templebethshira

Nine-year-old Joey came home from Hebrew school one day, and his mom asked what he learned.
He said, “Well, our teacher told us how God sent Moses behind enemy lines to rescue the Israelites. They got to the Red Sea and Moses had his engineers build a pontoon bridge so everyone could walk across. Then he radioed for backup, and bombers came to blow up the bridge behind them.”

His mom blinked. “Joey… is that really what your teacher said?”
He grinned and replied, “Not exactly. But if I told you the story the way she did, you’d never believe it.”

We smile, but Joey’s not wrong. Sometimes Torah stories are hard to believe. A sea that splits? Plagues and pillars of fire? Even people with deep faith can wrestle with those images. And yet we keep telling the story—not because we’re trying to convince anyone it happened exactly that way, but because we still find ourselves in it.

This week, in Parashat Va’etchanan, Moses is looking back—retelling the Exodus story and all that followed, so the next generation won’t forget. He knows that the real power of the story isn’t just in what happened, but in what it keeps meaning.

The Exodus isn’t just a moment in ancient history. It’s a lens—a way of naming the parts of our lives where we feel stuck… and the quiet courage it takes to keep going.

The Hebrew word for Egypt is Mitzrayim. It literally means “a narrow place.” And we’ve all been there. For some, it’s not a dramatic crisis—it’s the slow, quiet weight of missing someone. Or waking up in a body that doesn’t move like it used to. Or realizing that the life we built now looks very different than it did before.

Sometimes it’s a kind of spiritual restlessness—wondering what purpose looks like when the roles we once held no longer apply. And sometimes it’s just the ache of change. We don’t always talk about it. But we feel it.

The Torah says that God heard the Israelites’ cry. Maybe that part isn’t about a supernatural being reaching down from the clouds either. Maybe it’s a way of saying: Your struggle matters. Whatever you’re going through—grief, doubt, change, hope—it’s real. It’s heard.

Redemption doesn’t have to look like parting seas. Sometimes it looks like getting out of bed, even when it’s hard. Or picking up the phone. Or walking down the hall to sit next to someone. None of those things will make headlines. But they move us forward. And sometimes, they’re the most holy moments of all.

The truth is, the Exodus isn’t just something that happened once—it’s still happening. Not with seas splitting and plagues falling from the sky, but in the small, everyday steps we take to move forward. Sometimes the “sea” only opens wide enough for us to take one more step—and that’s okay. If you’re in a narrow place right now, whatever that looks like for you, remember: this story is still yours. You don’t have to believe every detail to let it give you strength. You just have to take the next step—and let the people around you walk with you.

Our children and grandchildren may never have to memorize a phone number or learn to read a map. But they will need to learn patience. They will need to know that wisdom isn’t downloaded—it’s lived. That not every problem can be solved with a search bar.

Maybe the best gift we can give them is not just our knowledge, but our example: showing them what it looks like to keep showing up, to work on something for years, to let time shape us. To tell them stories about when we had to wait, and what we discovered in the waiting.

In an instant world, we can be living reminders of the beauty of the long game. Just as Moses asked the Israelites to remember their forty-year journey, we can invite the next generation to slow down, to look back, and to see that sometimes, the most valued things take a lifetime to grow.

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