During the early stages of the Covid pandemic, the BJBE clergy team wrote daily messages to comfort, strengthen, and inspire the congregation.

The best part of each day is our afternoon walk. At this point, both kids are up from their naps and have eaten. The grown-ups have done some dishes, folded laundry, showered, or talked about the Torah with a b’nai mitzvah student. If there’s no rain, we are getting out of the house. Snow? Not going to stop us. We are getting out of the house.

I strap the baby into the carrier, the toddler pops into the stroller, ready to report on each stop sign and birdie that he sees, and we are off. It’s the first time in the day that Gavi and I get to take a breath, put away all of our devices, and talk. Sometimes we laugh. Sometimes we talk about the news. Sometimes we just catch up on the stories and details about our family. Sometimes, we’re just quiet (or as quiet as we can be with a curious and chatty toddler).

We wave at people in their driveways. Nod at the family who is on the same walking schedule as we are. Track the blooming flowers along the route. Crisscross the street to leave appropriate distance from other people (and pets) getting in their outside time.

Each walk, there’s always stretch when we just walk down the middle of the street. There are no cars in sight and it feels oddly freeing to stroll down the middle of the meandering streets of our neighborhood. The neighborhood is quiet. It’s peaceful and freeing.

It reminds me of Shabbat in Jerusalem.

On Shabbat in Jerusalem, there are no cars on the roads, save the spare taxi flying down Emek Refaim. People are wearing khakis, an untucked button down, and sandals or a flowy, comfortable dress. There’s an energy as the city slows down for the Sabbath.

And back in Northbrook, when I start to wade into that nostalgia, I realize. This is not Shabbat. This is not a comfortable walk toward song and celebration. This is a moment of solace in the midst of a global crisis. Though I am enjoying time with my family, there are thousands if not millions of people around the world experiencing deep levels of grief and suffering.

Throughout the last few weeks, I’ve been riding a wave. At times, I feel buoyed by moments of joy, gratitude, and peace. And at other times I find myself in the depths, worried, frightened, and overwhelmed by the reality of the ongoing pandemic.

How odd to love the time with family, but to also know that this only exists because of destructive forces outside of our control?

Over the past few weeks, I’ve spoken with many of you. It sounds like we are riding this wave together. Celebrating the peaks, and muddling through the valleys. Passover made this all the more clear. At once gratitude for connecting with family and friends across the country and also mourning the loss of togetherness and beloved family rituals.

One of the most important things I’ve learned in my first few years in the rabbinate is that in moments of personal or communal crisis, everyone processes differently. It’s easy to look at the person next to us and be confused or even angry at the way they are reacting to a difficult moment. And more than that, it’s easy to be judgmental about the way we process ourselves. Why am I feeling X? I really should be feeling Y. Everyone else is doing A. Why am I still stuck feeling B?

Let’s banish the “should” and the “oughtas.” Let’s be gracious with ourselves and gracious with the people around us.

This moment that we are in is impossibly hard, and I just want to say…it’s okay. It’s okay to be sad. It’s okay to be happy. It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to laugh. It’s okay to feel despondent because of the suffering happening across the world. And it’s okay to love the walks. 

Shabbat Shalom,
Rabbi Fenster