In the Hadar, we were forced to be separated.  But that was only meal times.  When it was swim time, he had to go to the pool when I had to go to the lake and he had to go to the lake when I had to go to the pool.  Ah, the lake.  Murky and cold.  The blob was everyones favorite.  The water trampoline just hovering out in the middle, all alone.  The canoes and kayaks littered across the smooth surface.  I never really went in.  I always sat on the side playing cards with my friends.

In later summers, Macom Nachshonim was our favorite spot to go.  People were almost never there.  It was our spot.  It was special.  We went there whenever we could: hill time, perech zien, and even on Shabbat.  The memories it brings back are wonderful ones.

Then there was the tree house.  The opposite of Macom Nachshonim.  You know, out by the baseball field.  On the far side of the lake.  I know you’ve been there.  How could you not have been?  People were always there.  Everyone knew the spot.  We would come here to tell stories and relax.  People never believed us when we told them that we had just been talking.  That was because we were always late for services.

I showed him my secret places.  It always seemed as if they were hidden deep in the woods, yet, in reality, they were almost in plain sight.  It was like magic.  You could see out, but they couldn’t see in.  Six Chairs.  There were so many rumors about this spot.  I doubt many of them even happened.  But they make good stories.

Havdalah.  The one experience of camp you can never forget.  The sun has set and the whole camp joins in song.  You hug you neighbors, even if you don’t know them. The Sabbath is over.  The camp breaks out in song and dance.  These moments define camp.  These, you can never forget.  This experience cannot even be described in words.  And I am ashamed of myself for attempting to do so.  Seeing the Gesher kids cry on their last Shabbat.  They will not return the next year.  This is the end for them.  It has been a great ride though.  And it was all worth it.

This is camp.  This is my home.

Post 1: Saba's Funeral

         We arrived and she welcomed us into her home.  She had been crying; we could tell.  The rest of the family arrived over the next few hours and we sat and socialized.  A man entered whom I did not recognize.  He was there to tell us what was planned for tomorrow: the day of the funeral.

         We sat in the back room all huddled together.  Some of us were crying already.  She wasn’t yet.  I watched as they went through the traditional ceremonies: my dad ripped Saba’s tie (he was wearing it) but my grandma, she ripped the black cloth that had been given to her.  They would never throw these things away.  Tradition.
         It was time.  Grammy leading, we entered the sanctuary.  In it, sat 3,000 people, there to comfort us.  They were there for closure.  They were there for her; we all were.
         The eulogies began (there were seven total) and tears started streaming down her face.  Hour after hour, we sat there listening to what they had to say about him.  It was all an understatement.  My saba was an amazing man, and no words could express that.
         It was my brother’s turn.  Of all the cousins, he had been chosen.  He was the one with the closest link to Saba.  He didn’t talk for long, maybe ten minutes at most.  But what he had to say was the most important, most meaningful thing we had heard all day.
         Towards the end, he began to weep.  My brother!  Crying?  It was unheard of!  Here he was, in front of 2,500 people. (Many people had left, but the people who needed to hear it were still there).  Here he was, the one person who had tried for so long to not show weakness or emotion.  Here he was, crying.  In front of 2,500 people.  But right now, being here, that didn't matter at all to him.
         It meant the world.  When he returned to his seat, we surrounded him, congratulated him, comforted him.

         At the cemetery, we shoveled in the dirt.  She did all three of hers with the back side of the shovel.  Tradition.  It was to show our reluctance to let go.  Symbolism.  The mud made it difficult; I could barely do one scoop backwards, but I managed.  My cousin, Josh, tossed in a note.  He needed that last goodbye.  Symbolism.  I, being the youngest cousin, grandchild, was told that I was to keep and tell all the stories of my saba.  Tradition.  There were so many, but others wold help me.  I just knew it.

         Back at home, we sat Shiva for the week.  Tradition.  I couldn't stay at home this week, but I came back every day for the service.  We covered the mirrors, all of them.  Tradition.  People would come over every night.  We, with them, would pray.  Tradition.  They wore the black cloths they had ripped; the tie.  Tradition.  They brought us food so we could focus on what really mattered: Saba.  Tradition.  People would apologize: "I'm sorry." "I'm so sorry for your loss."  Nothing.  This isn't about me.  Don't be sorry.  Don't be sorry!  Be glad that he had a long, fulfilling life.  He died doing something that he loved.  Isn't that good enough?  He had said his last goodbyes.  He had moved on.  So shouldn't we do him that one last favor and do the same?  And if not for him, then for us.


Sadness.  Closure.  Symbolism.  Tradition.  Here.  Gone.  Nothing.