Yom Kippur, and Papa Smiled

For years this Jew worked on the Jewish holidays because he never even thought about belief.

And then came cancer. Again. And then he met the rabbi.

For the last two years, I think, I've done the go to the night time service then go to work the next day strategy. Uno steppo at el timo, I call it.

Then I got the call. The rabbi would like to honor you by having you carry the Torah around in the procession Monday morning, said the old woman's voice.

And I had to think about it. And now that I think about it, I wonder if it was a test. Was it by the rabbi? By Papa? By god?

And as I walked around, carrying the heavy, holy scrolls, I felt like I was the rock star I had never become. Everyone reached out to touch and kiss what I had in my arms on this most important day.

The temperature plummeted last night. The wind blew trashcan lids in the alleys. Our seven foot tall sunflowers were bent over and bouncing and no longer yellow and standing tall.

And all of us in the temple were begging for forgiveness and asking to get written in the book of life. For one more year at least. One more year of life and love.

When I listened to Rabbi Doug chant from that Torah that I had just carried around the temple for everyone to kiss, I saw my grandfather and grandmother, and my Uncle Mitch in the room as angels, and they danced next to the rabbi with 11,000 more.

When Karla and I made it home after a near-four hour service, we stopped at Whole Foods, and picked up gluten free cupcakes with thick white frosting. Once home, we gave each other toasts as if we were drinking martinis, and broke our fasts with sweet cupcakes and a kiss.