I am fortunate to have the opportunity to work with people in developing their essays. Writing It Real subscriber Beth Einstein entered our spring essay contest and recently took me up on my offer to work with her essay for a Revision Diary article. I thank Beth for her continuing work on her entry (the topic for our first essay contest was an exploration of a childhood relationship to a culture outside one’s family’s) and her openness to my responses.

I am presenting the essay Beth entered in the contest along with my responses as reader as well as the next drafts she wrote in developing her essay. All of us need reminding from time to time that readers want to feel as if they are with the essay’s speaker in the experience presented on the page. Offering enough details and images not only engages the reader, but also helps the writer along in their journey toward insight–the reason they are writing the particular personal essay.

Here is the first version of Beth’s Essay:

The Shabbes Goy by Beth Einstein

For the first twelve years of my life I lived in a totally Jewish neighborhood in Brooklyn, New York. I was terribly proud to be Jewish and to come from such a wonderful heritage.

At the age of ten I began to find out that things were not what they appeared to be. I had a best friend whose name was Greta. She lived with her mother, father and brother Elliot in an apartment on the first floor of our apartment building. Her family were Orthodox Jews, while my family were kind of unorthodox Jews. My parents never celebrated any of the religious holidays in our home.

My mother and father’s families did respect our religion and it was at their homes that I learned what little I did about the Jewish religion. For this reason, Greta’s family thought of me as the Shabbes Goy. They asked me every Friday at sundown to turn on the electricity and gas for them in their apartment.

 Greta’s Mom always rewarded me with the delicious food that she had prepared for the Sabbath. They were food like potato pudding called “Kugel” and “Chulent” a dish made from beef and beans. It was a peasant dish, which sustained our people during the cold winters in Europe.

I used to come down to Greta’s house and watch her father and brother pray. It reminded me of the Jews praying at the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem. They swayed back and forth and I must admit that I found it hard not to laugh for it seemed so odd to a girl my age without any religious training. They wore prayer shawls and wrapped tape around their heads and arms. It was somehow mystical but I confess to not understanding what it was all about.

A couple of years ago, I read a book about a local gentile boy who was helping the neighborhood Rabbi by turning on the electricity in the temple every Sabbath. The Rabbi called him the Shabbes or Sabbath Goy. What I realized then was that my friend’s parents had treated me, a non-religious Jew as a Gentile.

This awakening brought back so many instances of my mother complaining about the Ultra Orthodox people who were moving into our neighborhood. They were very different even from my friend Greta and her family. The men wore side curls, beards and long black coats even in the summer time. Ladies wore their drab dresses down below their knees and long sleeves on all of their clothes. I believe that they were not supposed to be attractive to anyone other than their husbands. They looked down upon anyone in our neighborhood who did not practice Judaism in their way. They boycotted the stores, which would not close for the Sabbath.

My mother, a rather spunky lady was terribly upset about the changes she was seeing in what she considered an idyllic place to live. One Saturday morning on her way to the store she encountered three little Hassidic boys on the street. In Yiddish they yelled to her that she should return from whence she came. In other words from dust you came and unto dust shall you return. Her crime was that she was carrying a pocketbook with money in it and smoking a cigarette on the street on the Sabbath. My mother was not amused.

From that day on she made it her business to avoid these types of encounters. Yom Kippur the holiest day of the year for Jews we would go into Manhattan sometimes to see a play or go shopping.

At age twelve we moved to Westchester and I became friends with both Jews and Gentile kids. I never felt any differences between us and dated more Gentile boys than Jewish boys. I finally married a Christian man and have been happily married for almost twenty-eight years.

What I found myself searching for was the right Spiritual path for me. I have finally realized that I am a part of it all and think of myself as a JewBuChrist. I never felt as a child separated from my own people but now as an adult see how adults back then could look at an innocent child and see her as different even though that child was of the same religion.

****

When I knew Beth wanted to work further on her essay, I emailed this message to her:

Hi Beth,
Thanks for agreeing to this work. I look forward to seeing what the next draft looks like and to going back and forth until it is a full, powerful, fun read. I am as always using my three-step response method (Velcro Words, Feelings A and B, and Curiosity). I will start with a list of Velcro Words (words and phrases that stuck with me as I read) and then tell you my Feelings A (what I enjoyed about the essay). Then inserted inside the text are my Feelings B (what got in the way of my enjoyment) and my Curiosity (where I want to know more) responses.

Velcro Words:
Shabbes Goy, terribly proud, unorthodox Jews, Kugel, Chulent, Wailing Wall, swayed, mystical, local gentile boy who was helping the neighborhood Rabbi, Ultra Orthodox, side curls, beards, long black coats even in the summer time, drab dresses, not supposed to be attractive to any one other than their husbands, boycotted the stores which would not close for the Sabbath, crime was carrying her pocketbook, avoid these types of encounters, go to a play in Manhattan, JewBuChrist

Feelings A:
I enjoy the straightforward description of growing up in this neighborhood and the enthusiasm the speaker had for the families before the demarcations were drawn so strictly.

And now for the Feelings B and Curiosity comments inserted into the text:

The Shabbes Goy by Beth Einstein

For the first twelve years of my life I lived in a totally Jewish neighborhood in Brooklyn, New York. I feel left out here — I want to see the neighborhood, the houses, households, people, butchers, bagel stores, synagogues — whatever was there that had the flavor the ethnic neighborhood and the things that made you proud of the heritage so when you say you are in the next sentence we can see how that come from your personal experience. I was terribly proud to be Jewish and to come from such a wonderful heritage.

At the age of ten I began to find out that things were not what they appeared to be. I had a best friend whose name was Greta. She lived with her mother, father and brother Elliot in an apartment on the first floor of our apartment building. Her family were Orthodox Jews, while my family were kind of unorthodox Jews. My parents never celebrated any of the religious holidays in our home.

My mother and father’s families did respect our religion and it was at their homes that I learned what little I did about the Jewish religion. I feel left out of learning what you learned. What did your grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins teach you? What did you parents not practice in particular that meant you could do things for Greta’s family? For this reason, Greta’s family thought of me as the Shabbes Goy. You might have to translate this. They asked me every Friday at sundown to turn on the electricity and gas for them in their apartment.

Greta’s Mom always rewarded me with the delicious food that she had prepared for the Sabbath. They were food like potato pudding called ” Kugel” and “Chulent” a dish made from beef and beans. It was a peasant dish, which sustained our people during the cold winters in Europe. Curiosity: did you take the food home? Eat it there?

I used to come down to Greta’s house and watch her father and brother pray. It reminded me of the Jews praying at the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem. How did you know what those Jews looked like? They swayed back and forth and I must admit that I found it hard not to laugh for it seemed so odd to a girl my age without any religious training. They wore prayer shawls and wrapped tape around their heads and arms. It was somehow mystical but I confess to not understanding what it was all about. Feelings b: it is a hard to go from suppressed laughter to feeling mystical. Perhaps with some more writing this will sort itself out — where did they pray? What did their eyes and hands look like? Which way did they sway? What did the prayer books look like or did they not need them? What did the women do while the men prayed?

A couple of years ago, I read a book about a local gentile boy who was helping the neighborhood Rabbi by turning on the electricity in the temple every Sabbath. The Rabbi called him the Shabbes or Sabbath Goy. What I realized then was that my friend’s parents had treated me, a non-religious Jew as a Gentile. I think you might want to reveal this at the time you use the term Shabbes goy about yourself since you wouldn’t have used it as a child but now know what to call this role.

This awakening brought back so many instances of my mother complaining about the Ultra Orthodox people who were moving into our neighborhood. They were very different even from my friend Greta and her family. The men wore side curls, beards and long black coats even in the summer time. Ladies wore their drab dresses down below their knees and long sleeves on all of their clothes. I believe that they were not supposed to be attractive to anyone other than their husbands. They looked down upon anyone in our neighborhood who did not practice Judaism in their way. How did they look down? What did they do or say? They boycotted the stores, which would not close for the Sabbath. Did this make an economic difference to the stores in the neighborhood?

My mother, a rather spunky lady was terribly upset about the changes she was seeing in what she considered an idyllic place to live. One Saturday morning on her way to the store she encountered three little Hassidic boys on the street, In Yiddish they yelled to her that she should return from whence she came. In other words from dust you came and unto dust shall you return. Her crime was that she was carrying a pocketbook with money in it and smoking a cigarette on the street on the Sabbath. My mother was not amused.

From that day on she made it her business to avoid these types of encounters. What did she do that might lead up to the “drastic” action of seeing a play on Yom Kippur? Yom Kippur the holiest day of the year for Jews we would go into Manhattan sometimes to see a play or go shopping. Can you write a bit about how this affected you and what you did as a consequence of knowing about her encounters? Did you have similar encounters or fear them?

At age twelve we moved to West Chester and I became friends with both Jews and Gentile kids. I never felt any differences between us and dated more Gentile boys than Jewish boys. I finally married a Christian man and have been happily married for almost twenty-eight years.

What I found myself searching for was the right Spiritual path for me. I have finally realized that I am a part of it all and think of myself as a JewBuChrist. I never felt as a child separated from my own people but now as an adult see how adults back then could look at an innocent child and see her as different even though that child was of the same religion.

Okay, this will do for a first round. I think you have the wonderful opportunity to fill more in and once there is more of the color of the times and neighborhood and people, we will find even more strongly that the piece is about feeling other in your own neighborhood, and how it might not happen all at once to a child, but evolve.

I look forward to seeing the next draft with more details.

Beth quickly sent a second version of her essay:

The Shabbes Goy

By Beth Einstein

For the first twelve years of my life, I lived in a Jewish neighborhood in Brooklyn, New York called Boro Park. Our apartment house was located on 15th Avenue between 47th and 48th Streets. Our apartment 2L. was comprised of one bedroom, a large living room, a kitchen, bath and foyer where I slept on a day bed. My mother was not into decorating, so the rooms were all painted white and there were no drapes or carpeting on the floors. We did have a few pictures on the walls but they were in very muted tones. In retrospect it was rather drab.

In order to buy food, we walked to 16th Avenue where an array of Momma and Poppa stores were located. The first store was Sam’s Grocery. It was about one third the size of a Circle K store. The shelves were stocked with canned goods, breads and other non-perishable items. Sam had a delivery boy named Seymour who was somewhat retarded. Seymour would deliver our groceries to us in his rickety old wagon. As a little girl, I was a little bit scared of him, but as I got older I realized what a kind heart he had.

Next door to Sam’s place was the Bagel Bakery. As you entered, an amazing smell of fresh bagels surrounded you. They had all sizes of bagels and our favorite was a large flat one which we called “The Pletzel.” It was baked with bits of onion in it and was marvelous with creamed cheese spread on it. In order to get the other Jewish delicacies we loved, my Mom would go to the appetizer store every Saturday on 13th Avenue. That was the real business hub in our area. She would purchase such items as lox, smoked salmon and pickled herring, all things that go well with bagels on Sunday morning. My Dad was our chef every Sunday, and he would make his famous lox, eggs and onions.

The other stores on 16th Avenue were our local butcher shop where one could purchase fresh chopped meat and, in those days, could even eat it raw. Across the street was my favorite store, the Ice Cream Emporium. I would delight in Chocolate Malteds, Ice Cream Sodas, Frappes, and Chocolate Egg Creams.

Our neighborhood was small, warm and inviting. Everyone knew who you were, which in hindsight might have been a problem for some of us kids, but it was like living with a very large family. We would gather downstairs on the street at night sitting in lawn chairs to escape the hot apartments in the summertime. The kids would play and the women would gossip, sew or knit. We all would wait for the Good Humor truck to drive by so that we could get what I thought then was the greatest ice cream on the planet.

One of my best girlfriends was named Greta. She, her brother, mother and father lived on the first floor of our apartment house. They were Orthodox Jews and much more religious than my family. On Friday nights, which begin the Sabbath, Greta’s parents would ask me to come downstairs and turn on their stove and electric lights for them. As I understand it, Orthodox Jews are not allowed to do such worldly things for themselves during the Sabbath. Greta’s Mom would let me eat dinner with them. She would have prepared Shabbat dinner before sundown: Kugel, a potato pudding, and Chulent, a peasant dish of beef and beans that I imagine sustained my forefathers during the cold winters in Russia.

I would go into Greta’s bedroom, which her father and brother used for prayer and watch them put on their religious garb and sway back and forth while reciting in Hebrew. They knew the prayers by heart; the women stood and watched. I was just a child and on occasion it appeared humorous to me to see them do this. My parents never prayed and we never talked about being Jewish at home. All religious holidays were celebrated at the homes of my Aunts and Uncles. Uncle Morris taught me how to recite the prayer for wine and bread in Hebrew and let me help light the candles at Chanukah.

As the years went by a subtle change began in our neighborhood. The Ultra Orthodox Jews or Hassidim began purchasing homes. At first there was little change but as time went on more and more men would be seen walking the streets to Temple in their black coats, fur hats, beards and side curls. The women wore long sleeves and long hemlines. From what I understand they were not to be attractive to men other than their husbands. In fact, the married women shaved their heads and wore wigs. I never understood the significance of shaving their heads but my friend Greta’s grandmother did it and I was told that other married women did so as well.

Increasingly, young Hassidic boys yelled at my mother on Saturdays as she walked to the store carrying her pocketbook and smoking a cigarette. To these children, it was a sin to carry money on the Sabbath. Not only were the new tenants annoyed by our practices, they began dialogues with the local merchants telling them to close their stores on Saturdays and open instead on Sundays.

My Mom began having us leave the neighborhood to go into New York City on Saturdays and religious holidays such as Yom Kippur. I did not mind, as we would go to the theater or eat in fancy restaurants. We had never fasted on Yom Kippur or gone to Temple, so I didn’t feet badly about our being in New York City on such a high holy day. Mom felt that she could enjoy her life more if we were not home being berated publicly on these days for who we were.

When I was twelve, we moved to Westchester, outside of the city. I never found out what happened in our old neighborhood between the Hassidic people and the local storekeepers. After we moved, I met many Christian boys and girls in addition to the Jewish kids and never felt any differences between my Christian and Jewish friends.

A couple of years ago, I read a book about a local Christian boy who would help the neighborhood Rabbi by turning on the electricity for him on the Sabbath in the Temple. The author of the book called this local Christian boy the “Shabbes Goy” or the Sabbath Gentile. It was at this point that I began to see myself through Greta’s eyes. Even before the Hassidim moved into our neighborhood there were differences in our families and lifestyles. At that moment, I understood that Greta’s parents did not consider me Jewish. I now see why I did feel more comfortable living in Westchester, even though I missed the camaraderie of the nights sitting downstairs with my neighbors and friends in Brooklyn.

Not having much of a religious background, I have been searching for my spiritual path for many years and this new understanding of something from my childhood shed light on my journey. I consider myself a JewBuChrist. I have spent time visiting many Protestant and Catholic Churches, talking to the various ministers and Priests and became a member of Unity Church in Tucson for five years. I also took a course in Japanese History at the local college and wrote my end term paper on Buddhism.

When my mother died, her friends in the retirement home in which she lived had the local priest say a prayer for her during their Sunday mass. Prior to her passing, when she went to church with them and saw the Statue of Jesus she commented that “now God has a face.” The knowledge that I have gained from all of these experiences proves to me today that people really are more alike than they are different.

****

When Beth worked to answer my questions and deal with the feelings I was having that got in the way of my enjoying the essay, her word count rose from 720 words to 1327 words. That’s a good sign that she is finding the images and details that will help the reader be with her in her memories of her childhood neighborhood to learn.

I wrote back to Beth:

This draft has really come along nicely. Now, when I read the ending, I have a new thought for a bit more. You write:
When my mother died, her friends in the retirement home in which she lived had the local priest say a prayer for her during their Sunday mass. Prior to her passing, when she went to church with them and saw the Statue of Jesus she commented that “now God has a face.” The knowledge that I have gained from all of these experiences proves to me today that people really are more alike than they are different.

This makes me wonder, if people are more alike than they are different, what comment can you make on cultures or groups that stress differences rather than honor this fact? Specifically, what might you say to Greta’s mother today about what you’ve discovered — you can use specifics from the studies about Buddhism — I like the detail you give about your mom as she aged. I think you might add more from your experiences in Churches and your studies until you have something specific to address to Greta’s mother — perhaps something to ask her now that she is in the afterlife. Do you see what I am getting at? A way to talk philosophy by using the specifics and experience you have set out in your essay.

It won’t be long before this will be a satisfying read from beginning to end. Thanks for the good work

****

Beth soon sent a version that appeared to me to be just about finished. I took out the word Temple to refer to the Orthodox people’s place of worship and replaced it with synagogue and shul, as the observant people of that day would have called the place they prayed. I also did a little bit of reorganizing to make use of the mother’s comment about God’s face help the speaker make her point about her spiritual search. In addition, I took out the feeling that people are more alike than they are different in favor what I thought the essay wanted to tell the writer–that for peace, this particular speaker needed to set something right between her older self and her younger self.

Combing through this last version, Beth will probably find that ultimately a bit of minor pruning (the neighborhood stores in her list may not all be necessary, for instance) and sentence tightening (modifiers like subtle or phrases like “From what I understand” may prove unnecessary; “began dialogues with” might be replaced with “began asking”) will help readers. However, this version has everything required for the speaker to find insight and for the reader to feel included in the journey.

Here are the shaping changes that occur starting in the 13th paragraph. (The entire essay with these changes in it appears at the end of this article.)

Not having much of a religious background, I have been searching for my spiritual path for many years. I have spent time visiting many Protestant and Catholic Churches, talking to the various ministers and Priests and was a member of Unity Church in Tucson for five years. I also took a course in Japanese History at the local college and wrote my end term paper on Buddhism. I consider myself a JewBuChrist.

When my mother died, her friends in the retirement home in which she lived had the local priest say a prayer for her during their Sunday mass. Prior to her passing, when she went to church with them and saw the Statue of Jesus, she commented that “now God has a face.” The knowledge that I have gained from my experiences proves to me today that people’s needs are deeply personal.

As I pondered this fact, I began visualizing a conversation with Greta’s Mom as we sat around her kitchen table. In my fantasy, I was a grown woman and did not have the need to keep my feelings a secret. I told her about my journey into learning about other religions and pointed out that the Ten Commandments were not only honored by Jews but by Christians and Islamics. Buddhists had their own version called the “Ten Deeds of Goodness.” Basically we are all taught not to lie, steal, kill, covet what does not belong to you, and to love God and others. I asked her if we as Jews look down on those of our own religion because of differences in perception of that religion, then how could we expect others to respect what we stand for?

Greta’s mother did not say anything but gently kissed me on the forehead, then turned and walked away bathed in a gentle cleansing light. She was going back to be with Greta’s father in a place that I know I will someday be. I felt that she understood what had happened so many years ago and accepted me for who I am.

****

The essay is now 1,488 words. Among the lessons in Beth’s revision process is this one: we often write way too short when we describe something we know well and thus fail to bring our essays to the moment of inherently revealing the reason we are “recollecting in tranquility,” to quote Wordsworth.

We write because we have something to settle. The details we use, build a path for us to travel toward that settlement.

****

Here is the full text of the third draft of Beth’s essay:

The Shabbes Goy by Beth Einstein
For the first twelve years of my life, I lived in a Jewish neighborhood in Brooklyn, New York called Boro Park. Our apartment house was located on 15th Avenue between 47th and 48th Streets. Our apartment 2L was comprised of one bedroom, a large living room, a kitchen, bath and foyer where I slept on a day bed. My mother was not into decorating, so the rooms were all painted white and there were no drapes or carpeting on the floors. We did have a few pictures on the walls but they were in very muted tones. In retrospect it was rather drab.

To buy food, we walked to 16th Avenue where an array of Momma and Poppa stores were located. The first store was Sam’s Grocery. It was about one third the size of a Circle K store. The shelves were stocked with canned goods, breads and other non­perishable items. Sam had a delivery boy named Seymour who was mentally retarded. Seymour delivered our groceries to us in his rickety old wagon. As a little girl, I was a bit scared of him, but as I got older I realized what a kind heart he had.

Next door to Sam’s place was the Bagel Bakery. As you entered, the smell of fresh bagels surrounded you. They offered all sizes of bagels; our favorite was a large flat one, which we called “The Pletzel.” It was baked with bits of onion in it and was marvelous with creamed cheese spread on it. To get the other Jewish delicacies we loved, my mom went to the appetizer store on 13th Avenue every Saturday. That was the real business hub in our area. She would purchase such items as lox, smoked salmon and pickled herring, all things that go well with bagels on Sunday morning. My Dad was our chef every Sunday, and he would make his famous lox, eggs and onions.

The other stores on 16th Avenue were our local butcher shop where one could purchase fresh chopped meat and, in those days, could even eat it raw. Across the street was my favorite store, the Ice Cream Emporium. I would delight in Chocolate Malteds, Ice Cream Sodas, Frappes, and Chocolate Egg Creams.

Our neighborhood was small, warm and inviting. Everyone knew who you were, which in hindsight might have been a problem for some of us kids, but it was like living with a very large family. We would gather downstairs on the street at night sitting in lawn chairs to escape the hot apartments in the summertime. The kids would play and the women would gossip, sew or knit. We all would wait for the Good Humor truck to drive by so that we could get what I thought then was the greatest ice cream on the planet.

One of my best girlfriends was named Greta. She, her brother, mother and father lived on the first floor of our apartment house. They were Orthodox Jews. Greta’s parents would ask me to come downstairs and turn on their stove and electric lights for them on Fridays at sundown, which begins the Sabbath. As I understand it, Orthodox Jews are not allowed to do such worldly things for themselves during the Sabbath. Greta’s Mom let me stay for Sabbath dinner. She would have prepared Shabbat dinner before sundown: Kugel, a potato pudding, and Chulent, a peasant dish of beef and beans that I imagine sustained my forefathers during the cold winters in Russia.

I would go into Greta’s bedroom, which her father and brother used for prayer, and watch them put on their religious garb and sway back and forth while reciting in Hebrew. They knew the prayers by heart; the women stood and watched. I was just a child and on occasion it appeared humorous to me to see them do this. My parents never prayed and we never talked about being Jewish at home. All religious holidays were celebrated at the homes of my Aunts and Uncles. Uncle Morris taught me how to recite the prayer for wine and bread in Hebrew and let me help light the candles at Chanukah.

As the years went by a subtle change began in our neighborhood. The Ultra Orthodox Jews, or Hassidim, began purchasing homes. At first there was little change but as time went on, more and more men could be seen walking the streets to shul in their black coats, fur hats, beards and side curls. The women wore long sleeves and long hemlines. From what I understand, they were not to be attractive to men other than their husbands. In fact, the married women shaved their heads and wore wigs. I never understood the significance of shaving their heads but my friend Greta’s grandmother did it, and I was told that other married women did so as well.

Increasingly, young Hassidic boys yelled at my mother on Saturdays as she walked to the store carrying her pocketbook and smoking a cigarette. To these children, it was a sin to carry money on the Sabbath. Not only were the new residents annoyed by our practices, they began dialogues with the local merchants telling them to close their stores on Saturdays and open instead on Sundays.

My mom began having us leave the neighborhood to go into New York City on Saturdays and religious holidays such as Yom Kippur. I did not mind, as we would go to the theater or eat in fancy restaurants. We had never fasted on Yom Kippur or gone to synagogue, so I didn’t feet badly about our being in New York City on such a high holy day. Mom felt that she could enjoy her life more if we were not home being berated publicly on these days for who we were.

When I was twelve, we moved to Westchester, outside of the city. I never found out what happened in our old neighborhood between the Hassidic people and the local storekeepers. After we moved, I met many Christian boys and girls in addition to Jewish kids and never felt any differences between my Christian and Jewish friends.

A couple of years ago, I read a book about a local Christian boy who would help the neighborhood Rabbi by turning on the electricity for him on the Sabbath in the synagogue. The author of the book called this local Christian boy the “Shabbes Goy” or the Sabbath Gentile. It was at this point that I began to see myself through Greta’s eyes. Even before the Hassidim moved into our neighborhood, there were differences in our families and lifestyles. At that moment, I understood that Greta’s parents did not consider me Jewish. I now see why I did feel more comfortable living in Westchester, even though I missed the camaraderie of the nights sitting downstairs with my neighbors and friends in Brooklyn.

Not having much of a religious background, I have been searching for my spiritual path for many years. I have spent time visiting many Protestant and Catholic Churches, talking to the various ministers and Priests and was a member of Unity Church in Tucson for five years. I also took a course in Japanese History at the local college and wrote my end term paper on Buddhism. I consider myself a JewBuChrist.
When my mother died, her friends in the retirement home in which she lived had the local priest say a prayer for her during their Sunday mass. Prior to her passing, when she went to church with them and saw the Statue of Jesus, she commented that “now God has a face.” The knowledge that I have gained from my experiences proves to me today that people’s needs are deeply personal.

As I pondered this fact, I began visualizing a conversation with Greta’s Mom as we sat around her kitchen table. In my fantasy, I was a grown woman and did not have the need to keep my feelings a secret. I told her about my journey into learning about other religions and pointed out that the Ten Commandments were not only honored by Jews but by Christians and Islamics. Buddhists had their own version called the “Ten Deeds of Goodness.” Basically we are all taught not to lie, steal, kill, covet what does not belong to you, and to love God and others. I asked her if we as Jews look down on those of our own religion because of differences in perception of that religion, then how could we expect others to respect what we stand for?

Greta’s mother did not say anything but gently kissed me on the forehead, then turned and walked away bathed in a gentle cleansing light. She was going back to be with Greta’s father in a place that I know I will someday be. I felt that she understood what had happened so many years ago and accepted me for who I am.