When I was a child, I grew up going to Temple Beth Ami in Rockville, MD. As many synagogues do, a Hebrew phrase is often placed atop the aron hakodesh where the Torah sits. At my synagogue growing up, it said: “da lifney mi atah omed” – “know before whom you stand”. At every single synagogue in Morocco and in the Jewish Museum in Casablanca, I saw this phrase over and over again. It’s not that it’s an entirely uncommon phrase to see, but it’s hardly the only one used in synagogues and it brought me back to my childhood, when my mom and I used to go to services every week. Where I used to lead services. And where she was President and on the Board for many years.
Here are some of the beautiful places I saw this phrase in Moroccan Jewish spaces, in every city I visited:
Every time I noticed the phrase, I gasped. How could it be that this particular Hebrew sentence was following me around a country halfway around the world that I had never visited and yet somehow was connected to? And I couldn’t help but think that this ability of Jews to traverse cultures and to connect around the world was something I learned from a young age and something my mom would be excited to see me pursue.
I often feel my mom’s spirit, especially when I travel. For example, I could feel her nudging me back towards my Jewish spirituality in Lisbon after losing my faith when she and my step-dad passed away. Looking back on it, that moment in Lisbon helped lead me to the rabbinical school program I’m in today. And to many other Jewish travel adventures.
There was another example on my trip that was possibly much more directly connected to my mom than even the words on the Torah Ark. One of my amazing tour guides, an elderly man, brought me to a zellij factory. Zellij is mosaic tile work. My mom was an avid mosaic artist. One of her most beautiful pieces which she left to me was called “The Tree of Life”. This is what it looks like:
Walking around the factory, the mosaics spoke to me. If my mom had been with me, she would’ve been in heaven, but not the one upstairs where she is now. I wished so badly she could’ve been there with me, enjoying the beautiful art work.
And then my guide brought me to a special piece. It was a tree. And its name was “The Tree of Life”. My jaw almost dropped. Here it is:
I explained in Arabic to the guide about my mom and mosaics and her piece with the very same name. I couldn’t quite capture the myriad feelings going through my heart. The sadness and anger that she couldn’t be there with me. The ecstasy of finding this deep connection to my mom and her legacy. The spirituality of the moment. And the possibility that my mom really was accompanying me on my journey. And on all my journeys.
I think back to the phrase on my childhood Torah Ark and apparently all over Moroccan synagogues. “Know before whom you stand”. Usually we think of this as God. When you rise to pray in a synagogue, you should know the majesty of God standing in front of you. But I would argue, in addition to that, perhaps the message my mom was sending was to know the Godliness of everyone who stands in front of you. My tour guide, the person working at my hotel, the fellow tourists I befriended, the local Jewish community members I met, the shopkeeper I had tea with for two hours. These are people created in the image of God who stood before me. Not just in a synagogue, but in everyday life. That’s what my mom taught me. To love your neighbor as yourself.
As a young kid, I remember my mom and I would drive around following cars whose license plates had her mom’s initials on them. Just to see where they were driving. Some people today might call that crazy. But she just wanted a connection. A sign from her mom that despite the cancer, the death, the sadness, that she was still with her in some way. And I think I finally understand why. Because everywhere you look, you can choose to see signs of your loved ones who are no longer with us. You can choose to see before whom you stand. Or not. I could’ve chosen to ignore the signs around me that my mom was with me. And it would’ve just made me feel lonelier. But instead, I choose to believe her spirit lives on around me and most importantly, inside me and the actions I take to honor her memory.
Thank you Morocco for helping me feel close to my mom and introducing me to so many incredible people to stand before.
Planting Roots Bearing Fruits 