Rain

It was pouring rain on a Friday afternoon, and I was picking up my daughter from her summer job at our synagogue’s (Chabad of North Fulton) Jewish day camp.  I pulled up to the front of the temple, parked, and threw my emergency blinkers on, while I waited for my girl.  There was a large group of young women in front of the temple, all in bring pink “STAFF” shirts.  They were outside in, what can only be described as a tropical monsoon.  They were jubilant, and they were dancing.

I couldn’t really hear any music, though there could have been some. It didn’t matter. These young ladies – mostly camp staffers from out of town, probably in their late teens and early 20s – were jumping around in puddles, all completely soaked. Some took off their shoes.  All were in leggings, black long skirts, and aforementioned pink camp shirt.  “Chabad girls,” as we call them. They were beautiful, long wet hair streaming down their backs.

They were smiling, all hands in the air and feet moving. They were yelling things I couldn’t hear through my car windows. That didn’t matter either.  It was Friday, end of the week, almost Shabbat. The Atlanta heat has finally been broken by the rain.  It was all worth a celebration, and that’s what this was.

I sat in my car, mesmerized by these young women.  A year or two from now, most of them might be married, starting families and new lives.  They might scatter around the world, maybe open Chabad houses of their own, maybe lead their own summer camps.  But on this day in late July in Georgia, they were full of freedom and youth and exuberance and rain.  I sat and I wished that there will be many more days like this in their lives, carefree days of jumping around with friends, days of music and rhythm and bare feet in warm puddles.

I sat and remembered – of course, I did; we all do – another group of young people who danced and rejoiced to music just a few years ago.  This is not a story that needs retelling. We know it well. We cry ourselves to sleep to it.

But these young ladies – they gave me hope.  They made me see that yes, we will dance again; yes, life goes on – always, always – no matter the unbearable pain.  Yes, no one can extinguish our life, our thirst for freedom, our desire to be happy, our right to exist and to dance.

Thank you, girls.  You were dancing today, and it mattered. I saw you today. And it mattered also.  (Please forgive me – I made a short video. Because I had to document. Because it’s important to bear witness and to have proof.)  Thank you for the joy – nothing matters more. Shabbat Shalom.