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"The Basketball Game" is a graphic novel adaptation of the award-winning National Film Board of Canada animated short of the same name – intended for audiences aged 12 years and up. It's a poignant tale of the power of community as a means to rise above hatred and bigotry. In the end, as is recognized by the kids playing the basketball game, we're all in this together.

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Tag: family

Grandparent parents

This past summer, the topic of grandparents parenting their grandchildren was front and centre at the Jewish Child and Family Services Winnipeg (JFCS) annual general meeting. The Independent spoke recently with a couple of the participants in the June event.

Corinne Ackerman, 73, was joined by her husband, Harvey, 75, at the AGM. The couple has two grown children – a son who lives and works in Auckland, New Zealand, and a daughter who lives in Winnipeg. Seven years ago, their daughter’s family began experiencing difficulties, to the point that Manitoba Child and Family Services (CFS) became involved.

“Harvey and I were aware there were problems in their home, but we didn’t know how bad,” Corinne told the Independent. “We got a phone call from our daughter, saying that CFS was coming to the school to apprehend their three boys. And, of course, when I heard that, I just was absolutely stunned…. I grabbed my car, went to the school and met the social worker. I said, ‘You’re not taking them. I’m their grandmother and they are coming with me.’”

Everyone ended up at CFS, which then evaluated the possibility of the Ackermans taking charge of their grandsons. “They came to our apartment. They checked it,” said Corinne.

By that evening, all three boys were with their grandparents in their apartment. However, said Corinne, “We had them here with us for about 10 to 12 weeks. They [CFS] wouldn’t let us keep them. You can’t have three children in a two-bedroom apartment.

“At that point, friends of mine … and even the principal at the kids’ school called me … and said to call JCFS. It took a lot for me to do that. You become so embarrassed. Harvey and I were just mortified.

“I did, and God bless Emily Shane [who was then at the helm of JCFS]. She sent workers and the process began. They found a foster home for the three boys, but it very quickly deteriorated. It was just awful.”

Ian, now 14, the youngest, was having the most trouble. He also needed some major dental work. All of those involved decided it would be best if Ian went back to live with his grandparents. Ian’s brothers are now 18 and 20.

“I don’t even remember how it all happened, but the agreement was, the boys were going to another foster home and Ian would stay with us,” said Corinne. “And he’s been with us now since he was 7 years old.”

The Ackermans have made a point of assuring Ian that his parents and brothers love him.

“I think that he knows that he’s loved and that we still love his mom, dad and brothers,” said Corinne. “Ian would like to be home with his mom and dad if it was possible. But, I think he’s pretty happy here. And, for as long as he needs us to be here, we are going to try to take care of him.”

While there were some hurt feelings within the family when all of this happened, of course, everyone has made amends for Ian’s sake. They all speak regularly, and Ian visits his mom and dad regularly.

When asked about the difference between raising your own kids versus raising your grandchildren, Corinne said, “Well, when you raise your grandchildren, you get a better appreciation for the love you have. I love my daughter, I love my son, I love my in-laws, but you love your grandchildren on a different level, and we just adore Ian. At times, he’s very difficult, but at times, he’s an absolute blessing.”

The Ackermans have had to realign their lives in order to parent their grandson. It was a drastic change and they depend on JCFS for respite.

“We are not people who go out all the time, but it does cut down on the freedom to do so,” said Corinne. “But, we’re OK with that. Ian is important enough to us that it’s worth it.

“Ian has some challenges in school and that makes it quite difficult for any parent. We’ve done our best to get him the help he needs, and I can say that JCFS has been fabulous. Ian had a reading clinician, as he had a little speech impediment, and now it’s gone. JCFS has been wonderful with whatever Ian has needed.

“There are issues when a child is taken from their parents, and issues before that, and they’ve been very helpful throughout,” she continued. “As far as Harvey and I, when I really have it up to my head … I’ll give the social worker a call and she’s always there to help and give advice.

“Ian is the most invaluable young man because, whatever we do for him, he does back for us tenfold. He’s a wonderful kid. A million foster homes are wonderful, but family is family and there’s a difference.”

The other panelist at the JCFS AGM was Karla Berksen, 73, who also took in her two grandchildren seven years ago. Berksen was awarded custody because her daughter was unwell and her husband could not care for the kids.

Berksen and her partner of many years, Arthur Chipman, took in the children when Paige was 4 and Jacob was 8. At the time, Berksen was a newly retired financial planner and was spending part of her winters in Mexico.

“My daughter was still alive when I got the kids,” Berksen told the Independent. “She wasn’t a very well person, so we spent a lot of time with her. When they came to me, they were just dropped off. Arthur’s been quite amazing, because people my age don’t think this is something they want to do for their retirement. But, this is what we’re doing, although Arthur is still working.”

Both children attended and graduated from Brock Corydon School’s Hebrew immersion program. “Jacob had his bar mitzvah two years ago and Paige will have her bat mitzvah in March,” said Berksen.

“I feel very grateful to have the kids. It makes me a little tired sometimes. But, as I said at the JCFS AGM, I’ve only had two anxieties in my whole life. One was nine months after I stopped smoking – I had an anxiety attack realizing I wasn’t going to have a cigarette again. The other one happened a couple years after I got the kids, and I realized that I’m going to have teenagers again. That’s my biggest fear – going through the teen years again. You can only build them up, but they have to take charge and you never know what will happen.”

Berksen said both of her grandchildren are very talented. Her grandson is a gifted musician who is self-taught on the saxophone, drums, guitar and piano, with plans to one day become a studio musician and music teacher; he also enjoys playing hockey. Berksen’s granddaughter loves the arts and curling. Both kids spend part of their summers at Camp Massad.

Although Berksen hopes one day to again spend time in Mexico, her current priority is to raise her grandchildren up through their university studies. “I don’t see it as my life being on hold,” said Berksen. “This is it. This is my life and I enjoy it for the most part. I enjoy watching these two kids grow up. They keep me alive and busy.”

Rebeca Kuropatwa is a Winnipeg freelance writer.

Posted on November 10, 2017November 9, 2017Author Rebeca KuropatwaCategories NationalTags family, JCFS, parenting, Winnipeg
Talk of death is healthy

Talk of death is healthy

Mike Goldberg, community outreach and education coordinator at Palliative Manitoba. (photo from Mike Goldberg)

Despite the fact that the vast majority of us have lost a loved one, fear and misunderstanding often complicate the grieving process, according to Mike Goldberg, community outreach and education coordinator at Palliative Manitoba.

“Death is not a part of our culture,” said Goldberg. “We tend to revere youth and vitality over age and wisdom, as opposed to Eastern cultures.”

Goldberg, who grew up through the Jewish school system in Winnipeg – attending Ramah Hebrew School and Gray Academy of Jewish Education – earned his master’s degree in gerontology from the University of Regina. He gives many presentations and talks to people in different communities about palliative care and what he describes as “our death-denying society” – and how we can positively change that culture. He also facilitates educational programs at Palliative Manitoba for healthcare aides and support workers; assists people with intellectual disabilities; works with members of First Nations communities; and facilitates grief support groups for kids ages 9 to 12 (called Kids Grieve Too) and 13 to 17 (called Teens Grieve Too).

There was a time when people “just aged in place and the family took care of them at home … and there was nothing else to say about it,” said Goldberg. “That was just the way things were done. But, now it’s more commonplace to see somebody who is getting older being supported in a healthcare facility, a seniors care home.

“It certainly has to do with technology and the economy. You don’t see a lot of people with families that have one primary breadwinner, while the others are able to support family members who are elderly or sick in the family. Everybody seems to have to work, right?”

He said that more Eastern cultures, and sometimes South American ones, can be “more communal and more of a collective society.” He said, “I think we’d like to think we’re communal and collective in Canada, but we’re very much individualistic and self-reliant here. And, we’re very similar to the U.S. in that way.

“We don’t really have a lot of space to care for our elderly family members when it comes to the aging process, so we’ve established these support systems outside the home. And then, it sort of perpetuates itself – this cycle of having the aging experience happen outside the home … and the dying experience happens outside the house. And that has contributed to a fear or denial of death. It just doesn’t happen in our purview.

“If a person is approaching end-of-life, if they have a terminal illness or if they simply have a life-limiting illness … if they need extra supports at their place of residence, we can connect a worker to them to meet with them at home and to provide a supportive presence, to be a companion with them,” he said about Palliative Manitoba.

“For those looking for grief support,” he continued, “we have volunteers that can call you and have a conversation over the phone with you about once a week. Again, they’re not there to provide advice, they’re just there to listen and provide a supportive presence. We find the most appropriate way to support somebody through grief is to listen to them.”

Goldberg is a proponent of inviting open conversations about death and dying, and of exposing kids to death, grief and loss at a young age, not sheltering them. He suggested being as direct as possible with kids and with anyone you meet in terms of language, while also being hyper-aware of word usage – not using euphemisms and metaphors concerning death.

“It’s difficult to talk about death, because it’s something that is going to happen to all of us and represents this unknown,” he said. “But, it’s universal and, to better support each other, we need to talk about it.

“We also need to educate professionals working in this field, who are supporting those approaching end-of-life. These are the people on the ground, experiencing life and death every day. They need to have a high quality of understanding of how to communicate, what the right and wrong things are to say, and being better listeners.

“That’s really crucial,” he stressed. “It doesn’t matter what role you have in society – a nurse or whoever – if we just became better at listening to each other, then that would go a long way in having more direct conversations about death and dying, and changing the culture around it.

“The thing that I’ve come to understand working in this field is that it’s not homogenous emotions we experience. It’s a wide variety of emotions and sometimes a rollercoaster of emotions. The grieving process is not the five-step staircase we tend to think it is. It’s a fluid process that you could go back and forth between the stages.

“There’s certainly a lot of hope in grief and in death,” he said, “and I see that when people tell me that they couldn’t imagine doing what I do, because of the sadness that comes along with grief. I just tell them that I’m able to be with people in one of the most important and sacred times of their life, at the end of life. And, to be able to work with somebody and hear their stories and be with them is a privilege.

“The reality is, everybody grieves differently. There’s no right or wrong way. It’s just however you’re able to make sense of what’s going on.”

Rebeca Kuropatwa is a Winnipeg freelance writer.

 

Format ImagePosted on November 10, 2017November 9, 2017Author Rebeca KuropatwaCategories LocalTags death, end-of-life, family, health

Jewish routines help us cope

At 7 a.m., I came downstairs on a school morning and discovered that one of my 6-year-old twins was busy. He’d filled up a container with water so he could watch his expandable water toys grow – again. After the toys grow enormously in the water, we dump out the water. We let them dry and shrink and put them away for a month. This is a frequently repeated ritual in our house. Any good science experiment is one worth repeating, right?

Good teaching requires frequent repetition. Life, it seems, is also probably the best teacher. I’ve been thinking about how to cope with and learn from the repetition of the Jewish calendar as it applies to life’s ups and downs.

One of our dogs, Harry, has been very ill with lymphosarcoma. By the time you read this column, Harry, aged 13 and a half, may no longer be with us. For people who have animals, you know how hard this transition can be. Yes, there are all sorts of veterinary interventions for pets now, but this cycle of life and death can’t be avoided. Although, historically, some Jews have lived in cities, away from animals, Jews have also lived, worked and loved animals on farms, in villages, towns and cities. The Talmud teaches us that we must feed our animals before we eat. More generally, Jewish tradition teaches that we must treat animals humanely, and cannot allow an animal to suffer unnecessarily. (This applies even in kashrut, to animals we eat.)

Harry’s illness requires our kids to be careful. Our dog is very sore, and cries out sometimes at night, which wakes up the little boys. We’ve been slowly introducing the topic of dying at odd moments, when we sense our kids need to talk. Jewish tradition has supportive rituals for illness, death and burial. While these aren’t necessarily applicable to our bird dog, it’s a useful way of remembering that our tradition gives us help during times of illness, death, and in mourning.

The timing of all this has also hit my husband and me. When we pray to be inscribed in the Book of Life, both of us recall relatives who passed away around the time of the High Holidays in years past. If you keep track of the Jewish calendar (as well as the secular one), you may connect Jewish holidays with your personal history, such as associating, as I do, Kol Nidre with the death of a great-uncle, who was walking home from shul when it happened.

Tying our lives to the Jewish calendar and to these mourning rituals helps us connect to generations of Jews who came before us, who mourned people (and animals) and who made an effort to live with joy as best they could.

Recently, my husband and I became Canadian citizens. We juggled our citizenship ceremony with three trips to the vet in one day. At the ceremony, the official suggested we would always remember the date. Instead, I wondered if I could forget Harry’s medical needs while we were at the ceremony.

When we got home, we chose to celebrate becoming Canadian. Friends came over. They’d planned to meet our kids after school if we were late getting back from the ceremony, but we all gathered together instead. My husband got us a cake from Eva’s Gelato, and Marcello, one of the (Jewish Argentine) owners, insisted on a big cake – because our citizenship was a big thing! (Thank you, Eva’s!)

As Sukkot and Thanksgiving occur, we have this opportunity to reflect, with gratitude, on the amazing things we have. We can be thankful for plentiful harvests and food, for the opportunity to celebrate outside with our families and friends before winter hits, and for our good times, together.

Watching those silly toys expand in the water generated memories of other holidays and happy occasions. When we lived in Kentucky, we were fairly isolated and did not have many Jewish friends nearby. However, we mail-ordered a lulav and etrog, and we built our sukkah on a brick patio in our backyard.

Over the years, we had some big Sukkot dinner parties there. We lit candles, as it was dark in the sukkah, and we would eat a fancy meal with some (non-Jewish) friends to celebrate. Meanwhile, in the yard, just beyond the sukkah, the fancy table setting outside and the lights, I saw that our bird dogs, Harry (the setter mix) and Sally (the pointer mix), were doing every kind of rambunctious (and embarrassing) and loud dog play. Our guests were biology professors, like my husband. They laughed, making jokes about how to observe and understand dog behaviour, before returning to enjoying their meal and time outdoors. Harry the dog stopped roughhousing so he could chase crickets as they hopped about on the bricks.

We use ritual and holidays to mark time passing, and to observe our traditions in many ways. The Jewish calendar can help us embrace both the hard times and the sweet and memorable happy ones.

Harry the dog has been a laidback, playful, loving and opinionated part of our household, much like his movie namesake in When Harry Met Sally. I’m hoping to hold onto the dancing lights, those fall sukkot and the young, cricket-chasing dog. I’m remembering the frolicking while doing my utmost to ease the last days of an elderly, sick dog.

Chag Sukkot sameach.

Joanne Seiff writes regularly for CBC Manitoba and is a regular columnist for Winnipeg’s Jewish Post and News. She the author of the book, From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016, a collection of essays available for digital download or as a paperback from Amazon. See more about her on joanneseiff.blogspot.com.

Posted on October 6, 2017October 5, 2017Author Joanne SeiffCategories Op-EdTags family, Judaism
Relatable dysfunction

Relatable dysfunction

The Beacham family. Back row, left to right: Seth Little as Guy, Nick Beacham’s partner; Jordon Navratil as Nick; Mia Ingimundson as Norris Beacham, the daughter; and Chris Walters as Kevin, Norris’ husband. Seated are Howard Siegel as the patriarch of the family, Glen, and Anna Hagan as the matriarch, Bonnie. (photo by Ellie O’Day)

Homeward Bound by Elliott Hayes is about death and relationships. And family dynamics. Jewish community member Howard Siegel plays the father, Glen Beacham, in Western Gold Theatre’s production that opens today, Oct. 6, and runs until Oct. 29 at Pal Studio Theatre.

Set in 1990, Glen and Bonnie Beacham have invited their adult children (a son and a daughter) and their respective partners for dinner – and an announcement, publicist and Jewish community member Ellie O’Day told the Independent. Homeward Bound “is a dark comedy,” she said, “but also plays with the ways we talk to each other but don’t always really listen.”

“Every family has a time when they get together. Ours was Shabbat,” said Siegel. “No matter where we were or how busy our week was we had to be home Friday for dinner. We ate at the dining room table instead of our usual place in the kitchen, and talked, or argued, but that was our family time. If there was chicken soup, we were having roast chicken; if it was vegetable soup, it was brisket. While the Beachams are getting together on a Sunday and it may not be as regular as my childhood was, dinner with the family is no less important and the news of the week is going to change all their lives.”

Of the plot, O’Day added, “Dad, who happily distracts himself with crossword puzzles, is apparently not well…. Mother distracts herself by constant chatter (where will they go on their next holiday? Dad is totally noncommittal)…. Meanwhile, the gay son’s partner is late for this Sunday dinner … and the daughter is trying unsuccessfully to hide the deterioration of her marriage.”

Siegel described the character of Glen as a “glib, funny, highly educated” man who “has provided a substantial middle-class standard of living for his family.” He said, “My father aspired to these qualities, but it was his struggle, so I wasn’t able to model Glen after my dad. However, finding the love for his family that perhaps isn’t so clear in the text is important to me and to the play. That was very apparent in my experience in my parents’ home.”

He added about the Beachams, “This is a family like so many families we know or grew up in. The parents have to accept choices their children make whether they like or understand them; they accept them out of love and perhaps duty. The kids bicker, but would defend their sibling to anyone if push came to shove. Deep in this family’s dysfunction is a connection that we all should be able to understand.”

Homeward Bound runs Oct. 6-29, Tuesday-Saturday, 7:30 p.m.; Saturday-Sunday, 2 p.m.; and Oct. 19, 2 p.m., at Pal Studio Theatre, 581 Cardero St. Tickets are $32/$27 from 604-363-5734 or homeward. brownpapertickets.com.

Format ImagePosted on October 6, 2017October 5, 2017Author Cynthia RamsayCategories Performing ArtsTags Ellie O’Day, family, Howard Siegel, theatre

A holiday for memories

When it comes to Rosh Hashanah, I’m a big fan. It’s hard not to love a Jewish holiday that’s all about spiritual renewal, deep reflection and heartfelt promises to work harder to present our “better selves” to those around us. But, as I move into my mid-40s, I’m realizing there’s more than that to the Jewish New Year – more than those deep brown challahs filled with sweet raisins, more than the novelty of dipping apples in golden honey and dripping them all over the tablecloth before a great meal. Rosh Hashanah is also a profound vessel of memory and, as I defrost my brisket, hunt for the best-yet new quinoa recipe and knead and shape my challahs, I’ll be thinking of the past.

I don’t realize, until Rosh Hashanah rolls around, how vividly that past is available. I yank those memories from the recesses of my mind and daydream my way back to a 14-year-old self growing up in Cape Town, South Africa. Back then, Rosh Hashanah meant receiving a batch of my grandmother’s taiglach, a recipe I’m still determined to tackle and one that will take me, in spirit, immediately and joyfully, into her tiny kitchen. It meant hours in synagogue, listening to the deep baritone voices of the Rondebosch shul choir, and the wonderful melodies of the cantor, who we imported from Israel for that time of year.

It meant family discussions on who to invite to our Rosh Hashanah table, and long debates about whether we could tolerate, for another year, the uncle who arrived in his farm-stained overalls and fell asleep on the sofa before the meal was over. Or the aunt who was always asking for recipes (and never using them) and used fingers, rather than salad servers, to select the leafy greens she wanted on her plate.

There were wild cousins whose antics my parents weren’t certain they wanted unleashed in the house. And friends whose children my sister and I wanted nothing to do with and campaigned loudly for their removal from the guest list.

With hours before the festival’s arrival, as my mother’s culinary activities sent rich aromas wafting over the house, we kids were in charge of setting the table and removing from the dusty cabinet the exquisite glasses my parents had bought while on a Venice honeymoon 15 years earlier. We’d craft name tags and carefully position them around the table, ensuring we occupied the best seats in the house. And we’d decant the wine an elderly relative had made, pouring it carefully into the crystal decanter only used on such occasions.

At the time, I rolled my eyes at the list of chores, grateful for the reprieve from school but unappreciative, as only a teenager with little worldly experience can be, of the treasures at that table. The family members we’d lose as age and cancer robbed them of more time with us. The recipes I’d never have the foresight to record and the hugs and kisses I never cherished long enough.

What I did bring with me over the decades, that would follow me into married life with children, was an unbridled love for Rosh Hashanah and a determination to make it as memory-laden, meaningful and delicious as possible in my home. It’s why, this year and in the years ahead, I’ll spend hours on dishes I’d never normally prepare: sodium-filled chicken soup with kneidlach, tender brisket that will tempt even the avowed vegetarians among my kids and wafer-thin kichel biscuits, perfect with chopped herring. Maybe I’ll even summon the courage to attempt baking sweet, sticky taiglach, a recipe that requires copious amounts of syrup and hours of careful babysitting.

I’ll do all this and more in the name of memory, because it will conjure my own past, a continent and lifetime away, so vividly. And I’ll hug my kids extra-tight, subdued in the knowledge that, one day, they, too, will celebrate this holiday with their own families after I’m six feet under, hopefully cherishing the food and love-laden Rosh Hashanah memories of their own long-gone childhoods.

Lauren Kramer, an award-winning writer and editor, lives in Richmond. To read her work online, visit laurenkramer.net.

Posted on September 15, 2017September 14, 2017Author Lauren KramerCategories Celebrating the HolidaysTags family, memoir, Rosh Hashanah

Teach it to your children

You’re reading the weekly congregational email. Something radical seems to have happened. Within a week, everything has changed. Well, maybe the format seems the same, ready to lull you into “services this week, events, make a donation …” but then it hits you. It’s like a revolution happened. Instead of the regular schedule, where the adult service is happening at 8 p.m. Friday night, and davening starts at 9:30 Saturday morning, it’s all changed. Imagine this:

Come for our weekly great Kabbalat Shabbat service at 4:45! Join us for prayers, story time, snack, dancing and singing. The service ends by 5:45, followed by an Oneg Shabbat with fruit, veggies, cheese cubes, challah and grape juice.

Want to stay up later? Join us in the sanctuary for a summer camp-style sing-along of Shabbat music and study the Torah portion with the rabbi and your friends.

On Saturday morning, daven with us! Services begin at 8:45, with morning prayers, movement activities, another great story (with a picture book!) and three dances to help us learn new psalms. We’ll learn the Torah portion of the week, act out some of it, and end with a rousing Adon Olam. Let’s march around and pretend we’re playing in a band.

Services end by 10:30. We’ll provide a healthy Kiddush snack, including whole grain crackers, juice and water, lots of fruits and veggies, and more. (It’s a nut-free environment, but feel free to bring along dairy or pareve snacks to share.)

If the weather’s good, after snack, let’s play outside at the shul playground. If not, we’ll run in the shul gym so you can get tired before going home to have a big Shabbat lunch and nap.

In the evening, join us for Havdalah at the shul at 5! We’ll be serving pizza and salad, with cookies for dessert. (Click here for costs, to register and for the Jewish movie of the week.) After dinner, we’ll be showing a G or PG movie in the gym for families who want to stay out late.

Also there’s a Saturday evening study session. This week: Jewish advice for managing our busy modern family life, at 6:30 in the library. (Free.)

Note: If doing the rabbi’s Saturday evening study session, please be sure one parent or friend is in the gym to supervise your offspring and enjoy the movie together.

Reminders: On Sunday morning, the shul opens bright and early as usual for religious school, yoga for parents, coffee klatch and the usual lecture series after the morning minyan.

Our congregational soup kitchen, visit to the local Jewish seniors centre, nursing facilities and once-a-month cemetery clean-up all meet on Sunday afternoons. (Cemetery group, next week is our hike at the lake, so bring your boots and bathing suit and we’ll see you on the bus – we might let others attend if there is room! Click here to register.)

See you then!

* * *

OK, as you read this, you’re thinking, this is all well and good for those few young families out there. I mean, maybe my children or grandchildren might go sometimes? But, for me, well, I feel left out. This doesn’t seem like what I’m used to.

But consider the model some congregations still use: Join us for a family Shabbat dinner! (It happens only once or twice a year.) Services start by 5:30. Food is offered, one course at a time, starting after 7. There’s no finger food or even challah on the table. The kids’ food comes after the salad course. Parents who don’t want to create a scene take their children home long before dessert is served to avoid a train wreck…. And nobody wants to come back.

Should Jewish life be all about young families? Well, no. We shouldn’t give up traditional services or customs, but the V’ahavta says “we should teach it [Judaism] to our children.” How do you do that better, so there will be Jews a generation from now? Should your congregation include positive experiences for younger people? Does that create a plan for the future?

Based on a random sampling of kids’ events in my Jewish community (Winnipeg) over the last six years, here’s a generic sampling of what I’ve seen.

If a shul schedules a Tot Shabbat irregularly – although kids thrive on routine – it happens during kid dinnertime or even at bedtime. If your preschooler eats dinner at 5:30 and is in bed at 7:30, how does that service at 6:15 work for you? Hear any angry screaming in that sanctuary?

How about the big kid events scheduled for 1-3 p.m.? Many kids are grouchy creatures around then. We love naps. If we’re skipping them, well, the activity had better be fabulous … and tolerant of crying, hitting and screaming.

Many congregations do a great job of integrating families into their activities and planning. Instead of having kids’ events as an afterthought once a year, most events are designed with whole families in mind … and preschool activities meet the needs of families with babies and small kids.

Teenagers and adults have relevant events. People of all ages have good family programming, too. Sometimes, this is all the same service. Can kids have roles in the service, like saying the Shema or leading a song? Can kids’ restless behaviour be tolerated at the same level as we tolerate adults’ conversation and restless behaviour?

How about making registration accessible and online? Include active learning as part of all events, so Judaism remains relevant?

The kicker – somebody always says: It can’t be done. This isn’t the way we do it here. It’ll be expensive. It’s not possible.

I say: dream bigger.

Joanne Seiff, a regular columnist for Winnipeg’s Jewish Post and News, is the author of a new book, From the Outside In: Jewish Post Columns 2015-2016. This collection of essays is available for digital download, or as a paperback from Amazon. See more about her on joanneseiff.blogspot.com.

Posted on August 18, 2017August 16, 2017Author Joanne SeiffCategories Op-EdTags continuity, education, family, Jewish life, Judaism, synagogues
The genie in the chanukiyah

The genie in the chanukiyah

Alan Dean was the world’s largest manufacturer and distributor of Chanukah menorahs.

“You what!” Zoe’s father was yelling at her. Again. “You traded my lamp?”

Nothing Zoe did seemed good enough for Dad. Her room was too messy. Her grades weren’t high enough. Her clothes were too expensive, too ratty or too “inappropriate.” He was always screaming at her.

“I didn’t mean …” Zoe began. She gazed into the first light burning on the new chanukiyah and tried to hold back the tears.

Ever since her mother had died, Zoe had tried to take good care of her father. Only 12 and a half, she wasn’t a good cook. She didn’t like cleaning the toilets. But all she wanted was to help.

Her dad’s office was a mess. The whole house was a mess. Alan Dean was the world’s largest manufacturer and distributor of Chanukah menorahs. There were candelabras all over the place. They were in the bedrooms, the kitchen, dining room, living room, even in the bathrooms. Every single morning, there was shouting about something that had gone missing: a wallet, keys, a cellphone, a cleaning bill, a shoe.…

That morning, Zoe had taken a black plastic garbage bag into the office to clean out some clutter. Which was when she got a weird text on her phone.

“@Jenny.Hunter New Lamps for Old. Want to trade?”

Zoe happened to be staring at this old, dusty and tarnished chanukiyah on her father’s bookshelf. It was squat and primitive. Her father hadn’t touched it in years.

Before she could think too much, she replied and, a moment later, there was a knock at the door.

“I was in the neighborhood,” Jenny said, smiling into the video intercom. She was a well-dressed woman, a little old, and her teeth could use braces. “Do you have a lamp to trade?”

Zoe was careful. “Let me see yours.”

The woman opened an aluminum suitcase from which she pulled a beautiful stainless steel Chanukah menorah. It was very sharp and very shiny.

Zoe nodded and opened the door a crack. “Why would you trade that for an old lamp?”

The woman smiled again. “Call it a present. Or an almost free sample, with the hope that your father will buy more.”

Now Zoe smiled. Dad always liked a bargain. She nodded, took the steel menorah and gave the woman the old brass one.

“Finally it is mine!” the woman said with something that sounded like a cackle.

Before Zoe could change her mind, the woman was gone. It was as if she had vanished.

That evening, her father was distracted. He didn’t even notice the new chanukiyah until after they’d said the blessings and Zoe lit the candles.

Then he saw it. “Where did that come from?”

“I traded it for your old lamp,” Zoe answered, happily.

Her father rushed into the office. When he came back, he began yelling.

“You went into my private space and…. Don’t you start,” Dad shouted. “Don’t you start quivering that lower lip. Don’t you start tearing up.…”

Which was when Zoe lost it.

Alan Dean stared as his beautiful daughter cried.

He didn’t know what to do. He never knew what to do.

For seven generations, the Dean family had produced boys, and the story had been passed from father to son at the bar mitzvah. The lamp was found in a cave. A genie inside gave each owner three dangerous wishes – guard the magic lamp and use it well.

When his daughter was born, Alan was surprised, even upset.

His wife forbade him from calling her Aileen.

“It has to stop sometime,” Shana had said. “A new girl, a new beginning.”

And she was right. Al’s life, which was always about business, had broadened into a wonderful family, until Shana had passed.

Alan hadn’t told his daughter that their fortune was based on a magical lamp. Zoe wasn’t 13 yet, and he didn’t want her to laugh, but mostly because Shana had been the last one to touch it.

“Make enough so we are happy,” Shana had said as she rubbed the chanukiyah. “And not a single one more.”

The genie, which was now barely a flicker said, “Your wish is my command.”

Instantly, the entire factory was automated, with only enough jobs to keep all the existing employees busy, while increasing production tenfold. The whole system was computerized and efficient. Orders came in, and candlesticks went out. No one worked too hard. The bank accounts swelled. It was every businessman’s dream!

Then Shana had gotten sick and, in one day, she died.

Alan’s world collapsed. After a week of shiva, when he’d finally wandered into his office, he saw the lamp on the shelf and his heart broke.

Could a wish have saved her? In the mournful chaos, he had completely forgotten the power of the lamp. He couldn’t bear to touch it, and it had gathered dust on the shelf. His wife was gone, but he still had his work. He had thrown himself back into it, and barely had any time for his daughter.

Now the lamp that had sustained his family for centuries was gone, too, and he knew that the factory would soon go silent.

Zoe stood in front of him, tears running down her face.

How could he do this to her? Yes, he was unhappy, but his daughter didn’t have to be.

Shana had known. “Make enough so we are happy,” she had wished. “And not a single one more.”

Alan thought for a moment. His mind tallied the amounts in the bank, the value of the factory and the land. The good will of the Alan Dean brand name. He would sell it all. It would be enough.

Alan wrapped his arms around Zoe’s shoulders and pulled her close. He hadn’t done that in years.

“It’s OK,” he said. “Let me tell you the story of that lamp. It has always been a story of magic and wealth, greed and fear, but now I think for us there will be a happy ending.”

Zoe felt warm and safe in her father’s arms.

The lights from the Chanukah candles flickered.

The End.

Mark Binder is a Jewish author and storyteller who tours the world sharing stories for all ages. His life in Chelm stories and his latest collection, Transmit Joy! an audio storybook, are available on audio download and CD.

Format ImagePosted on December 16, 2016December 15, 2016Author Mark BinderCategories Celebrating the HolidaysTags Chanukah, chanukiyah, family

Getting through Chanukah

It’s that time of year again! For many, the holiday season is spent with family and is filled with nothing but joy, love, laughter, gratitude and giving. If this is you, you can go ahead and stop reading now…. This piece is for those of us who don’t live on the Hallmark Channel.

Let’s be honest with ourselves. We love our family. At the same time, getting together with our families or our in-laws around the holidays can get stressful, awful or even painful. Some people end up in my therapy office after the holidays, shattered from family celebrations.

If you’re tired of the stressful dynamics in your family, maybe this year it’s time to try something a little different. Let’s call this an early Chanukah list.

Set boundaries. Setting boundaries is the foundation for standing up to the family difficulties that we deal with every year. Maybe the lessons we learned in childhood were to not “stir the pot” and to avoid conflict. The end result of this is that we end up acting as if we are OK when, quite frankly, we aren’t.

When your mother–in-law pulls up an old dig about your weight, you don’t have to sit quietly and let your blood pressure go through the roof. Instead, you can say, “I don’t like it when you make comments about my weight.”

Another way to set boundaries is to put space between yourself and whatever or whomever you’re trying to set boundaries with. You may not be able to control what others say, but you can certainly move yourself to another room or go for a walk.

Don’t regress. Perhaps you always got dragged into being the mediator or the scapegoat in your family when you were growing up. When we, as adults, spend time with our families in the present, we tend to slip back into old roles. Don’t be who you were when you were 14. Be who you are now, even if your family doesn’t see it. If they continue to define you as your past, don’t stoop to their level by doing the same to them. Be the grown-up in the room.

Don’t be held back by the prospect of negative outcomes. You might plan to do things differently around your family, but it doesn’t mean the results will be rosy. You might set boundaries and get a lot of backlash.

This is not advice for the faint of heart. It’s advice to help you survive your family holiday. These are suggestions for people who are tired of getting sucked into the same old family patterns, and are ready to find their voice and get unstuck.

There’s no way to know for sure how your holiday will turn out as you try some of these ideas. At best, you might become a catalyst for actual change in your family and holidays might get better.

But, whether family time improves or continues on as it always has, you can at least know that you are taking charge of your life and taking steps toward a happier you.

Enjoy the latkes!

Lynn Superstein-Raber is a registered psychologist who helps people overcome depression, anxiety and relationship problems. For more information, visit lynnsuperstein.com.

Posted on December 9, 2016December 7, 2016Author Lynn Superstein-RaberCategories Celebrating the HolidaysTags Chanukah, family

Between parent and child

When my father died in 2014, I was already familiar with the notion that mourning progresses in stages. These include denial, anger, grief, bargaining and, finally, acceptance, and they are widely recognized by the therapeutic professions.

Two years after my father died, however, I could make an argument for one more item in this neat list. This item is: paperwork. Paperwork that can take months or years to complete while other tasks are shelved, children get older and family relationships unravel.

And so it was that I didn’t really start grieving for my father until two years after his passing. This was the point at which I was finally able to look through my father’s archive. He had a wealth of his professional writing, as well as mementoes from his life in Israel – things I had never seen, never heard about, photos of people I didn’t recognize. Here, now, was another kind of loss: his memories, the languages he spoke, the cultural narrative of the Egyptian Jew who became the halutz (pioneer), the farmer and a soldier.

My grief was further complicated by my father himself: complex, secretive, angry, hard to fathom and even harder to love. But, as hard as it was to love him, it has been just as hard to let go of this contradictory, loving, gifted and extraordinary man, who spoke nonchalantly about his life being “nothing special,” while simultaneously and relentlessly craving recognition for his life’s work.

How was I to experience my grief, work through it in the tidy way suggested by the literature, without feeling like a hypocrite? Every time the sadness bubbled to the surface, another voice cried out, yes, but…. And yet, and yet, and yet.

My father loved trees. He loved the smell of them in Egypt. He loved planting them in Israel, shortly after its independence. After immigrating to England, he started a conservation charity to encourage children to do the same. He spoke fondly of his favorite plants, naming them with relish, acer palmatum, acacia, copper beech, pyracantha, weeping willow, honeysuckle. He talked about them the way other people talk about their friends, and his belongings reflected this after his death. One of his books was called Meetings with Remarkable Trees. It suited him. His meetings with remarkable trees had started when he was still a youngster.

It was also appropriate because, as straightforward as his relationship was with trees, his relationships with other people were confusing and painful. He was seldom content, often angry, and his brain was constantly besieged by business ideas, political observations and diatribes about the state of world affairs. I never saw him make a new friend. He called nobody from his old life and nobody called him. A staunch Zionist, he regarded orthodoxy with disdain. He refused to join the Jewish community and kept us apart from it, too.

But, when he was nurturing his plants, he was in touch with something sacred; this was his worship, his peace and his prayer. He could stand perfectly still, just watching the arc of the water landing on the dry earth, listening to the birds and the wind in the willow tree, utterly alone and completely at peace.

At other times, I tried to look after him. I tried to be his caregiver, his protector. So, with him gone, I felt myself to be – even with a multitude of other responsibilities – rather redundant.

By the spring of this year, I found an uncomplicated way that I could commune with my father: I nurtured my own garden. I thought of him as I watered, listening to the wind in the trees and watching the droplets creating rainbows. The water trickled down the spines of the squash leaves, pooling at the roots. I listened to the birds, felt the sun on my back, remembering the ice-cold glasses of water we’d enjoy together in the summer, the way he taught me to transplant trees, how I was always surprised by how much water he’d use. “Do you really need that much?” I’d ask.

He would collect seeds with a strange sort of compulsion, from public gardens, with no particular method – he would never store them properly or label them but there they were, stuffed in the bottoms of his pockets. Like me, now, collecting foxglove, chive, kale and garlic seeds for next year. Always thinking of the next harvest, another step toward self-sufficiency. “We made the desert bloom. We grew watermelons there.”

When I went to visit my mother this summer, I noticed that her own honeysuckle plant was growing wildly out of control. It had become so heavy that the lattice was falling off the wall of the house and it was beginning to encroach on other plants. The flowers were beautiful and the aroma intoxicating but, according to my mother, the vine was basically a weed. I offered to prune it back for her and was startled when she showed me how much could come off. Like a cautious hairdresser, I asked her, “Are you quite sure?” And she was. Besides, she told me, it would grow back in no time.

As I started to cut the branches, I realized that a good part of this monster was already dead. The branches overhead broke apart in my hands, dropping dry leaves in my hair. It was more than 30 degrees outside and, with older tools and a ladder pitching on the gravel, it was slow-going. I tried to avoid cutting live stems but soon grew too tired for mercy. I hacked at the convoluted, weedy vine and snapped the brittle trunk as perspiration ran into my eyes. As I did so, it occurred to me that something about the honeysuckle felt very familiar. In short, this tangled, complicated plant was very much like my father – extravagantly beautiful, complicated and with no respect for boundaries. One might almost say, parasitic.

And then I noticed what looked like a bundle of dry leaves tucked in the back. On closer inspection, I realized that it was an abandoned bird’s nest, carefully woven from the tiniest twigs with only the smallest space left to hold a few eggs. Right in the middle of that tangled mass of dead foliage, there was a sanctuary. Like our relationship – painful and nearly impossible to navigate but, at its heart, like that nest, there was something to treasure.

In the end, grief is not so much affixed to the image of the parent we have lost, or even the relationship we had. We are not grieving the relationship we could have had, either: we are acknowledging the gifts they did pass on.

My father, teaching me to cut and paste magazines; to write business letters with punchy opening lines; to edit my work, to edit it mercilessly until it was taut like a tightrope, without a single unnecessary word. Sure, he was a merciless critic, but this quality has served me well.  Even as I revisit each sentence of this essay, it is an act of memory, a gesture of thanks to my father that I am so particular, so careful with my words and so determined that they should fall in, militarily, if possible, with my meaning.

In the end, this is how we find grace in grief when our relationship with the dead was challenging – toxic, even. We can choose how we remember, how we grieve and, ultimately, how we live, once our beloved relative is gone.

It is not simply an act of respect, this mourning. It is an act of gratitude, as we thank our lost ones for what they did give us, as we visit all of the unconditional love we can muster for that ancient connection, between parent and child.

Shula Klinger is an author, illustrator and journalist living in North Vancouver. Find out more at niftyscissors.com.

Posted on November 18, 2016November 15, 2016Author Shula KlingerCategories Op-EdTags aging, death, family

The strength of family circle

There is a wise Jewish saying: “A little hurt from a kin is worse than a big hurt from a stranger.” (Zohar, Genesis 151b) Why is that? Strangers come and go in our lives. Some remain to become friends, others are barely remembered and, as we move on in life, we leave them behind. But family – that’s a different story.

The closest bonds we will ever form are with our parents and our siblings. They know us intimately and, even with all our faults, they still love us. (Though, admittedly, not everyone is so lucky to have a loving family.)

Next comes the extended family – cousins, aunts, uncles, et al. Some of them we just tolerate, often in an amused way, because families are like fudge – mostly sweet with a few nuts! But we do care about them because they are kin.

Within our own close family circle, we are proud of each other’s accomplishments and boast of them. We hurt when a family member is unhappy. We celebrate birthdays and anniversaries, and we try to be together for important Jewish holidays. That is what family should mean.

I’ve always loved the description of her family by the late Erma Bombeck: “We were a strange little band of characters trudging through life sharing diseases and toothpaste, coveting one another’s desserts, hiding shampoo, borrowing money, locking each other out of our rooms, inflicting pain and kissing to heal it in the same instant, loving, laughing, defending, and trying to figure out the common thread that bound us all together.” I think most families can relate to this warm-hearted description.

When there is a break in a family circle, it can be unbearable. It’s not just a matter of location, for, these days, communication has never been easier and we can connect with family wherever they live. But, when there is a misunderstanding and angry words are exchanged, it can be heartbreaking. We feel as though we have a deep fracture in our very being and life will never be the same again if the family member we once loved is lost to us.

Teenagers are known to be rebellious and that is considered normal. It is necessary for them to become independent, to break away from the sheltering family structure. It can be very hurtful for parents to see them break away, but if they were nourished with your morals and standards of ethical behavior in their childhood, and educated with love, they won’t stray too far. Siblings may have very different ideas from each other as adults, but no one – not even a spouse – can have the same kind of bond, with its childhood memories, shared experiences, old family jokes. It is special.

When strangers hurt you, you may become disappointed or angry, but it doesn’t tear at the fabric of your being. You are not obsessed by it and whatever has happened, you know that you will get over it in time.

It is not the same with families. When there is a break between parents and children or brothers and sisters, it colors every aspect of your life, for the family is your haven, your soft resting-place. When there is a break, your emotional security is gone. We need to feel ourselves one in a world of kinfolk, persons of variety in age and temperament, yet allied to us by an indissoluble bond, which nature has welded before we are even born. A family quarrel does not just leave aches or wounds; it is more like splits in the skin that won’t heal because there’s not enough material. Author Dodie Smith described her family as “that dear octopus from whose tentacles we never quite escape, nor, in our inmost hearts, ever quite wish to.”

So, cherish your family while you still have them. Other things may change us, but we start and end with the family, which is one of G-d’s masterpieces. Having a place to go is your home. Having someone to love is your family. Having both is a blessing.

Dvora Waysman is a Jerusalem-based author. She can be contacted at [email protected] or through her blog at dvorawaysman.com.

 

Posted on November 11, 2016November 11, 2016Author Dvora WaysmanCategories Op-EdTags family

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