About a dozen years ago, when I was still serving as a part-time rabbi (read: “full time rabbi” – there is no such thing as a “part-time” rabbi), my son, Erik, took a look at what was scattered about my sewing room.
Tallitot, kippot, challah covers, tallit bags.
I had just completed a tallit set for a trans child based on their loves: bees and celestial objects. The tallit and kippah featured a moon dripping with honey and honeybees flying about.
I had told Erik about the interactions I’d had with the child, the fun of finding the right embroidery motif, the decisions we had made together about color and fabric, the jubilant moment when we knew what verse the child wanted on their atarah.
“Sometimes I think,” he said, “this is really your rabbinic calling.”
I laughed. After all, I loved leading services and singing, above all, with my community. I loved writing (and reading) about Judaism. I loved teaching – children, especially. I loved the chaplaincy work I did as a volunteer in the local hospital.
These things seemed to be the core of whatever had drawn me to rabbinical school in the first place.
This past summer, I remembered what Erik had said.
First, there was the non-binary child whose b-mitzvah was coming up. I met them on Zoom. We talked about big stuff (like living life when you are afraid or anxious) and the timely stuff (like what the Jewish clothing they were to wear the day of the ceremony needed to “say”). The child was inventive, bright, funny. Every single stitch – whether by machine or by hand – was both joyous and intentional.
Second: a client wanted a pride kippah that typically featured the colors of the rainbow in those of the asexual pride flag (purple, white, gray, and black). Could I manage to reformat an embroidery of fifteen thread changes for just those four colors and still come up with something balanced? It took a couple of tries, but when I was done, I decided to take a picture and make that kippah a possible choice on my Etsy site.
Third: a client ordered eight of the Flowering Pride Kippah.
Part of me sighed inwardly. Those particular kippot are the hardest ones to make in my shop. Fifteen color changes take a long time. Constant vigilance is needed so there is no mix-up of colors.
For every two of these that come out right, one goes wrong. It doesn’t center right. The machine goes wonky and thread gets tangled in the bobbin case. A needle breaks and the fabric tears.
Eight of those?
Oof.
Then the client told me that she was purchasing them so she, her wife, and assorted family members could all wear them to shul on Yom Kippur.
I started sewing.
I made eleven to make eight. Every time something went wrong, I took a deep breath and started again.
I imagined her family walking into shul, wearing something beautiful with a tender, mindful message: here are congregants who can, will, and should (using that word intentionally) be seen, recognized, made welcome, embraced – like all entering a shul on any day.
May we open our hearts during this month of Elul. May we embrace Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur softly, with lovingkindess for ourselves and those who are beside us, in front of us, and behind us.
May Pride be elevated and glorious.
That is a calling.
