Kheshvan 2 – This week’s Haftarah

Sometimes, a service is inspirational. Sometimes, the answer just appears. Here is my midrash on this week’s haftarah:


Don’t you dare judge me! I loved him. He loved me too. It was special. God didn’t disapprove either or what happened wouldn’t have happened. We couldn’t be together – I was an important woman, married to a successful, rich, retired, ancient clerk, and he was a prophet – a man of God. Our love was ridiculous – impossible. We tried not to allow it, with all that we had. Still, I wanted him to be comfortable, my Elisha. He took comfort in me – he called me his “Shlomi” – his peace. I was a place of rest and peace for him, my home a small nook where he could lay down his burdens and relax.  We tried to be friends only – that’s all. That’s all that was allowed.

Yet we could not. The way we felt about each other, our need for each other – it was so, so strong. I had nothing, you understand. Oh, plenty of food, a good position – but my husband was old when I married him and he could neither love me as I wanted nor give me the babies I craved.  And Elisha? He was so beautiful! Deep penetrating eyes, wild hair streaming behind him, strong wiry body honed by walking every terrain in every weather. He was smart – I thought he was brilliant. The concepts he knew, the ideas… A true man of God, too. You could see how much he loved his faith. It was in everything he said and did, in every breath he took. Oh, I loved him. And I – I knew I wasn’t gorgeous. I was plain, and didn’t fuss about my appearance much – but Elisha, the way he looked at me, I felt I was beautiful. I – I could do more, accomplish feats of strength and intelligence that bordered on the miraculous. He saw things about me that didn’t even exist except when he looked at me.

We were so in love! He wasn’t with me much or often – he was a prophet, after all, and his job took him all over, but when he was in Shunam, we couldn’t stop looking at each other. Being in his arms felt so very good. I loved him immeasurably, unreasonably. We almost panicked when I found out I was with child. It would have been a disaster – the end of everything – for him, and for me, if anyone knew. We had hidden our love from everyone, even from Gehazi. So, we turned to God – we didn’t lie, exactly. The baby was a miracle – an impossible gift from God. I loved that boy – he grew up to be a strong lad, and my husband got him a good apprenticeship on a nearby farm, where he loved to sit around and reminisce with the older farmers.  I think my husband knew, actually. He just felt it was better to let sleeping dogs die, I think. He was a good man, my husband. He never said anything to me, but in the way he said, “your son,” well, I could tell….

Elisha always chatted with that boy and played with him when he visited, but kept some distance. We couldn’t let on about who he was to the boy. People thought it was good of Elisha to take such care and really – there were many fathers who paid less attention to their sons. When Elijah got ill (I named him for Elisha’s mentor, of course), I held him. I willed love and strength into him. I prayed with everything that I had – God, don’t punish our love like this. Think of the boy, of my husband – don’t think of me. I held him for hours – and then, he died. He stopped moving, stopped making noise. I think he even stopped breathing! It was at that moment that I realized – I knew exactly what to do. I went straight to Elisha. Neither my husband nor Gehazi needed to be part of that conversation. I said it would be all right to them – oh, I was so scared that it wouldn’t, but I had no choice! I had to believe that it would be all right, that somehow, my baby wasn’t dead and would run and play and work again. I had to tell them all was well in such a way that they would believe so that I could believe too.

I could see Elisha’s face tremble. I was mad at him too – I didn’t even have to act. If only he’d been there, if only he had been a bigger part of my son’s life, if only he had seen my Elijah’s face, Elijah wouldn’t be lying there so pale and still. This was his fault as much as mine, and if God decided to punish anyone, it would affect him too. He tried to stay away, to send Gehazi – the fear, the anguish on his face would give our lives away in a breath. I insisted. My son’s life meant more to me than any rules! My son was how I knew my life had meaning, had accomplishment. My boy was how I knew that my love was blessed by God. My son HAD to live. It wasn’t until the door closed on Elijah and Elisha that I knew all would be well. I knew my beloved would lie down with my son. I knew that he would take Elijah’s cold little hands into his big, warm calloused ones. I knew that he would look deep into Elijah’s beautiful black eyes, I knew that he would kiss Elijah’s lips with his own and warm him with his body and his breath. I knew that Elisha would love and love and love that boy and that God would accept that love and our love as a gift. I had no doubt then that Elisha would not leave that room without pouring his life and his heart and his faith into the still, quiet body of his son and that, hand in hand, my two loves would emerge from that room together.

They did. God didn’t judge me. So don’t you dare.


Kheshvan – 1, Separation

At the end of each week, in the Jewish faith, there is Shabbat. It’s a day of rest and prayer, learning and family. And at the end of the Shabbat day, there is the ceremony of Havdalla – of separation. We are tense about going back into the week, and we need a bit of a ‘pick me up’. It is said that Shabbat is such a special time that we get an extra soul. At the end of Shabbat, that extra soul is leaving, so we bless wine, we light candles and we sniff spices, to restore us and to gear us up for the coming week. We sing songs of praise and consolation, and we thank God for separation – separation of Shabbat and the every day, separation of light and dark, separation of holy and regular. In it, we also are supposed to thank God about separation of Jews and the other nations. We don’t say that part – it wouldn’t really work in our house.

We have our own take on Havdalla – as we do on everything else. My teenage daughters have written about it beautifully – and now, I’m doing so again, because I’ve been thinking about what we do – and don’t do. We fill our Kiddush cup to overflowing with wine or grape juice. We talk about separation first – the separation of people away, or people there, the separation of friends from family, the separation of preparing for holidays and relaxing after, of worrying about an upcoming decision or having made it, of being in pain versus feeling good. We have little kids, so our separations include the separation of wanting a Barbie and having one, being dressed in clothes or in pyjamas, having hair messy or brushed. We also have philosophers – er, teenagers – so our separations include big, dramatic things like the difference between success and failure, love and loneliness, everything and nothing. Then, with the glow of a braided candle shining, we sing a song – Bim bam, Shabbat shalom (as appropriate for Shabbat’s exit as it is for its entrance), Lo Yisa Goy, Kol HaOlam, or any other song of strength and happiness. We bless the wine, the spices (including myrtle leaves from Sukkot – with care, they can last from one year to the next), Miriam’s water (from her well, with healing powers) and the light. We look at the spaces between our fingers and at the glow in each other’s eyes, and then douse the candle in the overflowing wine. We drink the grape juice and Miriam’s water and we sing ‘Shavua Tov – a good week’ in all the languages we remember. Then we might sing Eliyahu HaNavi and Miriam HaNevia, talking about redemption and healing. We finish by touching our pinkies to the spilled over wine and then touching forehead, neck and pockets of our loved ones, to bless family for wisdom, health and wealth. It’s a beautiful little ceremony and I enjoy its simplicity, elegance and warmth.

Still, separation – I don’t thank God for separating me from my non-Jewish family. Separation – apartness – is a hard thing. It can so easily lead to an us vs. them attitude, to a feeling of negativity or prejudice about the other. We are the light, the holy, the Sabbath – you are the dark, the regular, the everyday. I’m not necessarily OK with that. It permeates the liturgy, you know. Our Aleynu prayer, we thank God for being set apart from other nations and having a different destiny. Our morning blessings, where we thank God for making us Jewish. The Torah reader prayer, where we say thank you for giving US the Torah and making us different from the other nations. Someone reading this might make the conclusion that we just don’t like other people – we are insular, and reject anyone different. We separate ourselves.

So, many modern-day Jews say ‘no, no. We’re all about togetherness. We need no separation! Never mind Havdalla.’ I think we lose something there, though. When we say we are all the same, we lose an opportunity – a chance to learn about each other. We end up with Chrismuka  – a pale version of true faith that doesn’t have the energy and strength of either side. We don’t have spices in that universe – we avoid the havdalla ceremony, and our days blend one into the other with no separation and no difference. I think this is worse. I want to celebrate my uniqueness and enjoy the beautiful rituals of my heritage and the glory of my faith. Can I do it – can I proclaim separation as a thing without allowing prejudice to take over? I don’t know. It’s certainly not easy. Try for inclusion – and you run the risk of watering down to the point of non-existence. Try to highlight the special – and you risk excluding those who don’t fit. How does one have acceptance and uniqueness at the same time?

We do it with humour and compromise, by inviting the other and sharing ritual – by using our very separation to build the bridges between us. We do it by cleaning up Christmas tree pine needles in time for Passover, and enjoying pork-free Christmas stuffing made for us, and having Easter dinners which are leaven free. We say to each other, ‘I see you. I see your differences and I honour them – for by understanding them, I understand you better.’ We change – sometimes, we come closer. We still have Havdalla – but among the many differences we honour, the one between Jews and non-Jews is rarely proclaimed. It’s a hard tension – sometimes, we fall on the side of sameness, and we say, ‘let’s skip this hard bit because it’s nasty – it could hurt someone.’ Sometimes, we fall on the side of separation and we say, ‘this is something we do – and it’s hard for some of us to say the same words’. Right now, that tension still forms a hard-to-resolve paradox.

I have written how paradoxes are often holy – how each one brings us closer to God. I know that this is one such paradox. There is a way to celebrate uniqueness and togetherness and as we wrestle through the tension – as we celebrate Havdalla week after week – we learn more about being holy and living it, every day.

Tishrei 4 – Scared (Is it really a value?)

Anna here. I was going to stop blogging on personal stuff and do a nice detail-oriented, no-feelings, learning-focused blog on a prayer. God had other plans. Here I go again.

Oh, we are all so scared! I read the many comments in the newspaper from people saying ‘those religious people with their funny headgear and weird jewelry! They’re different. They are out to get me. I must stop them because…because they are different and they will stop me from being free. I’m not sure how, but they will!’ I’ve heard many Jews speak similarly. ‘Those goyim, they’re going to get us. They’re different from us. They’ll make us…do something.’

To be fair, both sides have a point. Militant religious governments have been horrid to people, and everyone was horrid to Jews at some point in the past. We have a right to our fear. It might be sensible. The thing is – and this is the crucial bit in my opinion when it comes to fear – that acting on our fear is not, at least according to me, the answer. Our Jewish principles, at least the ones I chose to follow, agree with me. Chose faith, not fear they say. Believe that the messiah (or redemption, or joy, or peace between people) is coming, even though it is taking a while for that arrival. This is hard to do. When one least expects it, one sees an election sign defaced by anti-Semitic slang. One sees a swastika painted over a metro poster. These bring back fear. They hit me in the face with a strength that is almost physical, reminding me that the redemption may be coming but right now, the world is not yet safe. There is not yet peace between me and my fellow women and men. Many of them would hurt me – not because they’re bad people, but mainly because they’re afraid.

In my personal life, the same fear exists. There’s a thought that I get too. (Using ‘she’ arbitrarily, here!) ‘This person, she is different from me. She threatens my known, organized existence. My kids – my spice – my people like her, maybe (says the fear – and sometimes correctly) better than they like me. She will hurt me!’ I have good reasons for this fear too, of course. There have been people who have hurt me, using their differences as weapons to attack me with and tell me that my way of being is wrong. I have every right to chose fear.

I refuse. Every time I chose fear, my life doesn’t get better – it gets smaller. I lose something of value. Yes, maybe I preserve my known way of being, but at a cost that I am never willing to take again. I will be thoughtful and cautious, wash my hands to remove bacteria and look both ways before crossing the street – yes. I will lock the door to my house at night and keep a spam filter on my e-mail – yes. However, I will take each fear, I will look at it, and I will say, ‘is there a way I can embrace this? Is there a way I can include these people who are so different, who are so scary? Is this a realistic risk that needs to be managed, or is this just a fear, leading to unreasoned random exclusion and pre-emptive strikes?’

Whenever I read or hear of random, pre-emptive strikes, whether it’s another sad news report from the Middle East, or a nasty discussion about Quebec’s fear-based charter, it makes me so sad. Really, I just want to cry – and then hold the people involved tight-tight in my arms, until I can squeeze courage and joy into them.

(Huh – looks like there’ll be some prayer discussion in this after all.) It’s all in how we say the Sh’ma – the central prayer of our people. Are we saying, “Listen, Jews, Adonay is YOUR God, Adonay ALONE”, proclaiming the exclusiveness and exclusion involved in our club, the us vs. them, the safety of our relationship with God which needs to be protected from the other jealously at all costs, or are we saying “Listen, all of you who are Isra-El, who wrestle with God, Adonay IS your God, Adonay is ONE”, proclaiming that with God on our side, we have no need for fear. We can see the other, we can accept the new and we can embrace those scared people until they join us in our prayer – because God is all encompassing and includes those different people who might hurt us. Think about it, next time you say the Sh’ma.

Tishrei 3 – Celebrating Torah

Anna here. Yes, I know, this blog is a week late. So, I’m slow. I’ll do what I can to catch up. Meanwhile, we finished and started the Torah at Shul. We opened it. We studied it. We danced with it. It was a Torah sort of party, and I really enjoyed it. I’ve always loved that word – Torah. I like the fact that its meaning is so very clear – and yet so very changeable. I’ve seen it mean just the 5 books of Moses, that scroll that we danced with. I’ve seen it mean the entire Tanach – the whole Jewish ‘bible’ so to speak. I’ve also seen it mean the Talmud (called the Oral Torah, after all!) and any commentaries on the above, and in fact any book of Jewish learning that happens to teach values, Jewish ways of acting, Jewish ritual – anything based or grounded in the Torah. I love all of these!

I look forward to dancing with the Torah, I enjoy reading and studying the Tanach, the Talmud and the Midrash as time allows (and even occasionally a bit of Zohar if I’m feeling brave), and I learn from the various Sefarim that are regarded as part of our heritage. However, I’ve been thinking about another use of the word that I heard lately – a personal Torah – the values that guide my life. Like other levels of ‘Torah’, this one is based in the scrolls – but it has certainly developed in its own way. So, since values are a big deal around here right now (ask me my opinion of the charter some day), I thought I’d review mine, and their development and how they changed over the years.

It may seem unnecessary for many – people have clear guidelines. There’s what society tells us. There’s what we grew up with. There’s the law. There’s all the good stuff that the various books of Torah give. Why did I need a personal Torah? Maybe the multiplicity of options is precisely why. It’s hard to know what one should do when there are multiple cultures, multiple rules, multiple truths that we grow up with and they don’t always match. Besides – I don’t always listen to others so much. Sometimes, I need to figure it out on my own. So, it was as a very little girl, newly having left one country and present in another temporarily that I realized the first statement in my personal Torah.

I was happy playing with the little girls who included me in their circle in Italy. To be happy – that was a value I could stand by – and after seeing the different less positive approach that some of the little girls in the school I went to greeted me with, I realized it was two-way. Even if I couldn’t be happy, I could give happiness. “Be happy and bring happiness to others.” This was and is part of my personal Torah. When I had a kid brother, I was frustrated with how little he could do. Even when he was happy, all he did was lie there! He needed to learn things – things I could teach. “Learn and teach” was added to my values list.

As a teenager, predictably, I fell in love. This, of course, was after I swore that the whole ‘in love’ thing wasn’t for me, I didn’t work that way and it would never happen. When I fell in love, it was such a revelation, that I added ‘Love and be loved’ to my list. The pattern was established – new relationships brought new ways of seeing God, new ways of making decisions, new ways of understanding Torah. Each time, I thought my values list was complete. Each time, I was, of course, completely wrong.

A partner in university changed my values list once again, when my integrity – not just honesty, but how true I was to myself – came up. If I just went around bringing love, joy and learning to people, what was my core? How was I most truly me? ‘Maintain integrity, for myself and communicating with others’ – that was another value to add to my list. That was a big one, and took me years to even approach integrating. The later I stumble on them, the longer my values seem to take to really sink in. Again, a new relationship led to the question of responsibility. ‘If I am only for me, who am I?’ says the sage, and so I realized I needed to think about the world outside of the people I knew. Using the simple rule of thumb that responsibility is the ability to respond, I started thinking what I needed to do about the world around me. Again, so hard to do! I thought responsibility wasn’t bidirectional either. A new relationship, one where my love wanted to know why I didn’t treat myself with the same care reminded me that it was. ‘Be responsible, for myself and for the world I live in’ was added then, consciously and openly.

I was an adult now with a family. Would the world change again? How could it? I thought my values list was done. The next change was subtle – I thought this was an indication. Smaller changes, commentaries on my personal Torah – that’s what was to come. I changed the order of my list, putting responsibility and integrity first, and then love and learning and finally happiness.

Then, my world changed again. Everything I thought I knew I had to relearn and I felt like a 3-year-old, learning to talk and exploring a new world for the first time. I once again found myself with new friends and with new relationships. For a long time I didn’t think this would have an effect on my values list – in fact, it felt like my values list had been flung out the window by the uncaring forces of the world and I didn’t know what to do to take the next step. It was then that a new value emerged. I needed faith. Sometimes, it’s faith without knowing, faith without understanding that God is – that love is – that is the value that I need most. So, I’m adding it – at the beginning of my list. ‘Believe – without knowledge, without certainty – in love; in the goodness of the universe; have faith.’

These are my values. They may not match the Torah that most people follow. They may not have their own provincial charter. They are mine, however, and the more I learn Torah, the more ways I find of living them, of understanding and expressing them. Is this my final list of values? Eh, I think I’m going to avoid saying that. I know God is listening and I’m not up to another upheaval right this minute! I’m happy to change if I need to. However, having a personal Torah is, for me, important. It lets me have my own lens to see the world and my actions through – one that focuses on Faith and Responsibility, Integrity and Love, Learning and Joy as the guideposts of my life. That’s a Torah worth dancing with for me.

Tishrei 2 – Fear and Joy on Sukkot

It’s Blog time – I admit I’m happy. This is Anna, and blogging is a sheer joy for me. Which is good, because life isn’t always joyful. The holiday of Sukkot starts today. I’ll aim to be home in good time, but it won’t be easy – I have an evening job. Probably, I’ll miss the beginning.

This week, I’ve been thinking about the risks that come along with Sukkot. Living in a hut is not safe – not certain. You can get rained on or (and Sukkot will be later next year) even snowed on. You can lose your belongings – no door, no roof. The raccoons and squirrels are sure to eat anything you leave out that can be eaten, for example! Anyone can come in and say or do anything while you’re eating or (for those who actually sleep in the sukkah) sleeping out there. There’s no way to lock out the world and there’s no certainty about that hut standing up from today to tomorrow. I’m not denigrating the Sukkah builders in my or anyone else’s family! Our Sukkah, for example, is gorgeous and lovely and I’m so glad it exists and really proud of the people who put it together. (So grateful to you guys! How did I get so lucky?) However, all sukkot share that wonderful feature that they’re temporary – there is no foundation, they’re amateur built and a large enough storm and down they will come.

So, for those who want to control their space and who they encounter (and I’m a little bit of a control freak now and again, perhaps,) the sukkah is a scary place. So, how are we to handle this fear? Well, on Sukkot, it’s appropriate to invite guests and one is to be happy. Seriously and right in the Torah – see Leviticus chapter 23, verse 40. It doesn’t say so for all holidays by any stretch but feasting and rejoicing are commanded for Sukkot. It seems a trifle counter-intuitive – surely, a time of security is better for inviting guests, no? How is one to ignore the fear and be happy? Yet, these are among the rules of Sukkot. (I’m not going to go into details about sukkah building rules, but for those who like Dr. Seuss, there’s actually a poem for that purpose. The internet is a beautiful place sometimes.)

It made me think of my own life. Right now, my life is as full of security as life in a sukkah. I’m a substitute teacher. Sometimes, the nice people call me – but sometimes they don’t. One month to the next, I live without the security of knowing if I’ll make rent. I work as hard as I can, but job searching isn’t my forte really, and being in the land of job searching forever and ever is a challenge for security minded people.

Of course, this is a developed country. My fears are mostly self-imposed and not entirely realistic. If it rains in the sukkah, I can go inside into my nice comfortable house with beds and doors and security through the roof. As for my job, I’ve managed for years now, and at the worst, I might have to ask family for help. I have resources and am very unlikely to find myself on the street without food or shelter. I am blessed and there are many worse off. Still, there’s that lack of security, however manageable it might be. The fear may be self-imposed but it is real.

Maybe that’s the point – to remember others live in huts far more often, and have much less of a job? To rejoice in what I have? Or maybe it’s a reminder that our vaunted security can vanish in a puff of smoke since jobs can be lost and houses broken into? With no security, we turn to rely on God more. So, I’d understand if the rule was to be grateful or to believe more – but it’s not. It takes us further and says rejoice and in fact, invite others. Sometimes, God has a positively wicked sense of humour.

I was thinking about that and about friends I have who have less problems than me with money. Why? I’ve asked them and they say, “I give away and that way I feel that I have an overabundance.” Giving charity when one is worried about finances seems just as paradoxical as rejoicing and bringing guests into the sukkah. It’s also a commandment though. Everyone, including the poor, is commanded to give tzedaka. (Maimonides has a lot of good stuff on this if you want the 8 levels and more.) The Torah commands us to give 10 percent of our earnings to people in need, more or less. There’s all sorts of cool information about tithing (giving 10%) which some people say is just an old fashioned form of taxes and doesn’t apply any more, but others are clear that it’s after tax income and still totally valid. Do you know how much this is? 10% is simple math. Say a family has 30 grand a year after taxes. (That’s Canada’s poverty line, I think.) Well, that’s 3 grand a year for tzedaka – 250 per month. Eek.

Do you tithe? Do you actually contribute that to organizations you care about? I thought about giving time – it would match with the lovely presentation by the Yom Kippur speaker at temple. That’s no easier though, is it? 10% of my time in a month is 2 full working days or 14 hours. Once again, eek. Still, if this blog has taught me anything, it’s that sometimes one needs to do the crazy thing just because God says. So, I did it. Oh, not the full amount – maybe 2%. I researched charities, found one that had decent reviews and signed up. I’m now a member of Plan International – good reviews, I like kids, and the picture is adorable. They don’t seem counter anything I believe in. (Researching charities is important, by the way. The scam artists are out to get you and it’s important to be sure you agree with the policies of your chosen charity. The bible says not to steal from the poor, and I’ve read good commentary that says that giving charity thoughtlessly is actually stealing from the poor.)

So far, it just feels scary – a lot like living in a sukkah. I’m doing it, though, and I don’t intend to stop. I’ve called a charitable organization that I volunteer with too – Santropol Roulant, actually. Hey, if it’s good enough for our shul, it’s good enough for me. I will try for at least a few hours each month and see if I can build it up. I don’t know if this is the right thing to do, but it’s what seems to be commanded, and I might as well try it God’s way. Possibly, there’ll be less snickering from heaven.

I don’t know what this year will bring. I don’t know if I’ll have a sukkah next year – or if all I’ll have is a sukkah next year. I have no security. I remain a substitute teacher, with a job that might not be there tomorrow. But if I have to live on the edge, I’m going to have fun doing so. I will share with others with my arms wide open. I will sing, dance and feast with others. I will rejoice in my sukkah.

Tishrei 1 – This is the year!

Anna here – this blog thing is awfully addictive! It’s awfully time consuming too, though, so I’ve decided to do it weekly for a bit. Maybe I’ll do it daily again at some point – but not right now!

This post, was, as often is the case, inspired by the children. We were going home from Shul right after our Rosh HaShanah eve service, when I said, “well, this is it! 5774. A year with no mistakes.” Yet. I meant yet. I didn’t say so, though, and one of my wonderfully clever babies replies: (can I still call them babies after they’re 18?)

“That’s right. A year with no mistakes. This is the year we’ll never be late for school.”

I found this funny. So, I said, “This is the year where the dishes are always finished right after each meal.” Well, that was it. The whole group picked it up, each of us vying to out-do the other.

“This is the year our homework is done before it’s due.”

“This is the year I finish my Sunday prep on Thursday.”

“This is the year we keep our laundry done and our rooms clean.”

“This is the year we’re on time for work, programs and everything else we’re involved in.”

“This is the year I donate blood, give to charity and volunteer.”

“This is the year I practice piano every day.”

“This is the year I don’t whine or complain.” “And I don’t tantrum or fuss.” “And I don’t sulk.”

“This is the year we don’t fight with our spice.”

Well, this went on for some time – we were all giggling like maniacs as we came up with all the things that were going to happen this year. I was thinking, though – well, why not? Why not predict that the year will be amazing? Why not live as if, maybe not perfectly so, but this in fact was the year? What would it mean? Would I take more chances, knowing that this was the year I’d be successful in? Would I smile more? Would I work just a tiny bit harder? If so, this will definitely be an exciting year.

We’ve been using that phrase since that day quite a bit. When people ask each other, “Should I try out for that job?” someone is sure to answer, “Sure. This is the year.” If someone is wondering about whether to introduce himself to a new person, the answer is, “Go ahead. This is the year.” If a person frets about a long, unsuccessful day, the answer could be “hey, it’s going to improve – this is the year.”

So, I know you’re wondering if you should actually write that book, start that exercise program, take that trip or go on that date. The answer is obvious. Of course you should. You can do it. I believe in you. After all, it’s 5774. And this – this is the year.