The Laps We Keep Walking

On Rosh Hashanah, we come to synagogue carrying more than a prayer book.

We carry the year that was: the disappointments we did not expect, the fears we did not voice, the losses we still cannot quite name, and the blessings we may have been too busy—or too worried—to recognize.

This year, I found myself crying in synagogue.

It had been a difficult year, especially because of health challenges that tested my patience, confidence, and sense of control. As the familiar prayers filled the room, the year came back to me all at once: medical appointments, uncertainty, worry, and the quiet fatigue that comes when health no longer feels like something one can simply take for granted.

I prayed for a better year. I prayed for health, steadiness, peace, and the ability to recognize the good that is still present even in a difficult time.

That, perhaps, is part of what Rosh Hashanah asks of us. Not to pretend that the past year was easier than it was, and not to allow its hardships to become the entire story.

No One Has Everything

This past year, I also had the good fortune to retire early. That is no small blessing. Retirement can offer what many people spend decades hoping for: more time with family, more freedom over one’s days, and room to think, read, write, travel, help others, or simply breathe after the relentless pace of professional life.

And yet the same year brought health challenges.

I told my wife that life rarely distributes blessings and burdens neatly. No one has everything. That does not mean illness is a price one pays for good fortune, or that hardship somehow balances out blessing. Life is not a moral accounting system. But it does mean that even a year for which we are deeply grateful can also be a year of fear, pain, and uncertainty.

In Jewish life, we often wish one another that we should go “from strength to strength.” It is a beautiful blessing. We hope that the good we do will lead to greater purpose, confidence, and blessing.

But most lives do not unfold in a straight line. Sometimes we go from strength to failure. Sometimes, more painfully, from failure to failure. Plans collapse. A career takes an unexpected turn. A relationship becomes strained. A health problem interrupts the future we assumed we were building.

The question is not whether hardship will come. It will. The question is what we do when it arrives.

Recently, while walking laps despite an ongoing limp, a neighbor saw me circling again and again. With what I took as genuine concern, the neighbor suggested that perhaps I might have to accept certain limitations.

I understood the point. There are moments when accepting reality is necessary. Denial is not courage. But accepting a limitation is not the same as accepting defeat.

I told my neighbor that I would keep walking the laps.

I do not know exactly where that effort will lead. Persistence is not a guarantee of recovery or a particular outcome. But there is a difference between recognizing the reality of a challenge and surrendering one’s will to it. Some days, strength is not a dramatic victory. It is one more lap. One more appointment. One more attempt to move forward.

Perhaps that is what “from strength to strength” can mean. Not that every chapter will be easier or more successful than the last, but that we find the strength to endure a difficult chapter without allowing it to define the rest of our lives.

The Gift of Gratitude

During these Days of Awe, I also found myself thinking about my paternal grandparents, my Oma and Opa.

For at least the last five years of her life, my grandmother suffered from serious memory loss. She could not find her wallet, her keys, or the many ordinary things that had once been within easy reach. In her confusion, she sometimes blamed my grandfather, becoming upset and accusing him of taking what she had misplaced.

She began to forget family members’ names. The relationships that had once formed the map of her life became unclear. Who was related to whom, how people fit together, even familiar details of family history—these things could slip away.

Anyone who has watched a loved one struggle with cognitive decline knows the particular sorrow of it. The person is still there, but the reliable pathways to shared memory, identity, and connection can become difficult to find.

Through all of it, my grandfather cared for her with patience and devotion.

Then, shortly before my grandmother died, something remarkable happened. My grandmother looked at my grandfather and, in German, said: “I want to thank you for taking such good care of me all of these years.”

She took a breath, and that was it.

After years of confusion and frustration, she recognized something essential: the person who had stayed beside her and cared for her. In that final moment, she found the words to say thank you.

I think of that now as a Rosh Hashanah lesson. We should not wait until a final moment to express our gratitude. We should tell the people who have carried us through difficult days that we see them. We should thank the spouses, family members, friends, caregivers, colleagues, and neighbors whose patience and kindness may have made an unbearable moment more bearable.

“I appreciate you” can be a small sentence. It can also be a profound act of love.

Laughter in a Divided Time

Rosh Hashanah is serious, but it is not joyless. During services, our rabbi spoke about the polarization that has become so deeply ingrained in American life.

Then he told a joke.

A little boy was asked what he wanted to be when he grew up.

“I want to be a politician,” he replied.

The adults asked, “Are you crazy? Are you insane?”

The boy answered, “Forget it. I didn’t know being a politician had so many requirements.”

The joke prompted laughter, as it should have. But it also offered a small reminder in a time of anger and division: we need not allow every disagreement to turn into contempt.

The person across from us—at a holiday table, in synagogue, online, or on the other side of a political argument—may be carrying a struggle we cannot see. They may be leaving a medical appointment. They may be caring for a spouse whose memory is fading. They may be grieving someone, fearing something, or simply trying to make it through the day.

That does not erase genuine differences or eliminate the need for difficult public debates. It does, however, call on us to argue with more humility and to recognize one another’s humanity before assigning labels.

A New Year, One Lap at a Time

This Rosh Hashanah gave me much to think about: the difficulties of the past year, the promise of the year ahead, the people who shaped us, and the gratitude we owe to those who help us through daily life.

It brought tears. It brought memories of my grandmother and admiration for my grandfather. It brought reflection on retirement, health, vulnerability, and the uneven path that defines so much of a human life. And it brought laughter, too.

Perhaps none of us can expect everything: perfect health, absolute certainty, uninterrupted happiness, professional success, family harmony, and peace in the world. But we can recognize the blessings we have. We can show patience to people whose burdens we do not fully understand. We can thank those who have cared for us. And when the road becomes difficult, we can keep moving.

One more lap. One more prayer. One more chance to begin again.

May the new year bring healing to those who are ill, comfort to those who are grieving, patience to those caring for loved ones, and the strength to keep walking forward.

Shanah tovah u’metukah—may it be a good and sweet year.