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Are you Julie Silver? Contact us by email to obtain control of this profile. Remove ads Ads by TrafficFactory. She has 12 grandchildren. She has a sweet tooth.

She wants to get back into the good graces of her family. Sitting at the light, staring at sparkling waves in front of me, I started to believe it myself.

Maybe she IS somewhere better than this place. Maybe her family HAS found her. Make sure she gets it before Christmas!

But of course I was dubious. I figured the guy would eat the food, drink the water and toss the rest. I know how these homeless people operate.

Cut to yesterday. She popped up from the sidewalk where she was sitting with her little dog and another woman who was wrapped in a blanket and ran to me.

He gave me the bag. Tell her I got the bag. She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a brown imitation leather wallet.

Inside, I saw one or two dollar bills and nothing much else but then she pulled out a worn, graying piece of white paper that looked like it had been hidden in there for years.

She unfolded it and showed it to me. May I take a picture to show her? I love that little girl of yours. She removed the enormous sunglasses that have been hiding her tired eyes since the day we met and clutched my forearm.

I was blessed to witness these milestones for seven years and in that time learned much from the students, their families and my Rabbi.

At every Bar or Bat Mitzvah, before the Torah reading, it was the custom at our shul that the Rabbi line up the family and pass the Torah through the generations, from grandparents to parents, ultimately handing the Torah into the capable arms of its youngest recipient.

Before the Rabbi even brought the Torah to the front of the bima, the sight of the family alone would bring the congregation to tears.

I would stand to the side and play softly on my guitar and the family would just kvell. It all seemed perfect and right.

So many interfaith families belonged to the temple that watching the rabbi withhold the Torah from a non-Jewish parent became a familiar sight.

The more it happened, the sadder I became. I remember on more than one occasion seeing the Torah withheld from a non-Jewish parent despite the fact that this non-Jew was the only person making sure the child even went to religious school!

Sister Mary Benedict was a woman of service, tending to the most needy people in New York City in the late s.

Mary and I met eleven years ago, brought together by mutual friends. We did not meet on JDate. We did not meet at the college hillel.

We never went on an Israel trip together. We did not then and do not now work in similar fields. On the surface, we are pushing completely different agendas.

However, we are on the same page where it counts—being mothers, trying to be of service and share our blessings, and being role models especially for people struggling to come out.

Growing up, I never imagined I would marry a non-Jew but here we most thankfully are, legally married with two daughters, two dogs, a mortgage and a hamster.

Like my sister who is married to a Jewish man, I would have loved to have gotten married in front of friends and family instead of frantically racing to do it six days before the presidential election, fearful of Prop 8 passing and denying us the chance to marry legally.

I would have loved all of this the way many of those non-Jewish Bar and Bat Mitzvah parents wanted to embrace the Torah but were not allowed to fully participate in the ritual.

We like that. Reconstructionist Judaism defines itself by being a movement that opens its doors to everyone.

As I perform and teach in Jewish settings around the world on so many weekends, it is usually Mary who takes Sarah to Religious School and it is Mary who picks her up.

It is Mary who insists on us going to services even when I am so happy to have a Friday night without work and in town.

It is Mary who fills our car with food for collection at the Temple. In truth, it is often Mary, my Catholic wife, who carries the weight of our Jewish family life and she does it with grace and love.

A few years back on Simchat Torah, the festive celebration marking the conclusion of the cycle of Torah readings, Mary and I spent the evening dancing, singing, reading and celebrating the Torah at our shul.

The celebration went on and on, like the Torah itself, without end. I have been dancing and wrestling with the Torah for my entire life, so when the Rabbi placed a Torah in my arms and circles upon circles began dancing around me, it was a very familiar feeling.

I could barely breathe. Within moments I began to sob. Mary held on to the Torah as we held her in the middle of our circle of dancing and singing.

I lowered my head and wrapped my tallit tightly around myself as my tears formed a small pool on the sanctuary floor.

Concerned someone might slip, I wiped them into the wooden floor, back and forth with the sole of my shoe until they were gone.

When we include those who might not be Jewish but who nevertheless help us to move our faith forward, we are better. My tears have long dried since that night, but in the most important ways they are still there, along with the tears of our ancestors, sealed into the hardwood floor of our faith.

I pray for a time when we all feel free to sing a new song, to hold the Torah close to our hearts, to dance on our tears with nothing but joy.

I met David Garber in while moving into a one bedroom apartment on the corner of 2nd and Idaho in Santa Monica.

I was alone, and I made the mistake of loading my arms with way too many cassette racks, hauling them from my car to the elevator, straining my back and nearly dropping them all onto the cement floor of the parking garage.

Like an angel, Dave Garber showed up, introduced himself and took the entire weight of those cassette racks off my hands.

I watched his eyes fill with tears. There goes another casualty in my very real war on straight men, I thought. But he seemed like a nice guy.

Turns out he was a very nice guy. The nicest, in fact. I was reeling from a break-up, cursing the fact that I had to move to a new place and start over again, but that day, after meeting Garber for the first time I knew I was going to be OK.

It was a beautiful beach day. I tell you, he helped me move my stuff upstairs until my car was empty. The answer: Dave Garber. It turned out my keys fit the lock to the apartment right across the hall from his.

Within days OK, minutes we were a sitcom in search of a network. I became his Mary Richards and he became my Rhoda Morgenstern. It was as if we needed to find each other.

I had healing to do, and so did he. We lived in that corner together, our doors wide open, our circles of friends intertwining, our lives becoming inextricably linked, for years.

We shared meals together, went to afternoon movies, watched Six Feet Under and The Sopranos together, borrowed books and music from each other, and talked and laughed through everything together.

I critiqued every woman that crossed his threshold and took no prisoners. I could go on and on about Garber. How well-read, even tempered and insightful he is.

How kind he is to my family. How optimistic and interested he is. How he can talk to just about anyone about anything. He was the first one at the hospital for the birth of our daughters.

When he visits our house, he never tries to wake me up when I fall asleep in my TV chair after dinner. Back in the day and on more than a few occasions he woke up early, sometimes after working until 3AM to answer the door wearing only a bathrobe or, if I was lucky, only the sports pages just to let me hang out on his couch, watch TV and do the crossword puzzle.

And when the time came, back in , he lovingly steered me in the direction of Mary Connelly who is now my wife.

She gained a husband in all of this, too, ya know. A few months ago, Garber left his full time job to volunteer for the Obama campaign in Nevada.

Is there a worse place to be walking the streets, canvassing, ringing doorbells, standing outside grocery stores, registering voters than in the state of Nevada between June and November?

Could the volunteer job be any more thankless? Just imagine the difficulty of all of it? Uprooting, volunteering, not knowing whether it will all pay off.

Would YOU do it? But were we surprised when Garber told us he was packing up, paying his own way and heading to Nevada to help turn the state blue for Obama?

Not in the least. David and I talk every couple of days. He has no idea of what is going on in the news, the polls, and he rarely sees the divisive, unimportant political posts that all of us are guilty of sharing from time to time.

He works 14 hours a day with a water bottle in one hand and a pen and clipboard in the other, registering voters, He falls asleep every night in a tiny rented room with a shower curtain for a wall that he has to pay for himself.

I find myself tearing up when I think of the hard work he is doing on our behalf. This morning, Mary and I took a Shabbat family walk through this neighborhood we love so much.

Two dogs, two daughters, two moms, meeting friends on the way, laughing it up, enjoying the ocean breeze and sunshine. I thank God for the freedom Mary and I have, for the peace we find here, for the future we want to provide for our girls, for everything we have and all of the progress that has been made in our lifetime.

When we got home, the phone rang. It was Garber calling from Nevada. I actually think I heard the sound of glitter falling around him. Enough already.

I do miss him terribly. I miss our lunches at Real Food Daily and our 6 mile walks and how he fits so nicely into our family. Who pitches in like this, I asked myself as I hung up the phone.

The answer will always be the same: Dave Garber. As an economist by degree, a mother, a Jew, a lesbian and a former Massachusetts resident, it is beyond clear to me that Mitt Romney is in no way a better alternative to what we have in place right now to become the next president.

This is also clear to the GOP as well. The next president will make decisions on taxes. Romney has promised to keep in place the Bush tax cuts that have so devastated this country and have made the rich isolated, self-serving and protective of their wealth and unwilling to part with any of it no matter how this country is sinking into financial ruin.

Along with two unpaid for wars, extending those tax cuts will continue to lead us faster and further towards economic collapse.

And how about a transvaginal ultrasound for the road? The next president will have to serve as a leader and inspiration to the new, growing majority in this country who are non-white, as well as the majority of non-males, all who have been historically marginalized and demonized by power driven elected officials and their constituents.

The next President cannot be gaffe prone and brazenly inaccurate in front of people who too often appear to celebrate their own ignorance.

He must raise the level of discussion and not blow with the wind as Romney has demonstrated he does with great consistency.

The next President must have some kind of a connection to the middle class—which at this point Romney does not—and at the very least APPEAR to care about the poorest and most vulnerable in our midst—which he also does not.

He often becomes tongue-tied and laughs nervously around these topics—huge red flags. Did the Democrats invent these laws and prohibitions?

The money our government spends on Planned Parenthood is beyond worth the health benefits and economic freedoms it brings to men, women and their families.

Planned Parenthood services, mammograms, abortions, contraception, healthcare must remain available to every woman in this country who has been in one way or another sold down the river, raped, beaten, sexualized, victimized, objectified and shit upon as a result of the insatiability of a few powerful men.

Of course, legitimately. And do we need to mention the amount of money we spend on our nationalist endeavors which history will most assuredly show have been complete folly?

Does it encourage anyone to feed the hungry, help the poor, or house the homeless as the bible these men choose to follow verbatim when it suits them instructs us so lovingly to do?

The middle class can no longer help the poor in this country. Policies that help people do for themselves and get government out of the way are ideal.

We all want less government, but policies that discourage the middle class from helping, even privately, the poor are criminal. Will it be with kindness, tolerance and acceptance?

They have said and done as much. Do they think that the numbers of LGBT families that wish to be part of the fabric of this society are shrinking?

They have been doing so and have promised to continue on this hateful path. The truth is we know almost nothing of what Romney plans to do once he gets the keys to the castle and what we do know about him is beyond frightening.

In my opinion, Romney is the problem, not the solution. Before Obama took a breath as president, the GOP vowed to make him a one term president and they have played obstruction politics at every opportunity, showing they care more about their power, and position more than they care about the promise of this country and its people.

They do not want the president to succeed and they never did. We are calling out for better, both from and for ourselves, weeping in our exile from prosperity and healing in large part because the richest among us are desperately clinging to life and will do anything to get this half black non-American Muslim out of the white house.

But as an educated economist, a believer in science, a woman, a lesbian, a mother, a Jew and a human being whose sole duty on earth is to repair the shattered fragments of this world, lift up the fallen and free the captive, I will not rest until Obama can get back to his good work and Mitt Romney and his perfectly lovely wife go quietly back to wherever they came from.

Just go back there. The Torah teaches us that our freedom from slavery came only after ten harsh plagues were visited upon Pharaoh and the Egyptian people.

We recite this list out loud at the Seder table, and with each drop of red wine that we spill, we are reminded of the cost of making the journey from narrow, confined places into freedom.

This is the story we reread each year, how negative consequences and harsh punishments moved a hard-hearted Pharaoh to, begrudgingly, let his slaves go free.

And this is a good story, but my question is: what about the positive things? Can we take a moment to remember some of the good things we do that lift us out of slavery and into freedom?

As always, I encourage you to write your own list of possibilities. How do you act in a way that brings freedom to others? How do we march side by side with people whom we will never meet but to whom we are so inextricably linked?

Where did this food come from? Was the bearer of this food wearing gloves when she prepared it? Was it possibly made in a methamphetamine lab?

I have a memory of trick or treating around my neighborhood as a kid. There was one house down the street where the couple always gave away odd shaped popcorn balls instead of wrapped candy.

Take one. We might appear quiet and weird and our front yard might be overgrown with nondescript bushes but go on. Take two. Where is the Snickers Bar?

There was that same stack of granola in plastic bags, quietly calling out to me. How dangerous could this be, I thought.

Interrupting me, she reached for a packet of Sweet-n-Low sitting in the white ceramic holder at the center of our table. I got to the airport and was delighted to learn I got an upgrade to first class.

Cue the fireworks. If you really want proof of how the world has turned into a huge race to the bottom, just compare your experience of flying first class with your one.

But in an effort to suspend reality just a few moments more, let me tell you it was so elegant and excessive in First Class, so fancy, clean and joyful that I forgot all about the bag of granola I had taken from the buffet.

But that little plastic bag of granola did escort me all the way home and I am delighted to tell you that I just finished a bowl of the stuff and I am ready for seconds.

It was crunchy and nutty and made with a hefty serving of sweet sweet love.

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And what are we going to wear? We have to plan a ceremony and send out invitations and find two maids of honor, Mary.

While I was worrying myself to the point of paralysis, Mary calmly took out a notebook and began planning our wedding that was to take place in six days.

Nobody is going to fly across the country with six days notice, Mary. You gotta call my parents. They usually plan their travel 6 or 8 months in advance and they might not be able to come.

She is totally ignoring me. But, to be fair, she ignores me with love. I asked her again to please call my parents and tell them we were getting married the following Saturday night.

I get it. I called Mary on the ride into the city. How was your Dad about the whole thing? Is everyone freaking out?

Again, the message was clear. Other people were more excited about this wedding than I was. I was too exhausted to be excited.

I was still fighting. I simply. Mary worked on the details while I wandered the streets of New York working on my attitude.

But I was also on the phone planning the ceremony with our friend Judy, receiving messages via well-wishers, getting with the program. It was all happening.

I can remember the conversation when we chose the song for our first dance as wife and wife. I was standing in front of a deli on Madison avenue, talking to Mary, staring at the food and people on the inside.

In fact every time I talked to Mary who was still producing a daily, one hour talk show that same week while planning everything, she would remind me of my own words, words I had confidently spoken to loving couples underneath chuppim over the past few months.

Free to take that first step into an unknown future. Free to cross waters that might not even part for us. This is us, in love, taking that first step, made even bigger and more meaningful by the marching and loving and.

Who have given us permission to stand on their shoulders and see farther than they ever imagined. Before we even took off, I had already told the flight attendant about our plans to marry.

Later, he brought me a glass of champagne and toasted our marriage. I never drank champagne on an airplane before, but today was a new day.

And the more I told people about it, the more it dawned on me that I had become a joyful bride to be. Details shmeetails.

I win! The day before the wedding, I ran to the lumber-yard in Santa Monica to purchase four plain, wooden chuppah poles. Then I raced to Sears and bought a flat sheet and some fabric markers.

In the last couple of years, our family has gotten to know a homeless woman named Amy who stands at the corner of PCH and Sunset every morning, asking drivers for food.

She has 12 grandchildren. She has a sweet tooth. She wants to get back into the good graces of her family. Sitting at the light, staring at sparkling waves in front of me, I started to believe it myself.

Maybe she IS somewhere better than this place. Maybe her family HAS found her. Make sure she gets it before Christmas!

But of course I was dubious. I figured the guy would eat the food, drink the water and toss the rest. I know how these homeless people operate.

Cut to yesterday. She popped up from the sidewalk where she was sitting with her little dog and another woman who was wrapped in a blanket and ran to me.

He gave me the bag. Tell her I got the bag. She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a brown imitation leather wallet. Inside, I saw one or two dollar bills and nothing much else but then she pulled out a worn, graying piece of white paper that looked like it had been hidden in there for years.

She unfolded it and showed it to me. May I take a picture to show her? I love that little girl of yours. She removed the enormous sunglasses that have been hiding her tired eyes since the day we met and clutched my forearm.

I was blessed to witness these milestones for seven years and in that time learned much from the students, their families and my Rabbi.

At every Bar or Bat Mitzvah, before the Torah reading, it was the custom at our shul that the Rabbi line up the family and pass the Torah through the generations, from grandparents to parents, ultimately handing the Torah into the capable arms of its youngest recipient.

Before the Rabbi even brought the Torah to the front of the bima, the sight of the family alone would bring the congregation to tears.

I would stand to the side and play softly on my guitar and the family would just kvell. It all seemed perfect and right. So many interfaith families belonged to the temple that watching the rabbi withhold the Torah from a non-Jewish parent became a familiar sight.

The more it happened, the sadder I became. I remember on more than one occasion seeing the Torah withheld from a non-Jewish parent despite the fact that this non-Jew was the only person making sure the child even went to religious school!

Sister Mary Benedict was a woman of service, tending to the most needy people in New York City in the late s. Mary and I met eleven years ago, brought together by mutual friends.

We did not meet on JDate. We did not meet at the college hillel. We never went on an Israel trip together. We did not then and do not now work in similar fields.

On the surface, we are pushing completely different agendas. However, we are on the same page where it counts—being mothers, trying to be of service and share our blessings, and being role models especially for people struggling to come out.

Growing up, I never imagined I would marry a non-Jew but here we most thankfully are, legally married with two daughters, two dogs, a mortgage and a hamster.

Like my sister who is married to a Jewish man, I would have loved to have gotten married in front of friends and family instead of frantically racing to do it six days before the presidential election, fearful of Prop 8 passing and denying us the chance to marry legally.

I would have loved all of this the way many of those non-Jewish Bar and Bat Mitzvah parents wanted to embrace the Torah but were not allowed to fully participate in the ritual.

We like that. Reconstructionist Judaism defines itself by being a movement that opens its doors to everyone.

As I perform and teach in Jewish settings around the world on so many weekends, it is usually Mary who takes Sarah to Religious School and it is Mary who picks her up.

It is Mary who insists on us going to services even when I am so happy to have a Friday night without work and in town.

It is Mary who fills our car with food for collection at the Temple. In truth, it is often Mary, my Catholic wife, who carries the weight of our Jewish family life and she does it with grace and love.

A few years back on Simchat Torah, the festive celebration marking the conclusion of the cycle of Torah readings, Mary and I spent the evening dancing, singing, reading and celebrating the Torah at our shul.

The celebration went on and on, like the Torah itself, without end. I have been dancing and wrestling with the Torah for my entire life, so when the Rabbi placed a Torah in my arms and circles upon circles began dancing around me, it was a very familiar feeling.

I could barely breathe. Within moments I began to sob. Mary held on to the Torah as we held her in the middle of our circle of dancing and singing.

I lowered my head and wrapped my tallit tightly around myself as my tears formed a small pool on the sanctuary floor.

Concerned someone might slip, I wiped them into the wooden floor, back and forth with the sole of my shoe until they were gone. When we include those who might not be Jewish but who nevertheless help us to move our faith forward, we are better.

My tears have long dried since that night, but in the most important ways they are still there, along with the tears of our ancestors, sealed into the hardwood floor of our faith.

I pray for a time when we all feel free to sing a new song, to hold the Torah close to our hearts, to dance on our tears with nothing but joy.

I met David Garber in while moving into a one bedroom apartment on the corner of 2nd and Idaho in Santa Monica.

I was alone, and I made the mistake of loading my arms with way too many cassette racks, hauling them from my car to the elevator, straining my back and nearly dropping them all onto the cement floor of the parking garage.

Like an angel, Dave Garber showed up, introduced himself and took the entire weight of those cassette racks off my hands.

I watched his eyes fill with tears. There goes another casualty in my very real war on straight men, I thought.

But he seemed like a nice guy. Turns out he was a very nice guy. The nicest, in fact. I was reeling from a break-up, cursing the fact that I had to move to a new place and start over again, but that day, after meeting Garber for the first time I knew I was going to be OK.

It was a beautiful beach day. I tell you, he helped me move my stuff upstairs until my car was empty. The answer: Dave Garber.

It turned out my keys fit the lock to the apartment right across the hall from his. Within days OK, minutes we were a sitcom in search of a network.

I became his Mary Richards and he became my Rhoda Morgenstern. It was as if we needed to find each other.

I had healing to do, and so did he. We lived in that corner together, our doors wide open, our circles of friends intertwining, our lives becoming inextricably linked, for years.

We shared meals together, went to afternoon movies, watched Six Feet Under and The Sopranos together, borrowed books and music from each other, and talked and laughed through everything together.

I critiqued every woman that crossed his threshold and took no prisoners. I could go on and on about Garber. How well-read, even tempered and insightful he is.

How kind he is to my family. How optimistic and interested he is. How he can talk to just about anyone about anything. He was the first one at the hospital for the birth of our daughters.

When he visits our house, he never tries to wake me up when I fall asleep in my TV chair after dinner. Back in the day and on more than a few occasions he woke up early, sometimes after working until 3AM to answer the door wearing only a bathrobe or, if I was lucky, only the sports pages just to let me hang out on his couch, watch TV and do the crossword puzzle.

And when the time came, back in , he lovingly steered me in the direction of Mary Connelly who is now my wife. She gained a husband in all of this, too, ya know.

A few months ago, Garber left his full time job to volunteer for the Obama campaign in Nevada. Is there a worse place to be walking the streets, canvassing, ringing doorbells, standing outside grocery stores, registering voters than in the state of Nevada between June and November?

Could the volunteer job be any more thankless? Just imagine the difficulty of all of it? Uprooting, volunteering, not knowing whether it will all pay off.

Would YOU do it? But were we surprised when Garber told us he was packing up, paying his own way and heading to Nevada to help turn the state blue for Obama?

Not in the least. David and I talk every couple of days. He has no idea of what is going on in the news, the polls, and he rarely sees the divisive, unimportant political posts that all of us are guilty of sharing from time to time.

He works 14 hours a day with a water bottle in one hand and a pen and clipboard in the other, registering voters, He falls asleep every night in a tiny rented room with a shower curtain for a wall that he has to pay for himself.

I find myself tearing up when I think of the hard work he is doing on our behalf. This morning, Mary and I took a Shabbat family walk through this neighborhood we love so much.

Two dogs, two daughters, two moms, meeting friends on the way, laughing it up, enjoying the ocean breeze and sunshine. I thank God for the freedom Mary and I have, for the peace we find here, for the future we want to provide for our girls, for everything we have and all of the progress that has been made in our lifetime.

When we got home, the phone rang. It was Garber calling from Nevada. I actually think I heard the sound of glitter falling around him. Enough already.

I do miss him terribly. I miss our lunches at Real Food Daily and our 6 mile walks and how he fits so nicely into our family.

Who pitches in like this, I asked myself as I hung up the phone. The answer will always be the same: Dave Garber. As an economist by degree, a mother, a Jew, a lesbian and a former Massachusetts resident, it is beyond clear to me that Mitt Romney is in no way a better alternative to what we have in place right now to become the next president.

This is also clear to the GOP as well. The next president will make decisions on taxes. Romney has promised to keep in place the Bush tax cuts that have so devastated this country and have made the rich isolated, self-serving and protective of their wealth and unwilling to part with any of it no matter how this country is sinking into financial ruin.

Along with two unpaid for wars, extending those tax cuts will continue to lead us faster and further towards economic collapse.

And how about a transvaginal ultrasound for the road? The next president will have to serve as a leader and inspiration to the new, growing majority in this country who are non-white, as well as the majority of non-males, all who have been historically marginalized and demonized by power driven elected officials and their constituents.

The next President cannot be gaffe prone and brazenly inaccurate in front of people who too often appear to celebrate their own ignorance. He must raise the level of discussion and not blow with the wind as Romney has demonstrated he does with great consistency.

The next President must have some kind of a connection to the middle class—which at this point Romney does not—and at the very least APPEAR to care about the poorest and most vulnerable in our midst—which he also does not.

He often becomes tongue-tied and laughs nervously around these topics—huge red flags. Did the Democrats invent these laws and prohibitions?

The money our government spends on Planned Parenthood is beyond worth the health benefits and economic freedoms it brings to men, women and their families.

Planned Parenthood services, mammograms, abortions, contraception, healthcare must remain available to every woman in this country who has been in one way or another sold down the river, raped, beaten, sexualized, victimized, objectified and shit upon as a result of the insatiability of a few powerful men.

Of course, legitimately. And do we need to mention the amount of money we spend on our nationalist endeavors which history will most assuredly show have been complete folly?

Does it encourage anyone to feed the hungry, help the poor, or house the homeless as the bible these men choose to follow verbatim when it suits them instructs us so lovingly to do?

The middle class can no longer help the poor in this country. Policies that help people do for themselves and get government out of the way are ideal.

We all want less government, but policies that discourage the middle class from helping, even privately, the poor are criminal.

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