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A little boy spends Shabbat with his grandparents in Georgia and gets a snowy surprise.
When Izzy and Olivia Bloom invite their neighbors over for Shabbat dinner, everyone is shocked to find out that the Blooms don't have Shabbat candles. Instead, they have something much more unusual: an antique Sabbath lamp that's been passed down from generation to generation. How did the Sabbath lamp get to America? That's a good story . . .
Enrich your spiritual experience of Shabbat by exploring the writings of mystical masters of Hasidism. Drawing from some of the earliest teachings in the family of the Ba'al Shem Tov through late 19th-century Poland and the homilies of the Sefat 'Emet, Eitan Fishbane evokes the Sabbath experience, from candle lighting and donning white clothing to the Friday night Kiddush and the act of sacred eating.
Friday's here.Jump and cheer.Shabbat is coming.A family and its pet puppy eagerly prepare for Shabbat.
A family enjoys their weekly Sabbath dinner in a board book full of warm illustrations and a simple narration sure to appeal to young children. Shabbat shalom! We hurry home. Dressed in their best, a family lights the Shabbat candles. Then it’s time to share a traditional meal with red wine and challah bread. After dinner, singing joyful songs has everyone feeling cozy and ready for bed. With a rhyming text and friendly illustrations, this inviting window into one family’s celebration of the Jewish Sabbath is a welcome addition for young children of any faith.
Jewish tradition compels us to protect the poorest, weakest and most vulnerable among us. But discerning how to make meaningful and effective change through social justice work-whether in community or on your own-is not always easy.
This book is a collection of letters from a religious Jew in Israel to a Christian friend in Barcelona on life as an Orthodox Jew. Equal parts lighthearted and insightful, it's a thorough and entertaining introduction to the basic concepts of Judaism.
What is the Sabbath, anyway? The holy day of rest? The first effort to protect the rights of workers? A smart way to manage stress in a world in which computers never get turned off and work never comes to an end? Or simply an oppressive, outmoded rite? In The Sabbath World, Judith Shulevitz explores the Jewish and Christian day of rest, from its origins in the ancient world to its complicated observance in the modern one. Braiding ideas together with memories, Shulevitz delves into the legends, history, and philosophy that have grown up around a custom that has lessons for all of us, not just the religious. The shared day of nonwork has built communities, sustained cultures, and connected us to the memory of our ancestors and to our better selves, but it has also aroused as much resentment as love. The Sabbath World tells this surprising story together with an account of Shulevitz’s own struggle to keep this difficult, rewarding day.
It is an odd thing: a desire comes to me to write, and to write in my faltering mother tongue, which, as it happens, I have not spoken since I left the home of my parents. Far as my childhood years have receded from me, I now suddenly find them coming back to me, closer and closer to me, so near, they could be breathing into my mouth. I see myself so clearly a plump little thing, a tiny girl running all over the place, pushing my way from one door through another, hiding like a curled-up little worm with my feet up on our broad window sills. My father, my mother, the two grandmothers, my handsome grandfather, my own and outside families, the comfortable and the needy, weddings and funerals, our streets and gardens all this streams before my eyes like the deep waters of our Dvina. My old home is not there any more. Everything is gone, even dead. My father, may his prayers help us, has died. My mother is living and God alone knows whether she still lives in an un-Jewish city that Is quite alien to her. The children are scattered In this world and the other, some here, some there. But each of them, in place of his vanished inheritance, has taken with him, like a piece of his father's shroud, the breath of the parental home. I am unfolding my piece of heritage, and at once there rise to my nose the odours of my old home. My ears begin to sound with the clamour of the shop and the melodies that the rabbi sang on holidays. From every corner a shadow thrusts out, and no sooner do I touch it than it pulls me Into a dancing circle with other shadows. They jostle one another, prod me in the back, grasp me by the hands, the feet, until all of them together fall upon me like a host of humming flies on a hot day. I do not know where to take refuge from them. And so, just once, I want very much to wrest from the darkness a day, an hour, a moment belonging to my vanished home. But how does one bring back to life such a moment? Dear God, it is so hard to draw out a fragment of bygone life from fleshless memories! And what if they should flicker out, my lean memories, and die away together with me? I want to rescue them. I recall that you, my faithful friend, have often in affection begged me to tell you about my life in the time before you knew me. So I am writing for you.