It’s 10:15 AM and I am kneeling on the dusty ground clearing
blood off a cut on a 12 year old boy’s leg. I’m wearing a bright pink shirt
that reads “Senior Staff” on the back, cut off jean shorts, a name tag and a tie-dyed
tallit that is long enough that as I kneel it brushes the ground. I’m using a
tissue and a water bottle and a band-aid and a little bit of love to solve a
small problem.
It’s about an hour before I am going to read Torah for the
first time.
This is where my Judaism lives. In hectic moments and in
reassuring words. In a sanctuary, outside, filled with rocks and benches and
canopies of trees and cloth and people who all know my name. In weird dance
moves during prayers and in silent applause. In the sincere joy in song and the
sincere silliness in hand motions. In prayer, of course, but in community too.
I am a unit head for 62 kids, aged 11 and 12, who have spent
this summer creating a community within our unit that makes the hard days worth
it. Boys and girls who have waited months and years and counted down days. Campers
who have called this place home- some, like me, for the first time this summer-
others for years and years. I’ve spent this summer watching them grow and learn
and create bonds with each other that I can’t help but feel proud of. I have
seen their counselors inspire them to grow in new and exciting and different
ways. They learned to speak about issues, create friendships, try activities they’ve
never tried. To be brave in the choices and their decisions and their actions.
And with their bravery, they inspired me to try something
new and scary too.
When I was 12 I went to Hebrew school twice a week in a
temple in suburban Maryland about 20 minutes away from my home. I loved the
class and the kids and the things I was learning, but the language- the Hebrew-
never seemed to stick. It was frustrating and upsetting and it made me feel
like a bat mitzvah was something that I could never accomplish. So a date was
never set and a portion was never picked and I moved on, with the idea of
reading Torah somewhere in back of my head under the nebulous realm of “maybe
someday.”
“Maybe someday” came this weekend. It fell on a Saturday
morning where there were more than a hundred extra people in camp and my unit—those
62 crazy kids and the 30ish staff members—was leading the entire camp in
prayer. My campers and staff had been working all week. Preparing readings
about prayers and choosing and practicing songs that fit our theme. I was proud
of them. And I am so grateful I was able to do something that meant that they
could also be a little bit proud of me.
I spent three days learning my portion and three days
silently (and, if we are being honest, not so silently) freaking out about
reading. I spent the morning of the service with my campers and staff. Eating
bagels in the chader ochel, dancing during songs, laughing at the weirdness of
camp. I spent the morning of the service feeling excited and more than a little
scared.
I don’t remember much about actually reading Torah. I
remember walking up, kind of shaking, and squeezing the hand of one of my staff
members who was going to read after me. I remember holding the yad (pointer) in my hand and thinking
about how the weight of it felt lighter than I expected. I remember looking up
and seeing one of my campers—one who has been here for the entire summer—flashing
me a double thumbs up. I remember consciously thinking that I couldn’t let the
weakness in my knees manifest as weakness in my voice. I remember seeking out
faces- my campers, my staff, my father who had come up to camp for the morning.
I remember the words that I read.
It’s 11 AM. I’m reading, loudly, strongly, words I’ve almost
got memorized. My knees are only shaking a little, but my heart is so full it
feels like it could burst.
So proud of you for finally doing this… I hope it meant everything to you that you always wanted it to do -- from the sound of it, it did!
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