Fields of Judah

Fields of Judah, sing your song
As the sun sets and its rays cast long shadows
across the stalks lazily waving
In the soft breeze
voices whispering as they sing
Trust, just trust
for Hashem is all you need
He's with you at every turn
even as we sway to and fro
He's with us, too
For all the fear melts away
With trust.

There's no experience like being out in the field, talking to Hashem for a while, then pausing for a bit to listen for His response.

Hashem's voice sings quietly. It can't be heard above the noise. I must quiet all the busy voices if I want to hear Him.

But once I hear that soothing voice, something changes in me.

Because I can't be the same once I've heard the voice of truth.

And there are many 'voices of truth,' or, more accurately, voices that claim to be the voice of truth.

But there is only one real voice of truth. Or perhaps one voice of real truth. Is 'real truth' redundant? It would be redundant, I guess, if there were no other voices claiming to be that voice.

Once I've tasted that subtle sweetness, though, something has changed permanently. And even if I ignore it for a while, that taste of realness now discolors all of the other sweetnesses. Because they are only superficially sweet. When you taste the real thing, there is no turning back. At least not without pain.

I need to return to that truth. When I am there, I know it, because it just resonates at some place deep inside of me. It's not in my mind. It's in the same place where I laugh and cry. That place that is beyond explanation. I couldn't take you there unless you've been there. But maybe I could help you find it yourself.

People ask where Hashem is. And I recently heard that people really need to ask something else - where they are.

And I couldn't help but think that the two questions are not really two questions at all.

And is there an answer to that question?

But it is good to ask.

And if you ask me why I'm laughing, can I answer?

And if you ask why I'm crying?

But it is good to ask.

How Fortunate Are We

Guest post by Daniel

How Fortunate Are We, How Wonderful is Our Portion, and How Beautiful is Our Heritage

Today, the traffic-jammed street is full
Of people and not cars.

The only wheels moving
Are strollers pushed by young couples
And scooters chased by little brothers.

The many passersby have made a coup
Against traffic lights
That signal no one.

Walls of apartments on either side
Their windows open to buzzing summer air.
In flies a bee, a breeze, and blossoming jasmine.
Out flows laughter, silence, and song
From families still dining
On the dessert that is family.

One day a week,
This street transforms
Into a blessing that lacks
Impatient horns.
One day a week.