So I will focus on a small part that I think has often been misunderstood. Let’s start with a reminder out of Psalms: Hodu L’Ad-nai, ki tov, ki l’Olam chasdo. Be grateful to Ad-nai, for G-d is good, G-d’s mercy extends through all time and space. Wow. Pretty powerful statement. Okay, so if G-d is goodness and merciful, forgiving and all those good things and we are created in G-d’s image — that Genesis thing — then it is reasonable to believe that G-d loves us. Love is wanting the best for the object of one’s love. Since we are all created in G-d’s image and G-d loves the world (since we are all G-d’s creation), then it follows that G-d’s love is and must be unconditional.

So how do we understand Exodus 20:5-6 and Deuteronomy 5:9-10, “for I, Ad-nai, your G-d am a jealous G-d, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children to the third and fourth generation of them that hate me; 6. And showing mercy to thousands of those who love me, and keep my commandments”? [Jewish Publication Society translation with Ad-nai for L-rd]

Well, let’s look at two Hebrew words that might have a somewhat different meaning than this translation implies. They are kana and pokeid — “jealous” and “visiting upon.”

Kana is also zealous, passionate. Pokeid is an interesting word, associated with ordering, as in official, officer, clerk and it is what G-d does when Sarah becomes pregnant — G-d “pokeids” Sarah in remembering the promise of giving her a child. So perhaps a better way to look at this line (repeated verbatim in Deuteronomy) is to consider pokeid as remembering or even “taking into account.”

Another word to consider is sonai, usually taken as hate. In Torah, sonai is used to refer to the second choice (as in Leah). You might think that Jacob “hated” Leah because he so loved Rachel — but Rachel is buried along the road where she dies and Leah is in the family tomb in the cave of Machpelah, and it is next to her that Jacob wants to be buried when he instructs Joseph to bury him there, not in Egypt. Leah is specifically mentioned as why Jacob wants to be buried there. So there is clearly not a hate relationship between them. However, she was second and that caused considerable relationship damage in the family (another column, another time).

When we look at these understandings, the line out of Torah becomes: “for I, Ad-nai, your G-d, am a passionate G-d, taking into account the iniquity of the parents upon their children [even] to the third and fourth generation of them that place me second (or lower) in their lives; 6. And showing mercy to thousands of those who love me, and keep my commandments.” Placing G-d second could mean putting their own ego above G-d or G-d’s creation (life).

For me, that reading fits much better with a compassionate, loving G-d.

Rabbi Thomas Louchheim

One of my favorite stories of my grandfather involves driving home from a Dodgers game. Dodger Stadium is located adjacent to downtown Los Angeles. Even when a game ends late in the evening there’s traffic from the stadium, plus regular evening traffic downtown. In his later years, my grandfather’s sight was failing so whenever we would have family outings, one of the grandchildren drove the car. My grandfather always sat in the passenger seat in front giving directions. I was the driver that evening; but when I drove my grandfather, I was always in a panic. He had lived in Los Angeles since the ’40s and he knew the “correct” way to get from one location to another. He also knew all of the ways to avoid traffic. I was always nervous behind the wheel because I did not dare make a mistake. I often would repeat what he said to make sure that I understood.

So there we were inching our way through the traffic of cars exiting Chavez Ravine and all of a sudden, as we were approaching an intersection, my grandfather said (very clearly, mind you), “Turn left there.” I drove through the intersection, intending to make a left turn at the next light and my grandfather asked incredulously, “Why didn’t you make the turn?” I responded in a cold sweat, “You said, ‘Turn left there,’ not ‘Turn left here.’” Surprisingly, he did not get mad at me. He chuckled, knowing that although in his mind he had clearly stated his intentions, he was misunderstood.

I now drive a car with a GPS system. I do not really need it in Tucson. Like my grandfather in Los Angeles, I have been here for enough years to know how to get to my destination in the quickest manner, and I know the roads to take if there is congestion. Nevertheless, I will turn it on from time to time to see its suggested route. Sometimes, either by mistake or by intention, I will not take the turn the GPS tells me to take. What is amazing is that the system does not get mad at me. It does not call me names. If I make a mistake it responds, “Recalculating … ” It says, “Make a U-turn” so that I can try that again. Or perhaps it suggests another route entirely.

What happens when you make a wrong turn? Do you get mad? Do you blame it on bad directions from others? You can do that — or you can say, “Recalculating” or perhaps chuckle like my grandfather did at my mistake. I could share any number of Jewish stories about our struggle with the yetzer hatov and the yetzer hara (the good and evil inclinations) to illustrate this. Allow me to share a story attributed to Native Americans as a way to honor my 23 years here in Tucson.

A grandfather told his grandson about a fight that was going on inside his heart. He said it was between two wolves.

One is evil: Anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority and ego.

The other is good: Joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith.

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, “Which wolf wins?”

The grandfather simply replied, “The one I feed.”

No matter how many wrong turns you or someone else may make, perhaps the kinder, gentler response is one with a chuckle: “Recalculating.”

Rabbi Yossi Winner

Each year on the holiday of Pesach some 500 Jewish students join my wife, family and me for the Passover Seders. It is an extraordinary scene!

Who would have imagined that on a college campus where the challenges to Jewish identity and practice are many, a place where students for the first time in their lives have the freedom to decide their own destinies, hundreds of Jewish students seek out a Passover Seder.

What is it about Passover that makes it the most universally observed holiday on the Jewish calendar?

I’m sure it’s mom’s brisket or grandma’s matzah ball soup. Yet, here the students find themselves miles away from home in search of a place to observe the Seders.

In the beginning of the Haggadah, we read how “we were slaves to Pharaoh in Egypt, but G-d, our G-d took us out from there with a strong hand and with an outstretched arm.”

This slavery to Pharaoh was physical, psychological and spiritual.

Physically, our sages teach us that in the history of Egypt not a single slave had ever escaped. The Jewish people were subjected to backbreaking labor and unbearable torture.

Psychologically, the Midrash tells us that after the death of Joseph and his brothers their descendants began to assimilate into Egyptian culture.

Spiritually, Kabballah points out that “We were slaves to Pharaoh” means that our sustenance from Hashem came in a way of oreph, from the Hebrew word for “back of the neck,” which contains the same Hebrew letters as “Pharaoh.” Our existence and connection to G-d was hidden, similar to a backhanded compliment or a person giving you a present he tosses at you over his shoulder.

Then, after 210 years of slavery, the equivalent of eight generations, we walked out of Egypt in the sunlight of a Thursday afternoon in the sunny spring desert.

We read in the Haggadah that G-d himself “passed over” and delivered us out of Egypt. “Not through an angel or messenger, but only He, alone, delivered and revealed Himself to us.” We were free. Physically, psychologically and spiritually.

The exodus from Egypt and the Passover Seder remind us of the powerful and unique relationship we have with

G-d. Despite the odds of our exile in Egypt, where no slave ever escaped, and the spiritual level of impurity we reached, G-d bent the laws of nature, revealed his infinite powers and delivered the Jewish people from the confines of Egypt.

We can translate the word “Pesach” as “jump” or “leap”; thus Hashem passed over or jumped over the Jewish homes during the final plague (death of the firstborn) in Egypt. Chassidic philosophy explains that Pesach is also a state of G-dliness that is revealed through G-d passing over all rules and restrictions of nature and order.

This is the essence of the Passover holiday. Just as when a person jumps or leaps he can reach a farther state than walking or running, so too, we can be in a state of total exile or despair and instantly we can jump over, or “pass over” with one leap of courage and faith.

At the time of our exodus from Egypt G-d introduced to us an eternal legacy. He freed us from Egypt and ingrained in our DNA an innate sense of absolute freedom. Passover was the introduction, and 49 days later G-d gave us the Torah, the method to retain our freedom for all time.

This is why each year men, women and children, grandmas and grandpas, and students away from home, gather around the Seder table to relive and recount the numerous miracles that G-d performed for us. We ask the four questions, crunch the tasty matzah and conclude the Haggadah with “Leshana Haba’ah b’Yerushalayim” — this time next year we should be in the land of Israel with the complete and final redemption!

Rabbi Yossi Winner is the University of Arizona campus rabbi and executive director of Chabad at U of A Rohr Jewish Student Center, JewishWildcats.com.

— Rabbi Yochanan as cited in Shabbat 127

Rabbi Jason Holtz

Back in September, I was a very healthy guy, never having anything more than a cold. That changed back in October, when I was hospitalized for almost a week with brain hemorrhaging. I was released after doctors thought the bleeding had stopped and I was on my way to recovery. Things didn’t go according to plan, though. After being released, I wound up in the emergency room three times over the following three weeks with related complications, and ultimately ended up in the operating room having urgent brain surgery when my brain had an even larger bleed than the first time around. Quite literally, I needed this like I needed a hole in my head.

It’s amazing how much can change so quickly. Physically, I went from biking, hiking and playing softball to being fairly immobile for a while. The changes weren’t just physical though. Before it all started, I had many social realities. I was a husband, a son, a brother, a Jew, a rabbi, a (very bad) athlete, occasional movie-goer, book-reader, you name it. Once I ended up in the hospital though, all of those things seemed to change and I became “the patient.” Socially, I was always treated as someone who was sick and needed to be taken care of. Regular old conversations were few and far between. Mentally, my cognitive abilities were quite stressed with even basic tasks like counting coins. Fortunately, this is mostly behind me now.

That’s my story demonstrating how life can and does change. Other people have their stories too. For some, their stories reflect life changes that were just as significant or more so, and happened just as quickly. For others, the changes came slower but have just as profound an effect on their lives. Some changes are ones of growth, others are changes of decay, and others are just changes. There is one thing that binds us all together though, everything always changes. The wise King Solomon is said to have taught gam zeh ya’avor, this too shall pass — whatever it is.

People sometimes ask me now, what got me through it? The answer is, I didn’t always feel like I was getting through it OK. Sometimes, I felt like life was getting through me, not the other way around. But if there was anything, it was being part of something larger than myself and not having to go through anything by myself. That meant a lot of things. It meant having a loving and supportive family. And something that was overpowering for both my wife, Jodi, and I, was how much the Jewish community rallied to us. We received phone calls, visits, cards, meals, rides and more. The care and concern shown to us meant the world, and at times there was never enough. Each time that someone expressed care, we felt a bit renewed. So how did I get through it all? I don’t always know, but I know I didn’t have to get through it alone.

There are two ways to learn Torah. One is to study what our sages taught and one is to experience life. Ideally, they work together and from each, the lesson is the same. Bikkur cholim, visiting the sick, is a mitzvah that has eternal value.

Jason Holtz is assistant rabbi at Temple Emanu-El.

Rabbi Stephanie Aaron

The Mishebeirach prayer for healing moves us into the profound depths of what healing means in Jewish belief. When we recite this prayer, we begin by remembering: “mishebeirach avoteinu Avraham, Yitschak, v’Ya’akov, v’imoteinu Sarah, Rivkah, Rachel, v’Leah, may the One who blessed our

fathers Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob and

our mothers Sarah, Rebekah, Rachel, and Leah …” First, we acknowledge G-d as the One who blessed our foremothers and forefathers, then we ask that the individual who is ill be blessed and healed; the prayer follows an order of remembering, then healing.

We pray for many things for the one who is ill: support and strength, orech ruach, a lengthening of his or her spirit that we translate as patience; omets lev, a heart of courage; refuat hanefesh, a healing of spirit; refuat haguf, a healing of body; and refuah sh’leimah, a complete healing. But first we remember who we are and from where we have come.

Martin Buber taught, “We are held and upheld by common remembrance.” The journey of our ancients, their brit, their covenant, with HaKadosh Baruch Hu, the Holy Blessed One, the ways in which they each were blessed by G-d and in turn, the ways in which they became a blessing in the world, this is our remembrance as we approach healing.

Where does that place us as we prepare for Jan. 8, 2012? We must begin with our shared memory from before Jan. 8, 2011: What are our memories of our town, our Tucson, our country, our Congress, our lives before our fellow citizens attending Congress on the Corner with Rep. Gabrielle Giffords were shot down and six of them were killed?

Do we have a shared memory of what life was like before? I would like to think that we do, that our best possible remembrances of our town go beyond the magnificence of our sunsets and the brilliance of our sunshine to the hearts of our citizens; that the people who live here are concerned that everyone has food and shelter and plenty of books to read; that anyone who is ill receives the necessary health care to return to wellness; that on a visit to our town Mariachi music commingles with Beethoven and Bach and cowboy poetry shares a shelf with Whitman and Dickinson; that the wild west means we protect what is wild and shared: the land, the air, the saguaro cacti, the birds and animals and wildflowers; and that every voice is heard from our babies to our elders. How do you remember Tucson? What does Tucson mean to you?

On Jan. 8, bring your memories of Tucson “before” and your vision of your best possible Tucson as we gather to remember and to heal our town. Write them down if you care to; let’s share them with each other. Come to Blue Sky Shabbat in Sabino Canyon on Saturday, Jan. 7 to celebrate with prayers of healing for our world and our town. Attend the “Beyond” events organized by the family of Gabe Zimmerman, of blessed memory. On Sunday, Jan. 8, bring your visions, hopes and prayers to the interfaith service at St. Augustine’s Cathedral at 1:30 p.m. At 3 p.m., attend the memorial lectures at Centennial Hall in remembrance of the six citizens of our city who were killed. We will conclude our day of remembering and healing with a candlelight vigil on the University of Arizona mall. Come hold up a candle of vision, promise and remembrance.­

Rabbi Samuel M. Cohon

Every now and then there are some times when being a congregational rabbi is just, well, hard. Some of this is seasonal: of course there are the High Holy Days, with the increased expectations and attendance, plethora of services to officiate and sermons to deliver, complex and demanding music and myriad details to manage. There is Passover, with its many ritual and congregational duties plus the personal demands that any Jew experiences who is hosting a Seder and preparing for the festival itself (not to mention the pain of eating matzah). And there are other festival times when the rituals and personal obligations pile up and can seem overwhelming.

And then there are those other, unexpected times, when things just come down all at once, without warning or preparation.

Usually this time of the Jewish year is a fairly relaxed one: all the holidays, including Sukkot and Simchat Torah are over, there has been time enough to clear up some of the leftover projects that we couldn’t get to over that long festival season, and it’s still a while before Chanukah. Typically early November in the synagogue calendar, and in a congregational rabbi’s life, is a pretty nice time. Even the weather cooperates.

But sometimes things conspire to prove that old Yiddish proverb mensch tracht und Gott lacht. We make plans, and God laughs.

It all started during Sukkot, actually, before the holidays even ended. Between the Shabbat of Sukkot and the Sunday after Simchat Torah I conducted five funerals or memorial services. My wife, Wendy, and I hosted a big post-Sukkot party for the High Holy Day Choir that night, and then the next day our outstanding young assistant rabbi, Jason Holtz, went into the hospital for a dangerous ailment. That week we had Rabbi Holtz and four other Temple members hospitalized with serious conditions, and suddenly I was also covering all the various responsibilities that Rabbi Holtz normally handles. It was a shocking turn of events for him and his wife, and for our entire temple.

We have been assured that Rabbi Holtz will make a full recovery, and we pray for a Refuah Shleimah for him speedily and soon.

The following week in my congregation there were three more funerals or memorials, including the sudden death of an apparently healthy young woman — and then three women were diagnosed with breast cancer. All this over the course of about three weeks. It was stunning.

This tzoris (woe) was leavened in that period of time by the joy of celebrating three B’nai Mitzvah, a baby-naming and a bris, conversion ceremonies for eight (!) new Jews, and the pleasure of singing and preparing two wonderful concerts of great Jewish music, one with the Tucson Chamber Artists, the second Bloch’s Sacred Service coming up with the Tucson Master Chorale.

But on a higher plain, all of this could get you thinking about the general fragility of life, and the simple fact that we know a whole lot less about the future, or sometimes even about the present, than we think we do.

It is a cliché, of course, but no matter how elaborately we plan, how carefully we prepare, or how certain we are that we know what we are doing and where we are going, ultimately it really is all in God’s hands, not ours.

Which inevitably teaches us a greater lesson still: to be grateful for what we do have. In this season of Thanksgiving, a holiday based on our own Sukkot festival, we need to remember that life is a gift, that good health is a blessing, that people we love and nurture and care about are here now. And that, while God’s ways are sometimes inscrutable, the Holy One has blessed us with much that is good and precious.

We have today. Only today is ours. Only this moment, the present, belongs to us. May we learn to be grateful for it and to give thanks. For if we can do that, then the challenges we experience in life can be overcome. Baruch Ata Adonai — blessed are You, God, who gives us the ability to appreciate what we have now

Rabbi Samuel M. Cohon is senior rabbi of Temple Emanu-El and host of “The Too Jewish Radio Show with Rabbi Sam Cohon and Friends.”

Rabbi Israel Becker

“Shema Yisroel, Listen Israel!” are the first words uttered by the Kohane, or Jewish priest, in his inspirational speech to the soldiers of Israel before going into battle (Deuteronomy 20:2-3). The purpose of these words was to capture each soldier’s attention.

The great medieval French Torah commentator, Rashi (Rabbi Shlomo Yitzchaki, 1040-1105), explains that with these opening words, the Kohane was generating a message, “Don’t be afraid, G-d will be with you. Even if the only mitzvah that you observe is saying the Shema, you are worthy of G-d’s protection.” One might ask, if the Kohane’s role is to reduce the insecurity of the soldier, how is this accomplished? After all, there are 613 commandments the Jew is obligated to perform. This soldier examines his merit list and realizes he is messing up 612 of the 613. The Kohane says to him, “It is OK, don’t worry. You’re doing great; one out of 613 is just fine.” Why doesn’t the soldier look at the Kohane with disbelief? How can he proceed into battle with confidence when his mitzvah observance score is .16 percent (1/613)?

The answer to this question touches the very core of Judaism. In Deuteronomy 20:19, it is taught that we are forbidden to cut down a fruit tree. “For from it you will eat and do not cut it down, for man is the tree of the field.” What does this verse mean? The Maharal of Prague (Rabbi Yehuda Loewe, 1526-1609) explains that there is a magnificent connection between man and a tree. He writes that man is indeed like a tree. His body is like the tree trunk and his limbs are like the branches. But, he is an “upside down tree.” The tree has its roots in the ground while man has his roots in heaven. The tree’s nourishment comes from the earth; man’s nourishment comes from his neshama, his G-d given soul. Just as the “earth tree” produces fruit, so too does the “man tree” produce fruit: the mitzvot. Each mitzvah is considered another fruit on the “man tree.” The Talmud uses this metaphor in reference to mitzvot, saying, “These are the precepts whose fruits a person enjoys in this world.” Sometimes one can look at a fruit tree and see no sign of productivity and wonder if this tree is really alive. But then, if one looks at it again and finds even one lone fruit, he would know that this tree is vibrant, and that there is indeed hope for more fruit to come. That’s why the Kohane can rightfully inspire even the soldier who is in the .16 percentile. He is telling him, “You’re OK with G-d because you have shown G-d that you can grow.”

The Maharal teaches that just as fruit is the sign of productivity for the “earth tree” so are mitzvot the sign of productivity for the “man tree.” G-d looks at the “man tree” lovingly and when he sees one fruit he knows that there is more to come. Let us enjoy a fruitful High Holiday season as we add more mitzvah fruit to our own tree, one by one.

Rabbi Yehuda Ceitlin, Turkish Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdogan and Rabbi Levi Matusof, Dec. 12, 2004 (Yasin Aras)

The month of Elul, however, is more difficult to define. Although its 29 days are seen as a warm-up exercise for the month following it, Tishrei — containing the High Holidays — Elul is shrouded in mystery.

Back in the shtetl, Elul used to begin on a clear and sunny day, but the air felt different. You could feel the first stirring of a teshuvah (repentance) breeze, according to one recollection of the Elul mood. Everyone was beginning to grow a little more deliberate, a little more thoughtful, allowing spiritual affairs to occupy his or her thoughts instead of the everyday matters.

Perhaps the best explanation for the meaning of this month was given by the great Chassidic master Rabbi Schneur Zalman of Liadi with the metaphor of “The King in the Field” as published by the Meaningful Life Center.

Anyone wishing to approach a king must go through the appropriate channels in the palace bureaucracy. He then needs to journey to the capital and pass through gates and corridors that lead to the throne room. Once inside, his presentation must be meticulously prepared, and he must adhere to an exacting code of dress, speech and manner upon entering into the royal presence.

However, there are times when the king comes out to the fields outside the city when anyone can approach him; the king receives them all with a smiling face and a radiant countenance. The peasant behind his plow has access to the king in an unassuming manner unavailable to the highest ranking minister in the royal court.

The month of Elul, says Rabbi Schneur Zalman, is when the king is in the field.

I had an insight into that sort of accessibility back in 2004 when I met with the prime minister of Turkey, Recep Tayyip Erdogan, to discuss religious tolerance. These were the days before his outbursts on Israel and he was in Brussels, where I lived at the time, to lobby for his country’s inclusion in the European Union.

He received our small delegation in his suite in the luxurious Conrad Hotel in Belgium’s capital for an off-protocol meeting arranged by my friend, Rabbi Levi Matusof, who has close contacts with Turkish government officials. Erdogan was very warm and welcoming as we spoke about peace, tolerance, brotherhood and co­existence, which are crucial for the stability of the region.

That candid conversation — out of the conference room and without microphones — taught me the impact of setting and mood. And if that is the case with a head of state, imagine what we can accomplish when the King of Kings, G-d Almighty Himself, is on the campaign trail in the corn fields of Iowa, downtown Tucson and everywhere else during the month of Divine favor and grace.

He’s just waiting for you and me.

Rabbi Yehuda Ceitlin is the development director of Chabad of Tucson and associate rabbi at Congregation Young Israel of Tucson. He co-founded the European Jewish Press (EJP).

Rabbi Stephanie Aaron

We were a gathering of 60 adults, drenched, freezing, each of us holding the image of roll-call, rows and rows of Jews standing in the pelting rain, weak from starvation, wearing cotton shifts, frozen human beings. We held onto our umbrellas with clenched fists and clenched hearts; walking, living Jews, remembering. One of the women’s barracks was unlocked; was it shelter we sought there? We crowded inside, staring at the empty rows of beds. Again, our minds gasp at what happened here: women forced to sleep with straw for mattresses, nearly on top of one another, no sheets or pillows, barely a blanket to cover them. We were all quiet, hardly breathing.

Into that silence, Leah, one of our survivors, began to speak. Leah was accompanied on this journey by her granddaughter, Kim. She is a Hungarian Jew whose entire family was murdered in Auschwitz-Birkenau. Leah has never told her story to any member of her family; she has never spoken her story out loud to anyone. She cannot tell her story directly to Kim, so she whispers in Hebrew, her language, to Tali, our guide. Tali, whose father was saved by Oscar Schindler, is part of the second generation; she speaks Leah’s story in English to Kim, the third generation, as we listen, carefully inscribing her memories on our hearts.

This is how we will do the sacred work of memory. We will listen to the survivors and their children and their grandchildren. We will study the history of the Shoah. We will give every murdered Jew a name and his or her story. We will come to these death camps and we will tell their stories; we will never stop speaking and doing and remembering the Shoah.

Leah was saved by her fellow Jews, one whispering to her, “Tell them you are 16,” others keeping her warm with their bodies — keeping her in life on the death march. We will tell her story; we will never forget. And we will continue the life of the Jewish people. We will celebrate our holy days,

do mitzvot, study and live Torah. And HaShem, we will be an ohr goyim, a light to the nations, just as we promised we would.

Rabbi Stephanie Aaron took part in the 2011 March of the Living, the sixth time she has participated.

Rabbi Yossie Shemtov

On Wednesday, March 30, we went to the 2nd Annual Cindy Wool Memorial Seminar on Humanism in Medicine, held in memory of our dear friend, at the Marriott University Park in Tucson.

The speaker, Rachel Naomi Remen, bestselling author of “Kitchen Table Wisdom,” recalled her grandfather telling her that when the world was created, there was this holy darkness which fell apart into little pieces for us to be able to repair it.

Let me tell you the truth: I was rubbing my eyes to make sure my ears didn’t fool me. I needed to make sure it was not one of my childhood teachers in Brooklyn or Jerusalem at the podium. The voice sure didn’t sound like them, but I clearly remember them teaching this concept.

In yeshiva, they used words like tohu (chaos), shviras hakeilim (the breaking of vessels) and nitzotzot (sparks/shrapnel) to explain to us the chainlike stages whereby the Divine light descends from level to level until ultimately this corporeal world is created, according to Kabbalah.

What we were told by our rabbis was that any given situation or location one finds oneself in is for a specific purpose in Divine Providence. If we end up in Albuquerque or Hong Kong, it means that we have some mission to fill there. There are some broken pieces we can fix with a good deed or thought that will help repair this world — the very concept of tikkun olam.

Yet, what impressed me most about Dr. Remen’s knowledge of this was the fact that her grandfather made it a point to relate this empowering mission to his young granddaughter.

At the Passover Seder we will be reading in the Haggadah a Q&A with “the four sons.” Instead of referring to them by numerical value – the first son, the second son – the Torah reads “One wise, one wicked, one simple and one who does not know how to ask a question.”

When educating our children, each one is unique. They all sit at the Seder or in a classroom, but we remember that each one is a person and a soul of its own, created by G-d, and has a great mission in this world.

Each son asks a question, and the Haggadah answers each one on his own level. We don’t alter the message, G-d forbid. We just explain it to their understanding, like Dr. Remen’s wise grandfather.

One of the main mitzvot of Passover is to tell our children the story of the Exodus from Egypt.

I’m sure the splitting of the Red Sea can be found on Youtube and Wikipedia. But what is your story? How do you define your Judaism, faith and heritage? What story are we going to tell our children and grandchildren on Passover or any other day? And most important, perhaps, what example are our actions telling our children?

Rabbi Yossie Shemtov is the spiritual leader of Congregation Young Israel of Tucson and the executive director of Chabad of Tucson. To get his weekly inspirational email, write to yshemtov@aol.com.