There is a moment immediately after a baby comes from its mother's body. The entire universe hangs in this moment; where the baby has spirit but is not yet spirited, where it has breath, but hasn't yet breathed, it is born, but not yet born.
And then suddenly it fills with life, with the most magestic and extraordinary power and determination. Noisy and chaotic, balletic, sophisticated and beautiful.
Its soul has found itself.
Praying is like breathing.
It is ordinary, regular, unextraordinary, everyone can do it.
But that is what is most miraculous, really, because then, we are always in a state of availability to God, any one of us, at any moment, many moments, can meet God.
All at once it is life and death, before and after, always and never.
And it continues, in its ordinariness and extra-ordinariness--waiting for us while we decide what to do with it. Patient and forgiving.
Like a baby being born.
I wrote this piece for a service we led during parsha Mishpatim. and now, 5 weeks later Tamar had her baby. It was good to be back in the birthroom, with an intense mother, midwife, and father relationship. Intense, quiet, intense. I always cry after. I held Coby in my arms, bathed, pajama-ed, earlier in the evening, and said "tonight I will hold a brand new baby", and when I held the new baby, like all mothers, the feeling of their own newborns flood back to them. He turned his head toward me, rooting. What a peaceful birth, so quiet and pure. And strong and slippery. I cried.
He doesn't have a name yet. His personality is formulating what it wants to call itself. I think the brit-milah will be on my birthday.
Today...36 hours later, a beloved rabbi in the Moreshet Synagogue community gave a sermon. He is 86 years old, and stumbled as he was speaking, touching his chest, gripping the podium. His pacemaker jolted and gave him a shock. He said he was fine, he would just speak slower.
He was connecting the joy of purim with the ceremony of Pesach. Why is Purim only celebrated for 2 days, when it was a seminal moment in the Jewish people's being saved from annihilation-and Pesach is celebrated for 8 days, it only celebrates freedom from slavery.
He stumbled back again, grasping at his chest. His pacemaker was jolting him. He was scared, everyone was scared. He slumped down. People went to call an ambulence, Phillip went to get water and call for someone.
I went up and knelt next to him, I took his hand and he looked in my eyes. Phillip later asked me what I said to him, that I was smiling and talking to him the whole time. I told him I was here to be with him, and to keep looking at me, we were here together and we would just breathe until an ambulence came. He would feel better soon.
This was surreal, I breathed slowly and loudly so he would breathe with me; at the same time I was reviewing all my CPR--try to slow his pulse--is there a difibrulator--do I remember when to use it--where is his left arm, what is it doing--I don't know anything about pacemakers--will I be able to lay him down if I have to, he's so much bigger than me--his color is good, he's not sweating. Someone asked us to make room, we were taking all his air, but 2 of us stayed, an older woman came and sat by us, she was a doctor and talked to him so simply: are you in pain? Would you like some water? He held a bottle of water and the shock came again, for a second, he dropped the water on himself. We picked it up.
The paramedics came and we helped him take off his talit, jacket, vest. He offered to walk, they felt his chest, his pulse; and they helped him into a wheelchair and brought him out to the hospital.
He's OK, I checked the synagogue yesterday. I don't know how close he was. I went back to my seat, he gave someone his sermon to read for him, as we were siting waiting for the ambulence, grunting every time he would feel the zap, the shock. 10 in all. No one heard it--the sermon. After he left, his wife with him, carrying his talit, jacket, vest, I went back to our seat in the back row and I cried. I couldn't stop the tears. The beautiful throaty cantor smiled and emotionally sang a soulful mi shebeirach, I cried.
I should have told him my name. I hope he's OK. Life and death are so close together.
Next year I will be doing some pastoral care work--in hospital. I see now how I can help. We say these healing prayers in the synagogue for people outside of the synagogue--I see how they need to hear it too.
Life and death are so close together.
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