Honoring my Father (One Day Late)

Yes, this post is one day late.  Sorry, Daddy! Enjoy now.

I feel as though I must honor my father this father's day (which yes, I know, was yesterday).  Where to start?

My father is the Rabbi whose authority and opinion I follow.  If I have a Jewish legal question, I go to him.  It's actually a good match because I am somewhat stricter than he is; Jewish law states that one can always be stricter than one's Rabbinic authority, just not more lenient.  Those times when I go to my father for an answer, I tend to already know he will give me the lenient opinion.  Not only that, however, he can always back it up with clear thoughts about how he got there.  Recent examples that have helped me a lot are why it's OK to use a metro card on the Sabbath if it already has the money on it (you already spent the money, and the swipe is electric), as well as why it's OK to take books out of the library on the Sabbath (it's all electronic these days, as long as you tell it not to print a receipt).

My father was also the Rabbi who saved my Judaism when I was trying to handle being queer and Jewish.  In those early years (by "early years" here, I mean from when I figured out I wasn't straight--so age 16--to sometime in college), I was compartmentalizing: I thought about and honored the Judaism sometimes, and the queerness sometimes, but never both together.  In fact, when I did think about both together, my Judaism "trickled through my fingers" and disappeared.  It was my father who pointed out that if there is an obstacle on our path to God (in my case, my sexual orientation), it did not make sense to get rid of God, it made sense to get rid of the obstacle.  Ever since, I've mostly been OK with being queer and Jewish.  It's not to say I don't have my moments; but for the most part, I am a proud bisexual Jew, and it's all thanks to my father.

My father has also contributed to my yarmulke collection.  When I was younger, he brought home two kippot s'rugot (Hebrew for crocheted yarmulke) from Rabbinical Assembly conventions.  The one he brought home when I was eight years old is hard to describe, but it's beautiful, and I will share a picture of it here in an upcoming entry I am planning.  The one he brought home when I was ten years old has a flower design, each petal a different color.  More recently, he brought me two "Bat Mitzvah Beanies" (our family's term for freebie satin ones from B'not Mitzvah), one in pink and one in purple, from a B'not Mitzvah celebration for twin girls.

Which reminds me, all those years ago (13 years ago), my father trained me for my own Bat Mitzvah.  I learned the Torah reading backwards, so that in case I couldn't finish learning it in time, I would be the last reader instead of the first.  I learned my Prophets portion.  I learned how to lead a service.  And because of my father's tutoring, I was able to get up in front of a congregation on my Bat Mitzvah day, and lead an entire service, start to finish.

This entry wouldn't be complete without mentioning that my father also transports me to medical appointments.  When I was doing Ketamine infusions and had to be at a hospital in New Jersey every morning, my father drove me back and forth from Brooklyn, often involving the Holland Tunnel at morning rush hour.  When I was in the hospital in Brooklyn for five days in September 2016, he came down and housed himself in my apartment so he could spend time at the hospital with me.  He will transport me back to that same hospital in Newark for my upcoming stimulator surgeries.

SO THANK YOU, DADDY, FOR EVERYTHING!!!

💖💗💕💓💝