Tonight we open the Book of D’varim—the final book of the Torah. It begins not with action, but with memory. Moses stands before the Israelites and recounts their journey: the mistakes, the growth, the wilderness. But if you look closely, you’ll see—he doesn’t always tell it the same way it happened the first time. Sometimes he leaves things out. Sometimes he reframes the story. Why?
Because Moses isn’t just remembering. He’s teaching. Memory, in Torah, is not passive. It’s active. It’s not about nostalgia. It’s about carrying forward what matters most—and using it to shape what comes next.
That’s a truth I’ve come to know myself. As many of you know, my first career wasn’t in the synagogue. I was an opera singer. I trained, performed, lived and breathed that life. And when it came time to accept that my dream would never be fully realized, I let it go, and I grieved. For two full years, I mourned the loss—not only of a career, but of years of effort, identity, and aspiration. It felt, at times, like failure. Like something beautiful had ended, and I didn’t know what came next.
But slowly, something shifted in me. I began to understand that the dream I thought I’d lost—the dream of performing, of being seen and celebrated—was giving way to something deeper. I found purpose—not in performance, but in connection—not in seeking applause, but in offering comfort, guidance, care and trust. I started using my voice to help people connect more deeply through prayer and music.
My memory of giving up the opera is still tender. But it’s also filled with meaning. Because what I thought was an ending turned out to be a step toward something I couldn’t yet imagine—toward the work I was truly meant to do: not only using my voice in a new way but helping others find their own.
Moses, too, reaches a similar turning point. He won’t enter the Promised Land, but instead of fading quietly into the background, he embraces a new role—as teacher, guide, and storyteller—helping the next generation understand where they’ve been and preparing them for where they’re going.
Isn’t that one of the gifts of life experience—that we can use what we’ve gone through to guide others –use what we’ve learned to help someone else move forward, even if we don’t go with them.
In the end, I clearly didn’t stop singing. I just found a different stage—one where the goal isn’t recognition, but to be of service. Where the music helps people feel less alone. That, I’ve come to believe, is the real power of memory: not to take us back, but to help us move forward—with honesty, with purpose, and with one