Like many of you, I am sure, I cannot stop thinking about those sweet little girls at Camp Mystic in Texas, carried away by the floodwaters. I cannot stop thinking about their parents, their friends, their communities.
And at the same time, like many parents, I cannot stop checking my “Campanion” app, searching the background for glimpses of my daughter, at sleepaway camp for the first time this summer. It felt surreal to put her on the bus just days after this horrific tragedy. And, I am so, so, so excited for her.
It is a painful dichotomy; I am filled with so much hope and joy for her, and such sadness and despair for parents who were probably just like me up until July 3. I know I am not the only one seeing my daughter’s face in those girls; so many of you have reached out to me in sadness. And while pundits and politicians and social media warriors are pointing fingers and placing blame, I am reminded of a beautiful teaching by Rabbi Harold Schulweis of blessed memory—something that might not be helpful in this moment, but is a profound reminder of control and our lack thereof.
Speaking of a particular tragic loss in his community, Rabbi Schulweis introduces—and challenges—a number of traditional Jewish theological responses. Eventually, he comes to a passage in the Talmud where the rabbis ask, “If a man stole a measure of wheat and sowed it in the ground, it would be right that the wheat not grow. After all, it is stolen. But,” say the rabbis, “the world pursues its own course. This is the way of nature.” Rabbi Schulweis goes on to teach:
This bespeaks a Jewish reality principle. Because it suggests to me a new missing category in Jewish theology that applies to “chol,” to amoral events. “Olam k’minhago noheg.” …It is simply a fact. A remarkable but nevertheless an amoral fact. Neither “din” nor “rachamim.” The shifting platelets beneath the earth that produce earthquakes are not judgments. They are not moral decrees. Earthquake is not God’s verdict. The hurricane is not a punishment. A volcanic explosion is not a punishment.
I think of this teaching often, and have been holding it particularly close this week, after the tragic losses at Camp Mystic, after a horrific loss in Calabasas (at a camp my children have attended), and with my daughter having—I hope—an incredible time at her first sleepaway experience. I have often reflected that, among the many ways I am thankful for Jewish tradition and ritual, I am grateful for the ways in which we are taught—or maybe even forced or encouraged—to hold multiple truths and multiple feelings in the very same moment. As my favorite Israeli folk song, Al Kol Eleh, teaches: Every bee that brings the honey needs a sting to be complete, and we all must learn to taste the bitter with the sweet.
And so this summer, with nature taking its course in beautiful sunsets and devastating floods, in long summer days and in deadly heat, I’ll continue to #refreshrefreshrefresh, hoping to catch a sweet glimpse of my little girl smiling and laughing with new friends. And I’ll continue to cry for those other little girls, whose smiles can only live on in memory.
Before more of Naomi Shemer’s words, let me close with a blessing for these days, for ourselves and for our children (and grandchildren):
God, may we not – even in our bitter tears – forget the sweetness and joy of summer… help us always remember our capacity to love, to rejoice, to feel.
God, even in this summer of loss and anxiety and fear, remind us that joy still lives inside us—waiting to burst out in laughter, in games, in messy art, and summer’s sticky-sweet popsicles.
Amen.
Guard for me, oh Lord, these treasures
All my friends keep safe and strong,
Guard the stillness, guard the weeping,
And above all, guard this song.
Chorus:
For the sake of all these things, Lord,
Let your mercy be complete
Bless the sting and bless the honey
Bless the bitter and the sweet.
Click here to enjoy The Israel Philharmonic with the IDF Orchestra Performing Al Kol Eleh