On Tuesday, January 7, I was sitting in our clergy meeting when Rabbi Sari elbowed me and said, “You need to call your parents. There’s a big fire in the Palisades, and there’s an evacuation order.” I jumped up, left the room, and called them immediately. My parents were already gathering their belongings, preparing to leave. Thankfully, a thoughtful neighbor had warned them even before the official order, urging them to evacuate.
I’ve never felt so helpless. Should I remind my mom to grab my Bat Mitzvah album? Or should I tell her to leave everything behind and just get in the car? She was overwhelmed, so she grabbed what she could and left—leaving behind essentials like hearing aid chargers and my dad’s walking cane, as well as sentimental treasures like photo albums and keepsakes. From this, I learned an important lesson: never say, “It’s just stuff, as long as you’re safe.” Of course, safety is the most important thing, but the thought of losing a lifetime of memories is incredibly painful.
It was weeks before we could return in person to see what had happened to my childhood home—the house we moved into when I was three years old. In the meantime, I witnessed heartbreaking losses among childhood friends and Temple members, but I also saw the most profound acts of kindness. I joined Marc Entous and our spouses in evacuating Torahs in the middle of the night. I sat on 6 a.m. calls, scrambling to reopen our schools. Amid the devastation, I walked away with three powerful lessons, which I want to share with you.
“Look to the helpers.”
Mr. Rogers’ famous words resonated with me in a way I had never experienced before. Those who sent meals and checked in on us made an enormous difference. I saw members of our Temple step up—donating gift cards, money, Judaica, and beautiful new clothing for those impacted by the fires. We distributed these to the people who needed them most (thankfully, my family was not in need in that way). People gave asher n’sao libo אֲשֶׁר נְשָׂאוֹ לִבּוֹ—as their hearts moved them—a passage from this week’s Torah portion that remains as relevant today as it was in Biblical times.
Tomorrow you may be the recipient of the organization you support today.
While waiting in line to get our permit to return home for the first time, a food organization my mother has supported for years came up to our car and offered us lunch. We were overwhelmed. My mother, through tears, blurted out, “I give you guys money!” In that moment, we realized the true cycle of generosity. Later, FEMA representatives approached our car, offering guidance on available resources. I have had many conversations about the vital role FEMA plays in supporting Americans in times of disaster, but I had always associated their work with hurricanes and tornadoes. I never imagined they would be helping my own family.
Shabbat is the balm that heals the soul.
Amid the chaos—the calls, the fire monitoring, the worry—I insisted that, on that first Friday night, we stop. Just for a moment. We quieted the noise, lit the Shabbat candles, took a sip of wine, and had a bite of challah.
“U’vayom hashvi’ee yihiyeh lachem kodesh Shabbat” (Exodus 35:2)
וּבַיּ֣וֹם הַשְּׁבִיעִ֗י יִהְיֶ֨ה לָכֶ֥ם קֹ֛דֶשׁ שַׁבַּ֥ת
And on the seventh day, you will have the holiness, the rest, the comfort, the healing of Shabbat.“
This verse from this week’s Torah portion had never felt more real to me. Even in crisis, this sacred ritual gave me the space to stop, breathe, and taste the sweetness of our beautiful tradition.
The Punchline: We Are the Lucky Ones.
Though my parents will need to have their home tested and thoroughly cleaned (if you know a great and affordable remediator, let me know!), the day we arrived, we found it intact and unharmed—along with most of the houses on the street. We spontaneously said a Shehechiyanu and stepped inside to gather a few things to bring back to my house where my parents are still living. Among them, of course, was the photo album from my Bat Mitzvah.
Shabbat Shalom,
—Jodi Berman