Ever since I was a little girl, I was overwhelmed with the image of a giant book opening on Rosh Hashana, of our fate for the next year being written upon its pages and the book being sealed on Yom Kippur. To this day, even on those years when I struggle to feel a connection at services, there is always that moment when the image strikes me and I am humbled.
Who shall live and who shall die.
The words haunt me this year more than ever.
Who shall live and who shall die.
Last Rosh Hashana, we had friends who sat at services with their three healthy young sons. This year, they mourn their oldest child, who lost his six-month battle with leukemia at age eleven.
Who shall live and who shall die.
Last Rosh Hashana, I had a friend who knew her parents were attending services at their synagogue in California. This year, she will stand to say Kaddish for her father who was struck by a car while he was walking the dog.
Who shall live and who shall die.
Last Rosh Hashana, my neighbor sat in services after having gone through yet another failed round of in-vitro fertilization. This year, she will take up more space in her chair, now pregnant with twin sons.
Who shall live and who shall die.
My daughter asked me why Rosh Hashana and New Year’s Eve both mark a new year, yet they are observed so differently. Perhaps the essence of their difference is not in the celebrations, but in the resolutions. On Rosh Hashana, I will not ask God to help me lose ten pounds or win the lottery. I will think about that book. I will wonder if I have done enough this year, if I am different than last year. I used to joke with friends about the list of Al Hets—I wasn’t xenophobic, I hadn’t rushed to do evil. But, I’ve gossiped and I’ve been foul-mouthed. I’ve mocked and I’ve quarreled. I’ve judged others and I’ve been stubborn.
I can do better.
The image of the book haunts me.
As much as the holidays are about seeing friends, dressing up, eating brisket and kugel and breaking fast with lox and bagels, it’s about taking stock. As much as hearing the shofar is about waiting to hear how long the blower can hold the tekiah gedolah, it’s about the call to prayer that our people have answered since our time in the desert. It’s about searching our souls and beating our chests. It’s about who are with us now and who no longer are.
Who shall live and who shall die.
My daughter was born on Rosh Hashana.
I am grateful and humbled. By how truly blessed I am and how fragile and delicate it all is. As delicate as a page in a book that can be ripped and torn with a careless move. As fragile as a book that can be broken with a casual toss.
Perhaps this is what it’s all about. That life must not be lived with careless moves and casual tosses. That we must live life with thoughtfulness and purpose. That we must recognize that our lives are like books, whose story lines can change with the turn of a page, mark of a pencil, movement of an eraser.
This year, at services, I will not look around for friends with whom to gossip. I will look around and know I am blessed. I will pray that on Yom Kippur the book will be sealed having been written in that both of my children will be with me in services next Rosh Hashana, that I will call both of my parents and talk to them about their services next Rosh Hashana.
Dear friends, as we enter this very holiest of holidays, I wish you peace. I wish you health. I wish you love. May we be inscribed in the book of life for a sweet year.
G’mar hatima tova.
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