When Asked How I Am, What Do I Say?
“What am I supposed to say when people ask how I am?” I complained to my Israeli friend, “I have no idea how to answer that question these days. Am I supposed to say I’m fine? Am I supposed to say I am not fine?”
“In Israel,” he said, “we are answering, ‘K’mo kulam’,” like everyone.
How are you? Like everyone.
I tried it on for size for a day. I wondered if it was fair for me to say that my feelings were like everyone’s feelings. Here in America, I am on the mezzanine, not even in the orchestra, and certainly not on the main stage.
My heart is broken regarding the massacres and kidnappings of October 7. I worry about the IDF soldiers in Gaza. I feel hopeless about the mounting number of casualties and deaths of Palestinians in Gaza. My anxiety is high regarding the unleashing of virulent antisemitism here in America and around the world.
I don’t sleep well at night. I wake up from the middle of horrible dreams.
But my situation is not the same as my cousins’ whose four adult children are all serving on the front lines. I cannot compare myself to my son-in-law‘s mother whose entire community, her entire personal and professional world, was devastated on October 7. I am not my dear friend who had to move to safety from her home and whose son and son-in-law are both serving in the IDF at the same time.
And although I teach that there is no hierarchy of suffering, I know that my suffering is not the same, and can never be weighted as heavily, as those families whose loved ones have been murdered and abducted.
So I faltered for a couple of days when people asked me how I was.
Now, it is true that a rabbi in a community carries the weight of a congregation’s fear and concern. We are looked to for optimism and hope when we might feel quite lacking in those categories ourselves. We are asked questions for which there are no answers.
But still, I did not feel that I deserved to say, “K’mo kulam.”
And then one Friday evening at minyan, I led the community in the traditional words we say to a mourner. L’cha Dodi ended and we turned toward the man in shivah for his mother. We said, “HaMakom yinachem etchem b’toch sha’ar avalei Tzion v’Yerushalayim.” May God comfort you among all of the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.
We say these words so often, counting on them to offer comfort to those who are bereft. On this particular night, I paused and considered their intention. I did not say these words to tell this particular man that his sorrow was exactly like all other Jews who were mourning. I meant that he is not alone in his grief. As a Jew, he was one of a great number of people at any given time who are held by God in our grief. We are all connected. That very fact offers comfort.
And the next day I went back to answering the question, how are you with the answer “k’mo kulam”.
I am not alone in my grief. And neither are you.
Rabbi Paula Mack Drill
Replenishing the well
This past Shabbat, Day 8 of the “October 7” War, our synagogue rabbis presided over a ritual marking the transition of a girl to adulthood in the eyes of the community. On Sunday morning, Day 9, we were present for twin girls experiencing the same rite of passage. On Sunday afternoon, I officiated at the naming of a baby girl, linking her to the legacy of her paternal grandfather (a close personal friend who died at a young age) and her maternal great-grandfather.
Each of these moments was filled with love and infused with meaning. Each of these rites was held in the embrace of family, friends and community. Each of these children gave honor to their past and held out promise for our shared future. Each of these families prayed and planned for the day to arrive when their respective occasions could be shared.
And each of these events was touched and somewhat shaped by events happening on the other side of the ocean. Parents reached out to their rabbis to inquire on a personal level about the rabbis’ wellbeing and emotional preparedness. They asked whether a postponement might be warranted. They wanted to know that, if the simcha were to take place, it would be framed appropriately in light of tragedy hanging like a cloud over our heads.
The Talmud (Ketubot 17a) teaches that a funeral procession gives way to a wedding procession. In other words, we prioritize the celebration of life over death. The teaching may feel harsh or insensitive to some, especially considering the emphasis we place on caring for mourners. (As an aside, caring for mourners is in fact caring for the needs of the living, as distinguished from the funeral procession itself, which is about the caring for the dead.) But the lesson is one that we need right now.
Caught inside the looping 24-hour newsfeed, glued to images and reports of the dead and the missing, worrying about our family and friends, our well of resilience is being depleted further from hour to hour. We need to exercise the kind of self-care that will replenish that well, so that we can confront and navigate the challenges yet to come. The gift of joy, of celebrating life, is the best form of self-care we can give ourselves.
Like a bridal procession, the celebration of life’s moments of transition fills us with optimism, with a reason to look to the future with hope. The times to be treasured are moments that we are not promised or guaranteed; they are not to be postponed, lest intervening events preclude their being rescheduled. And there’s no guarantee we will be there to enjoy them the next time around.
Seize the moment to celebrate when it presents itself. Join us on November 29 (the date of our rescheduled fall gala, exactly 60 years since the day our building was dedicated!) to celebrate the synagogue and to help us replenish our own communal well of resilience.
Am Yisrael chai, so let’s be sure to celebrate life when we can.
Rabbi Craig Scheff
Two Rabbis, One Voice, Three Opinions 
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