Yael Zoldan is a freelance writer and author of four popular children's books, including, "We Can Do Mitzvos from Aleph to Tav" (Feldheim, 2009) and “When I Daven” (Feldheim 2011). Her new books, “We Can Do Mitzvos Around the Jewish Year” (Feldheim, 2014), and “Shimmy Shambone will NOT Take a Bath” (Feldheim, 2013) are available in bookstores and online.
by Yael Zoldan M.A.
Lying in the bed she had no questions. Sitting at her side I had no answers.
In my grandmother's room, it was as silent as death.
George doesn’t walk, he waltzes.
Passover is coming and I have entirely missed the point.
Shavuot was the day my grandmother arrived in Auschwitz.
My father's love asserted itself in distinctive ways.
My grandmother and the terribly hot summer in Brooklyn.
This year, finally, my family will join the ranks of those paragons of virtue, those models of creative efficiency: The Ones with the Themes.
In a world of Facebook and Twitter, is anyone special? Preparing for Passover I discovered an answer.
Sometimes, you have to throw away the script.
Chanukah reminds us that we are not the same as everyone else.
Because I’m a mother, I know.
I miss the mad sound of the language, the delicacies on doilies, the coiffed women with dangling earrings.
Learning how to say sorry from our children this Yom Kippur.
From beggars and millionaires to Kabbalists and cynics, everyone was captured by my grandfather’s warmth.
As we prepare for our son’s wedding, I’m thinking of all the people who touched our lives.
It may not be burning anymore but it still isn’t fixed.
As the New Year is rapidly approaching, I’m relieved to know that this year I’m not asking for too much.
The Purim story’s eerie parallels to what the Jewish people are facing today.
They forgot that under the genial faces of their friends and neighbors simmered an ancient hatred. Are we making the same mistake?
Are we perpetually enslaved to our inner doubts, despair and anger?
They're not pretty. They begin when we put down the facade of competence and acknowledge that we can’t manage, we can’t handle, we can’t fix.
In the terrible, wonderful paradox of the Jew in exile, we are permanently, gratefully, happy. And temporarily, terribly sad.
How my grandfather defeated Hitler.
In a dark world, you must be the light.
Mourning for the wholesome world I once grew up in.
My son is running against his best friend and I'm afraid.
In that temporary shack we felt our permanence.
Do I ask God for another chance, a chance I know I don’t deserve?
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