The woman’s tears did not stop and the parents’ positions and expressions did not change. However, my mind raced to my participation in an intimate moment. Was the sound of the shofar making the woman cry? Did it cause her to reflect on why she was in this facility? Did it make her think and pray to God for a better year? And what about the parents? Why was the father fixed on staring at me and the shofar – were we tools in her cure? Was the mother’s thoughts on her daughter, on the Rosh Hashanah, on her own life? I tried to stop examining these strangers at a vulnerable moment, and focus on the sound of shofar. My only role was to be an agent for the sound which may help each of them in some way.
80 Years
In just a few months, my father will turn 80 years old. In the Jewish book Pirkei Avot, it says that “eighty [years old] is for power.” In Hebrew, the number 80 is represented as a pei, which means “mouth”. Thank God, my father at 80 still has the power to bring the shofar to his lips each day of Elul and Rosh Hashanah to blow magnificently. He has passed the talent down, having taught my son how to blow shofar for his bar mitzvah just a few years ago.
This year, I am off duty from blowing shofar. I will be lucky to watch my father on the bimah surrounded by a community that he loves along with children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. The sound of his shofar will touch me beyond a note or the symbolism of the holy day. The sound will trigger memories of people who have long since passed away for whom my father and I visited; people who extended themselves in amazing ways for their families; and people who were deeply touched in ways I cannot fathom from the shofar blasts. For me, the sound has become an amalgam of life and death; physical sickness and determination; mental illness and hope; family and friends; and our responsibilities and roles in our community.
May we all be touched by the sound of the shofar in meaningful ways. All the best for a happy and healthy year.