That’s all I can retrieve. It’s most of the verse from a ritual autograph, the kind that we collected from friends and relatives in grade school.

It’s how I have been feeling these days, trying to coalesce my thoughts around a succinct “message,” or, as the rabbis of Eastern Europe would offer, a vort, a word, in these times.

In these times. These times, when faith, of all kinds, is being profoundly challenged. Received medical wisdom, accepted scientific theories, appropriate corporate behavior, clean domestic governing and consistent foreign policies – none of these, it seems can be taken for granted.

Religious leaders, governing councils of all faiths, and, certainly, rabbis, are all anticipating that date on the calendar which is fast approaching. What will we say, from the pulpit, from the pages of our bulletins, newsletters, and journals, about 9/11?

That’s why that snippet of doggerel came to me. Poor ink. Bum pen. How can I offer Best wishes, shana tova, or speak of the holidays at all when this anniversary, so real, so devastating, looms on the calendar? Best to just find a way to say Amen, to offer something prayerful, soothing, so that all can nod in comforted assent ….

“I believe that every time a raindrop falls, a flower grows. I believe that
somewhere in the darkest night, a candle glows. Every time I hear a newborn baby cry, or touch a leaf, or see the sky, then I know why I believe.”

That snippet, too, began to play in my head, an old, hymn-like chestnut, that offers the one short on faith, the one who questions the possibility of redemption, who despairs of finding meaning, the simplest of answers.

Rabbi Harold Kushner, author of When Bad Things Happen to Good People, among other titles, had these thoughts:

“Where was God on September 11? First of all, He was trying to discourage anyone from taking this flight. Those four flights together held over 1,000 passengers and there were only 266 aboard. He was on four commercial flights giving terrified passengers the ability to stay calm. Not one of the family members who was called by a loved one on one of the high-jacked planes said that passengers were screaming in the background…. Although this is without a doubt the worst thing I have seen in my life, I can see God’s miracles in every bit of it…. I can’t imagine going through such a difficult time and not believing in God. Life would be hopeless.”

Hopelessness, despair grips us, too, when we contemplate the dire situation in the Middle East. And then, closer to home, closer to our hearts, are the losses, challenges, and struggles that we all face in our homes, families and extended circles. It is, truly, a miracle to face each day anew. We who live, believe it or not, are blessed by our capacity to remember, to mourn, and to honor the memories of those whose lives and spirits touched us.

It is indeed poets - lyricists, songwriters, even the anonymous scribblers of
forgettable verse - who give us the capacity to hope. Our Hope loved
poetry. Let me send you all the best wishes for a sweet, healthy and joyous
Shana Tova, by closing with the words of the German-born Israeli poet
Yehuda Amichai, from his final book of poems, Open, Closed, Open: *

In Jerusalem, hope springs eternal. Hope is like a faithful dog.

Sometimes she runs ahead of me to check the future, to sniff it out, and then I call her: Hope, Hope, come here, and she comes to me. I pet her, she eats out of my hand.

And sometimes she stays behind, near some other hope, maybe to sniff out whatever was. Then I call her my Despair.

I call out to her: Hey, my little Despair, come here, And she comes and snuggles up, and again I call her Hope.

* translated from the Hebrew by Chana Bloch and Chana Kronfeld