For most, Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year, is a time to look ahead, to the upcoming good and sweet year, ushered in with prayer, apples, and honey. But as I davened in temple this year, I found my mind drifting, envisioning the many ages of my life and the assorted Chicago-area locales where I have listened to the blowing of the Shofer on this ancient holy day.

Rogers Park in the late 1960s. Standing with friends on Pratt Avenue after youth services at B’nai Zion Synagogue. In my mind, those services were interspersed with ones on the bleachers of Loyola Park, a small mimeographed cardboard rectangle being the ticket to admission. All leading up to the one astonishing moment when the youth leader carrying the Torah past the young congregants tripped (or was tripped,) almost dropping the sacred scroll to the ground. A stern warning to all followed; had the Torah dropped to the floor, we would all be fasting for 40 days!

in 1970, as a high school junior, I was called upon to prepare and lead a Rosh Hashana teen service. Along with my collaborator, we culled news stories and ancient fables to choose readings that would be relevant to our fellow teenagers. Fitting for those violent times, our readings related to the war in Vietnam and the tragic shootings at Kent State a few months earlier.

A few years later a college friend invited me to join her at High Holiday services at a lovely synagogue on the shore of Lake Michigan. The setting was inspiring. But this was the year 1973. Ten days after Rosh Hashana, Egypt and Syria attacked Israel to initiate the Yom Kippur War.

Twenty years later Barb and I were a married couple with young children. The family worshipped on Rosh Hashana in the old auditorium at Stevenson High School. In a bit of karma, the Rabbi was the same Rabbi who had officiated at my Bar Mitzvah decades earlier, when he was an itinerant Rabbi who had only recently moved to Chicago. In more karma, sitting in the auditorium foreshadowed my upcoming long association with Stevenson High School.

As the kids grew, so did the need for Hebrew School and Bar Mitzvah lessons. To minimize carpool time, we joined a congregation near our home. High Holiday services were scripted, lengthy, and maintained every ritual. They were everything but inspirational, and when the Bar and Bat Mitzvah’s were over, so was our synagogue membership.

A few years later, Stevenson High School beckoned once more, this time with services in the Performing Arts Center. The setting was livelier and so was the spiritual leader, a young cantor training to be a Rabbi. Accompanied by a professional choir he gave life and breath to the services. In his sermons he challenged the congregants with questions, his assistants roaming the auditorium with microphones seeking out answers. We enjoyed those Rosh Hashana services for many years until COVID silenced them.

Today, post-COVID we pray once again, this year at our son’s congregation along with his wife and our granddaughters. My favorite Hebrew saying has always been “L’dor vdor”–“From Generation to Generation.” The circle of life continues.

May all the days of your life be good ones. L’shana Tovah.

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