It’s happening. On Wednesday, I’m making the big move up North, to what in Hebrew is called דיור מוגן—“protected living.”

Last week in our kehillah, the young man (to me!) giving the dvar Torah ended by saying some lovely things about my leaving, and about my husband’s and my contribution to the community. Afterwards, I went over to him and said, “I’m not dead yet.” And that is exactly the point of my leaving now—while I’m still alive and kicking (maybe not physically)—when I’m still me, and able to make my own decisions about how and where I want to live.

This week, they are sending me off with a kiddush in my honor. And since it is Parshat Terumah, I’m sure whoever speaks will mention the obvious connections to our terumot—our contributions—over the past fifty years to the congregation and to the larger community of Omer.

Over the past few days, while reluctantly packing up, I’ve found myself reflecting on how Parshat Terumah resonates with my own life. Family and friends often ask why I take my teaching so seriously, given that it’s a volunteer role and not—now or ever—my career. Even when I’ve been offered payment for lectures, I’ve preferred that the money be donated to my local congregation.

Perhaps that is my own small way of bringing a terumah: giving not what is commanded, but what the heart moves one to give—time, energy, experience, and the deep belief that what we build together as a community matters. In that sense, even as I move on to a new chapter, I hope to still contribute—still teach, still learn, and still be very much here.

This week’s parsha begins with God instructing Moses to tell the Israelites to bring Him “gifts” (terumah). These gifts are to be given voluntarily, “from every man or woman whose heart so moves him” (Exodus 25:2). The chapter details the kinds of gifts expected—precious stones, metals, and expensive yarns—almost like a divine gift registry on Amazon. The goal? To create a holy sanctuary where God may dwell among His people (Exodus 25:8-9).

I will avoid asking the obvious, which is why does God need such a fancy abode in which to house His presence. Instead, I want to focus on the act of giving (nedava) and share what volunteering has brought into my life.

As I prepare to move in less than a week, one of the hardest tasks is sorting through a lifetime of correspondence. Fortunately, my daughter has been helping me, providing a chance to reminisce about what I’m discarding. Some of my past volunteer work had completely slipped my mind.

I served as chairperson of two organizations—the Light Opera Group of the Negev and a Women’s Group with about 250 members before we joined the Israel’s Women Network. I also spent many years as the volunteer Torah reader in our congregation, which deepened my understanding of the text. This led me to write modern midrash (retellings of narrative tales) on the Torah. During the pandemic, I transitioned my Bible classes to Zoom, reaching a broader audience, including people from across the U.S. My “generosity” in sharing this knowledge gives me a profound sense of self-worth—something invaluable and not for personal gain.

I resonate with the Psalmist:

“O how I love Your teaching! It is my study all day long… . I have gained more insight than all my teachers, for Your decrees are my study. I have gained more understanding than my elders…” (Psalms 119:97-100).

Or Ben Zoma quoting this in the Ethics of the Fathers (4:1):

Who is wise? He who learns from every man, as it is said: From all who taught me have I gained understanding (Psalms 119:99).

DISCARDING LEGACIES FROM THE PAST

As I sift through my belongings, I also confront my parents’ legacies. Old passports, death certificates, and even ration cards from 1944 remind me of their history–who knew that there was rationing during the war in the U.S.  I found love letters from my father to my mother, written in Hungarian, and report cards from my school years. Before discarding anything, I find myself reading through these memories, making the process time-consuming. My daughter urges me to let go, pointing out that I should not cling to every piece of my past, yet I struggle with parting from my father’s letters, even if I can’t read them.

This past Wednesday was Valentine’s Day, a day of celebration in my family as it was also my father’s birthday. He always bought my mother a box of Barton’s Almond Kisses, and if we were lucky, we’d get a piece or two. My parents exemplified volunteering, dedicating their time and resources to community causes like UJA and Mt. Sinai Hospital.

Volunteering is deeply embedded in the Jewish psyche. Over the past two and a half years, we’ve witnessed extraordinary acts of service, especially since October 7th. Ordinary citizens have stepped up where the government has faltered, contributing time, money, skills, and goods in unprecedented ways.

In Parshat Terumah, God calls on every individual to give generously, “from every man or woman whose heart so moves him” (Exodus 25:2-8). Everyone has something to offer, regardless of how insignificant they may feel. Ultimately, it comes down to our attitude and the desire to make the world a better place.

This morning, the person in charge of cultural programming at my new retirement home, called me and asked if I would be willing to give a ten-minute dvar Torah to my new community. They’ve invited 150 soldiers to join the residents for the morning, and thought it would be meaningful to include some Jewish content in the program. How could I possibly say no?

Fortunately, next week is Shabbat Zachor, and I have more than enough to say about that—about memory, responsibility, and the ways in which the past continues to shape who we are and what we choose to do in the present. It feels especially fitting, as I begin finding my place in a new community, to speak about what it means to remember, not to forget, to belong, and to carry our collective story forward.

So stay tuned for next week’s installment as I continue navigating this new chapter—and discovering that even in דיור מוגן, life still offers plenty of opportunities for fresh adventures, meaningful encounters, and, apparently, a captive audience.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)