Zeina al-Habil hugs the body of her father after he and her five-year-old brother were killed in an Israeli missile strike that targeted their home in the neighbourhood of Sheikh Radwan.

Photograph: Omar al-Qattaa/AFP/Getty Images

#photography
#Gaza
#children
#grief
#mourning
#funeral
#AltText

JSOP-040: Minori Hatsune Shines in Luxurious Bathhouse Fantasy

Stream JSOP-040 starring Minori Hatsune, a seductive mature star in a luxurious bathhouse scene. Experience rich soap‑soaked pleasure today.

https://jav.do/videos/jsop-040-jsop-040-minori-hatsune-shines-in-luxurious-bathhouse-fantasy

#Solowork #Soapland #Kimono #Mourning #MatureWoman

In the Victorian era, mourning had a wardrobe, a marketplace, and a memory system.

Memento mori, hair jewelry, death photography, memorial cards, and keepsakes helped the living preserve the dead in deeply personal and sometimes unsettling ways.

#VictorianHistory #MementoMori #Mourning #DeathHistory #MaterialCulture #Brewminate

https://brewminate.com/memento-mori-victorian-era-mourning-death/

Douwe

https://gifsartidote.life/2020/10/29/douwe-rip-07-05-2020/

STUDY – “Pain/Suffering and Grief/Mourning”? – 6/11/2026

I have often looked gratefully back to my sick chamber. I am certain that I never did grow in grace one-half so much anywhere as I have upon the bed of pain.
—Charles Spurgeon (1834-1892), pastor, New Park Street Chapel, London
Bible Truth Behind the Quote:
The psalmist affirmed, “It is good for me that I was afflicted, that I might learn your statutes” (Psalm 119:71).

COMMENTS

As I read the article posted below yesterday, entitled Did God ever promise us a way out of pain and grief I thought of all the times I have looked at and posted on this subject over the last 20 years. Still, it never ceases to amaze me that with all the technology (online resources, free correspondence, etc.) available, folks are still fooled into believing a false gospel. Just have enough faith, and God will…, or send in $$$, and you will receive a prayer cloth, oil, and an abundance of blessings. These charlatans prey upon those in pain, those suffering, by promising them instant relief. God does not operate like the old Alka-Seltzer ad: take two, and what a relief it is.

First, let me reiterate: Can God heal anyone from anything? Yes. Can God remove all suffering from anyone at any time? Yes. As the true omnipotent God ruler of the universe, God has complete authority, knowledge, and presence in all creation. There is nothing He can not do. Is it proper to ask God to relieve our pain and suffering and that of others? Yes, through prayers and supplications. Is God required to answer those prayers and supplications in a manner we want? NO! God does all things for His glory, not ours.

Below, I have listed a few studies and articles that explain the Biblical View (the only one that should concern true Christians) on Grief, Mourning, Pain and Suffering. I hope they help us better understand these topics and prove useful to everyone in defending the faith against those who would twist God’s Holy Word.

STUDY

Grief. Emotional suffering brought on by bereavement, mishap, or disaster. To grieve is either to cause or feel sorrow or distress. The concept is found in the Scriptures under a variety of circumstances. Isaac and Rebekah experienced grief when their son Esau married a Hittite woman (Gn 26:35 KJV). God mourned the misery of Israel brought upon them by disobedience (Jgs 10:16 KJV). Hannah was so sad because she had no son that she appeared to be drunk while praying (1 Sm 1:16 KJV). Similarly, Samuel, distraught at King Saul’s disobedience, prayed all night. Job was exceedingly sorrowful over his personal loss (Jb 2:13; cf. 6:2; 16:6), and the psalmist poetically demonstrated distress and sorrow (cf. Pss 6:7; 31:9, 10; 69:26 KJV; 73:21 KJV; 95:10 KJV; 112:10 KJV). The Book of Lamentations is devoted to the expression of grief, and the prophets in general speak of judgment because Israel had grieved a holy God.

Jesus experienced sorrow and distress (Mk 3:5; Jn 11:33), including the death of a friend (Jn 11:35). The Jews are said to have been grieved as the apostles taught about Christ (Acts 4:2 KJV). The apostle Paul instructed believers not to grieve one another (Rom 14:15 KJV) and did not want to cause any sorrow himself (2 Cor 2:1–5 KJV). Most of all, the believer is not to grieve the Holy Spirit (Eph 4:30). A believer may, of course, suffer grief and suffering in an alien world (1 Pt 2:19 KJV). In Bible times grief was given particular expression at a time of death by means of shrieks, wails, and laments (cf. Jer 9:17, 18; Am 5:16; Mk 5:38).

Walter A. Elwell and Barry J. Beitzel, “Grief,” in Baker Encyclopedia of the Bible (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Book House, 1988), 904.

Mourning – The expression of grief at a time of bereavement or repentance, often accompanied by weeping, tearing of clothes, and wearing sackcloth. [Although most treat Grief and Mourning as two completely different emotions or expressions, the Bible makes it clear they are linked, as Mourning is the outward expression of our internal grief.]

Regulations for the mourning of priests after bereavement Lev 21:1-4,10-11

Mourning of God’s people after bereavement Israel for Aaron Nu 20:29

Israel for Moses Dt 34:8

David for Saul and Jonathan 2Sa 1:11-12 See also 2Sa 1:17-27

David for Absalom 2Sa 18:33

Job for his children Job 1:20-21

Other examples See also Ge 37:34-35; 50:11; 2Sa 13:31; 14:2; 2Ch 35:23-25; Mt 2:18; Jn 11:31,33; Ac 8:2

Examples of heathen mourning after bereavement Isa 15:2-3; Jer 47:5; 48:37; Eze 27:30-32

Mourning as an expression of repentance Ex 33:4; Ezr 9:3-6

Mourning because of misfortune 2Sa 13:9; Job 2:12-13

The employment of professional mourners Jer 9:17-18; Am 5:16; Mt 9:23 pp Mk 5:39 pp Lk 8:52

Mourning spoken of metaphorically Jer 7:29 See also Isa 3:18-24; Eze 7:18; Joel 1:8; Am 8:10; Mic 1:16

As a sign of repentance for sin, Joel 2:12-13 See also Isa 22:12

Martin H. Manser, Dictionary of Bible Themes: The Accessible and Comprehensive Tool for Topical Studies (London: Martin Manser, 2009).

Pain. A sense of physical suffering, anguish, or distress, which has a number of causes. Scripture indicates the sources of pain and its potential spiritual implications and results.

Pain is universal. Ro 8:22 See also Ge 3:16-17; Job 5:7

The origins of pain

Satanic activity. Ge 3:15 See also Job 1:12; 2:6-7; Lk 13:16; 2Co 12:7

Human activity Ps 37:14 See also Ge 4:8; Ex 1:10-11; Na 3:1-4; Hab 2:6,8,10,12

God’s judgment and glory Jn 9:2-3 See also Ex 9:11; Nu 12:10-11; 2Ch 26:19-20; Ps 38:3-5; Pr 5:11; Ac 12:23; 13:11; 2Co 12:9

Kinds of pain

Physical pain Ps 38:7 See also Job 30:17; Mt 10:28; Lk 23:33; 2Co 4:16-18; 11:23-27

Mental pain Jer 15:18 See also Ps 42:5-6,11; Jer 12:6; Mt 26:38; 2Co 2:13; 2Pe 2:8

Bereavement Jn 11:33-35 See also Ge 35:18; 50:1; 2Sa 12:22-23; Php 2:27; 1Th 4:13

Spiritual pain

Conviction of sin Jn 16:8 See also Ps 32:3-5; 51:1-2; Lk 7:38; Ac 26:14

The anguish of hell Mk 9:47-48 See also Mt 5:22; 8:12; Lk 13:28; Rev 6:16

Perplexity Isa 50:10 See also Job 23:8-9; Ps 22:1; 88:1-3; Jer 20:7

Concern for others Gal 4:19 See also Ac 20:19; 2Co 2:1-5; 11:28; Php 3:18; Col 1:28-2:1; Heb 5:7

The failure of others Mt 26:56 See also Mt 26:40; Jn 13:21; Gal 4:16; 2Ti 4:10,16; 3Jn 10

Fruitful results of pain

It draws believers to God 1Pe 4:19 See also Jn 14:1,18; Ro 8:26; 2Co 7:5-6; Heb 4:15-16; 5:8

It equips believers to help others 2Co 1:4 See also Ro 5:3-5; 12:15; Heb 2:18; 12:11

It helps believers to anticipate the resurrection 1Co 15:54-57 See also Ro 8:19; 2Co 4:17; 1Th 4:14

It points believers to heaven Rev 21:4 See also Ro 8:18; Rev 7:15-17

Martin H. Manser, Dictionary of Bible Themes: The Accessible and Comprehensive Tool for Topical Studies (London: Martin Manser, 2009).

suffering. The experience of pain or distress, both physical and emotional. Scripture is thoroughly realistic about the place of suffering in the world and in the lives of believers. To become a Christian is not to escape from suffering, but to be able to bear suffering with dignity and hope.

suffering, nature of. Since the fall, human beings have suffered in various ways. Scripture provides insights into the nature and place of suffering both in the world and in the lives of believers.

Suffering began with the fall. Ge 2:17; 3:16-19; Ro 5:12

Suffering is universal. Job 5:7; 14:1

Different kinds of suffering. Physical pain and illness Ge 48:1 See also 2Ki 20:1 pp 2Ch 32:24 pp Isa 38:1; Job 2:7; Ps 42:10; Mt 8:6; 17:15; Lk 4:38; Ac 28:8; 2Ti 4:20; Jas 5:14

Emotional stress. Ps 55:4-5 See also Ge 35:18 “Ben-Oni” means “son of my trouble”; Pr 12:25; Jn 11:32-35; Php 2:27

Spiritual suffering. Ps 22:1 See also Mt 27:46 pp Mk 15:34

The prospect of death. Ge 3:19 See also Ecc 12:7

Major causes of suffering.The disorder in creation Ge 3:17 See also Ge 12:10; Joel 1:4; Mt 24:7 pp Lk 21:11; Ro 8:22; Rev 11:13

Human cruelty Ps 54:3; Murder: Ge 4:8; Ex 1:16,22; 1Ki 21:19; Mt 2:16
Ge 49:5-7; Oppression: Ex 1:11; Am 2:6-7; 4:1; Mal 3:5; 2Ki 6:25; 19:17 warfare; 2Ch 10:13-14; Job 1:14-15,17; Am 1:3,13; Jas 5:4-6; Rev 6:4

Family troubles Ps 27:10 See also 1Sa 1:7; 2Sa 16:11; Job 19:14-19; Mal 2:14; Mt 10:36; Jas 1:27

Old age Ps 71:9 See also Ecc 12:1-7

Satan’s activity 1Jn 5:19 See also Job 1:12; 2:6-7; Lk 13:16; 2Co 12:7; Rev 2:10; 20:7-8

Aggravations to suffering Memories Job 29:2

Fears Job 3:25; Heb 2:15

Resentment Job 2:9

Sin and suffering are not necessarily related. Jn 9:3. See also Job 2:3; Lk 13:2

They are sometimes closely related Ro 1:18 See also Ge 6:5-7; Nu 14:33; Dt 28:15; Ps 107:17; Eze 23:49; Ac 5:5,10; Ro 1:27; 1Co 11:29-30; Jude 7; Rev 2:22

God’s final judgment Mt 25:41 See also Da 12:2; Mt 8:12; Mk 9:48; Isa 66:24; Rev 20:15

Effects of suffering Hardness of heart Rev 16:9 See also Ex 7:22; Rev 9:20-21

Repentance 2Ch 33:12; Lk 15:17-18

Blessing Ps 119:71 See also Isa 38:17

Martin H. Manser, Dictionary of Bible Themes: The Accessible and Comprehensive Tool for Topical Studies (London: Martin Manser, 2009).

The True Ministry of Pain

(J. R. Miller, “In Green Pastures”)

There is a Christian art of enduring pain, which we should seek to learn. The real goal is not just to endure the suffering which falls into our life; to bear it bravely, without wincing; to pass through it patiently, even rejoicingly. Pain has a higher mission to us, than to teach us heroism. We should endure it in such a way as to get something of spiritual blessing out of it.

Pain brings to us some message from God, which we should not fail to hear. It lifts for us the veil which hides God’s face, and we should get some new glimpses of His beauty, every time we are called to suffer. Pain is furnace-fire, and we should always come out of this furnace, with the gold of our graces gleaming a little more brightly. Every experience of suffering ought in some way–to lift us nearer God, to make us more gentle and loving, and to leave the image of Christ shining a little clearer in our lives.

gracegems.org/08/07/pain.html

The first lesson in the school of tribulation!

ARTICLES

Did God ever promise us a way out of pain and grief?

By Mark Creech, Op-ed Contributor Wednesday, June 10, 2026

[Excerpt] …Certainly, Scripture teaches that God works all things together for good to those who love Him. It teaches that suffering is never meaningless. It teaches that our trials are under the sovereign hand of a perfectly good and benevolent God.

But where does Scripture promise that every faithful believer will eventually experience some earthly form of restoration?

Consider the testimony of God’s Word…

Continued @ Source

A Manipulative Insult To God’s Nature: The Prosperity Gospel Is One Of The Most Dangerous Theological Ideas In The World

Despite its promises of health, wealth, and happiness, the prosperity gospel sells a bankrupt gospel.

You can hardly watch a Christian television network without seeing preachers in expensive suits proclaiming God’s desire to bless the audience with financial and physical security. Their message goes by various names: the health and wealth gospel, the word of faith movement, seed faith, and “name it and claim it” Christianity. But perhaps it’s best known as the prosperity gospel. I should know—at one time, I was right in the middle of it…

CONTINUED @ SOURCE

FSM and FSMMWO’s Comfort for the Grieving, Hurting, and Dying Series

Friday’s Feature Quote – – Suffering – 07/11/2025 – Faithful Steward Ministries and FSM Women’s Outreach

Papa’s fingerprints

The journey

• Raised to not belong
• What kind of Jew?
• A bigger Jewish world
• The life I didn’t plan
• Between two worlds
• Papa’s fingerprints

Papa died

A few months after my returning from working as a Jewish educator in Lithuania in 2018, my father died.

At the conclusion of my previous blog post, I described my journey to Lithuania as a kind of ending. For years, I had imagined a future for myself in Jewish education. That dream had carried me through Pardes1, through years of study, through countless conversations, classes, source sheets, and educational projects. By the time I returned from Lithuania, however, I had finally accepted that this was no longer the path I was pursuing.

Then Papa died.

Looking back, it is difficult for me to separate my father’s death from everything that followed. I returned to synagogue attendance after a troubled three-year absence. I committed myself to reciting kaddish2 daily. I immersed myself in Jewish mourning practices that I knew surprisingly little about. Most importantly, I began writing The Skeptic’s Kaddish for the Atheist, a weekly series at the Times of Israel reflecting on mourning, Jewish practice, and the uneasy relationship between skepticism and tradition.

The project began simply enough. I was in shock. I was grieving. I needed a way to process what had happened.

Ordinary life felt strangely unchanged after Papa’s death. I returned home to Israel from New Jersey after the funeral and shiva3. I went back to work. I paid bills. I bought groceries. I played with my daughter. Shabbat arrived and departed. The calendar continued advancing. The world had suffered a catastrophe, and yet the rhythms of daily life continued almost untouched. Writing became my way of insisting that something enormous had happened.

At first, I understood the project as a form of mourning. I wanted to honor Papa, understand the tradition I was participating in, and make sense of my own thoughts and feelings. I wanted my outward life to reflect my inward reality. What I did not understand was that the Kaddish project would become much more than a year of mourning.

The fifty-one posts that followed were ostensibly about grief, faith, tradition, prayer, memory, and loss. At the time, I understood them primarily as part of the mourning process. Only later would I recognize how much else was unfolding beneath the surface.

The Kaddish year as a convergence point

At the time, I experienced The Skeptic’s Kaddish for the Atheist primarily as a mourning project. Looking back, however, I can see that it became the meeting place for several different strands of my life.

Pardes had given me years of immersion in Jewish texts and traditions. I had learned to build source sheets, trace ideas across centuries, and place different voices into conversation with one another. More importantly, I had learned to sit with ambiguity. The questions that interested me most were rarely susceptible to simple answers.

At Hiddush4, I had gained experience writing for a public audience. Although producing content was not formally part of my role, I found myself repeatedly drawn toward blogging and public-facing writing. I enjoyed translating complicated ideas into accessible language and connecting abstract concepts to lived experience.

Then there was the Polis Institute5.

When I began studying spoken Arabic at the Polis Institute in 2016, I thought I would simply be learning a language. In retrospect, the experience had a much broader impact. Most of my classmates were Europeans working in NGOs, embassies, government agencies, and international organizations, while my teachers were Arabs. Through the simple act of studying together, people who might once have existed in my mind primarily as categories gradually became individuals.

Polis also reinforced something that had long been true of my intellectual life: I learn best through immersion. Rather than absorbing ideas in isolation, I tend to connect them to other ideas, experiences, books, conversations, and observations.

The Kaddish project became an ideal outlet for this tendency.

As I immersed myself in Jewish mourning practices, I found myself constantly drawing connections. A Talmudic passage would remind me of a contemporary memoir. A halakhic6 discussion would bring to mind a conversation from years earlier. A reflection on grief would resonate with a novel, an essay, a poem, or an unexpected memory of Papa. The project became a framework into which seemingly unrelated experiences continually flowed.

The realization

Only much later did I realize that the Kaddish project was changing me in another way as well.

Writing had been present in my life for years before Papa died. As a Pardes student in 2009–10, I wrote prolifically for the student blog. Nobody was paying me to do so. I simply enjoyed writing. Later, while working at Pardes, I continued writing even though that was not formally part of my job description. The same pattern repeated itself at Hiddush. Time and again, I found myself gravitating toward blogging, public-facing writing, and the challenge of communicating ideas clearly.

Yet I never thought of writing as central to my identity.

The Kaddish project forced me to take writing more seriously. Every week required a new post. Every post demanded research, reflection, drafting, revision, and editing. I would spend days thinking about a topic before writing a single paragraph. Once published, I often found myself rereading my own work repeatedly, trying to understand what I had actually been feeling when I wrote it. The project became both a record of my mourning and a mechanism for processing it.

Over time, three realizations emerged.

First, I was good at writing. This took me a surprisingly long time to recognize. Writing had always existed on the periphery of my professional identity. The Kaddish series was the first sustained project that required me to write consistently, publicly, and at length. By the end, I could no longer dismiss it as a secondary skill.

Second, I genuinely enjoyed it. Even when individual posts were emotionally draining, I found satisfaction in the process itself: following an idea wherever it led, tracking down sources, refining language, and shaping disparate observations into a coherent narrative. The work felt meaningful in a way that surprised me.

The third realization took longest: writing deserved a larger place in my life than I had ever allowed it.

At the time, however, I could not yet see where this realization would lead. I only knew that something important had shifted. Writing was no longer simply something I did. It demanded to be taken seriously.

Changing relationship to authority

As I immersed myself in Jewish texts and traditions, I also found myself becoming increasingly skeptical of religious authority. In truth, this process had begun years earlier. At Pardes, I had learned how source sheets are assembled and how divrei Torah7 are constructed. The more I studied, the more apparent it became that the same texts could support very different conclusions depending upon which sources were emphasized, which were omitted, and how they were interpreted.

My Kaddish series accelerated that realization. Week after week, I explored Jewish mourning practices, the history of kaddish, and traditional beliefs about death and the afterlife. Again and again, I encountered competing interpretations presented with equal confidence. The deeper I went, the harder it became to regard any single reading as the obvious or inevitable one.

Paradoxically, this did not diminish my appreciation for Jewish learning. If anything, it increased it. I became less interested in definitive answers and more interested in the centuries-long conversation itself. The richness of the tradition lay not in unanimity but in the diversity of voices participating within it.

At the same time, I grew more willing to trust my own judgment. If Jewish tradition was an ongoing conversation, then my responsibility was not merely to repeat what others had said. It was to engage honestly with the questions before me and arrive at conclusions that I could sincerely defend.

This may have been one of the most important changes produced by the Kaddish year. It taught me not only to study tradition but to engage it on my own terms.

Leaving the minyan8

The changes brought about by the Kaddish year did not end when I recited my final kaddish.

The Kaddish year left me more knowledgeable about Jewish practice and more engaged with Jewish learning. Yet it did not lead to greater synagogue involvement. If anything, the opposite occurred.

Some of the reasons were practical. Shortly after the Kaddish year ended, our family moved apartments. The synagogue where I had recited most of my kaddishes was no longer within convenient walking distance. More importantly, the daily obligation that had drawn me there was gone. During the Kaddish year, every visit to synagogue served an immediate purpose. Once that obligation disappeared, attendance became a choice rather than a necessity. Without the structure of kaddish, I found it increasingly difficult to justify the time and effort required to attend regularly.

Others were intellectual. The skepticism that had deepened during the Kaddish project did not disappear when the series ended. If anything, I found myself increasingly willing to evaluate religious practices on their own merits rather than simply accepting them because they were traditional.

When COVID arrived, it accelerated trends that were already underway. Like so many people, I experienced the pandemic as a disruption of routines and communities. Public gatherings became complicated. Synagogue attendance became irregular. Habits that had already begun to weaken were interrupted altogether, and many of them never fully returned.

Looking back, I do not see a single dramatic break with religious observance. There was no decisive moment when I rejected synagogue life or consciously abandoned a particular worldview. Instead, a series of small changes accumulated over time. The Kaddish obligation ended. We moved. The pandemic disrupted communal life. My intellectual outlook continued evolving.

As online writing communities expanded and in-person gatherings became part of my life, new rhythms began to form around writing itself. Conversations continued across days, including times when I would once have been offline. The boundaries between writing, participation, and rest gradually became less clear.

None of this happened suddenly. It emerged through a series of small decisions about when to respond, when to read, and when to engage. What had once been a sharply defined rhythm of religious observance became something more fluid, shaped increasingly by creative work and literary community rather than formal religious structure.

The Kaddish series had ended.

Poetry

When I stopped writing The Skeptic’s Kaddish for the Atheist, I did not intend to continue writing in any sustained way.

For a period of time, I largely succeeded. But the impulse to write did not disappear. It simply changed form.

I did not return first to essays or reflections, and I did not immediately resume the kind of structured, source-driven writing that had defined the Kaddish series. Instead, I found myself drawn back to a more fragmented and expressive form of writing: poetry.

At first, this felt almost incidental. After a year spent moving through Jewish texts, halakhic discussions, memoir, and theological questions, poetry offered something different. I did not need to construct an argument or resolve competing ideas. I could simply follow an image, a form, or an association wherever it led.

I had not written poetry seriously since high school, and even then it had never become a sustained practice. Yet after the Kaddish series, I found myself returning to it with an intensity that surprised me.

The Kaddish series had been intensely relational, anchored in tradition, memory, text, and obligation. Poetry felt more solitary and more open-ended. It allowed me to move away from explanation and toward expression while continuing to process experience through writing.

What began as occasional experimentation gradually became a regular practice. I started publishing poems online, participating in writing communities, and exploring forms that I had never encountered before. The experience was more immediate and informal than anything I had known during the Kaddish series, but no less meaningful.

Slowly, without planning it, I had begun building a new creative life. At the time, I saw it as a continuation of writing. I did not yet realize it would become a community as well.

Poets of Babel

WordPress did not only change how I wrote. It changed who I wrote with.

Over time, certain relationships began to extend beyond comment threads and blog posts. Conversations became more sustained, and writing became something shared across time rather than confined to individual publication moments. It was in this context that I first encountered Shoshana, who ran a multilingual poetry group in Jerusalem called Poets of Babel.

The connection itself was unexpected. I had come across her through her WordPress blog, without realizing at first that she lived only a short distance from me. What began as an online exchange gradually expanded beyond the screen and into the physical world.

Poets of Babel met only a few times a year, but it exposed me to a different kind of writing environment than anything I had previously experienced. Poets gathered in person, often working across multiple languages, reading drafts aloud, discussing poems face-to-face, and responding to one another in real time. The contrast with both the Kaddish series and my early WordPress experience was striking. Writing was no longer solitary, and it was no longer asynchronous. It had become immediate, conversational, and embodied.

For someone who had spent years writing largely on his own, this was a significant shift. The people whose names I knew from comment sections now had voices, personalities, and stories. Writing was becoming connected not only to publication but also to friendship, conversation, and shared experience.

Poets of Babel met only a few times each year, but it showed me that writing could create community beyond the page.

W3

Poets of Babel introduced me to a more immediate and embodied form of literary community, but it remained episodic. Meetings took place only a few times each year, and between them, most of my writing life continued to unfold online.

Around this time, I created a different kind of space: a grassroots online poetry community called W3.

W3 was not an institution in any formal sense. It functioned as an ongoing exchange of prompts, responses, experiments, and conversations. Unlike many online poetry communities, where a small number of organizers supplied prompts for everyone else to answer, W3 was designed to be more participatory. Members were encouraged not only to respond to prompts but also to create them.

This mattered because many of the writers who participated did not have large audiences or established platforms. W3 created a space where they could help shape the community rather than simply contribute to it. The distinction may seem subtle, but this changed the character of the group. Participation was not limited to writing poems. It extended to setting creative directions, proposing challenges, and inviting others into conversation.

The result was a community that was both voluntary and collaborative. No editor assigned topics. No institution determined priorities. The structure existed because participants collectively created and sustained it.

That made it both fragile and, in its own way, resilient.

Looking back, W3 did not represent a dramatic turning point. Rather, it consolidated developments that had been underway since the Kaddish year. The habits of writing, responding, and sustained engagement that had emerged gradually over the previous years now became a regular part of everyday life.

The Jewish Agency for Israel

By the time I came to work at the Jewish Agency for Israel in 2022, writing had become important enough that I had decided to pursue it professionally.

Seen in that light, my work at the Jewish Agency for Israel was a return. Years earlier, I had encountered the organization through summer camps in Russia, long before I worked there full-time in Israel. It was one of my earliest experiences of large-scale Jewish communal life, and it had been where I met my wife.

When I applied for a writing position there, it felt less like a career change than a convergence of existing strands. The skills I had developed through blogging, educational writing, donor communications, and years of reflective practice were now being directed into a formal professional role. Writing was no longer only something I pursued in response to personal experience or communal engagement. It had become part of my job.

At the same time, professional writing did not replace the creative work that had emerged through WordPress and W3. The two continued in parallel. One was institutional and goal-oriented; the other was exploratory and communal. Both continued to develop alongside one another.

The organization did not make me a writer. It was where writing became part of what I was hired to do.

IDI

By 2026, when I joined the Israel Democracy Institute9, writing was no longer something I was discovering about myself. It was something I was refining.

The transition from the Jewish Agency for Israel to IDI did not feel like a rupture. It felt like a continuation along a narrower, more defined path. The underlying skillset remained the same: translating complex ideas into accessible language, shaping arguments, working with texts, and communicating institutional work to external audiences. What changed was the subject matter.

If the Jewish Agency for Israel represented the consolidation of writing as a professional identity, IDI represented its alignment with a set of questions that had occupied me for years.

Much of my earlier writing life had been exploratory. Through the Kaddish series, poetry, and blogging, I found myself examining tradition, identity, community, and personal experience. At IDI, the focus shifted toward public life: governance, democratic institutions, social cohesion, and the challenges facing Israeli society. The work became less inward-looking and more civic in orientation.

IDI feels less like a new beginning than a point of stabilization. The various strands of my previous life were no longer developing separately. They had begun to reinforce one another.

Papa’s fingerprints

Looking back across all of this, it is easy to describe the Kaddish year as a turning point. But that framing is also too simple. It suggests a clean break between what came before and what came after. In reality, what followed was not a departure but an accumulation.

The Kaddish series gave structure to something that might otherwise have remained diffuse. It turned a private process of grief into a sustained public practice of reflection. My way of engaging with the world was fundamentally textual: I encountered experience, and then I wrote it into meaning.

That habit did not end when the Kaddish series ended. The settings changed, but the underlying impulse remained the same.

In that sense, it is possible to see my father’s presence not only in the content of what I wrote during the Kaddish year, but in the trajectory that followed. Not because he directed it, but because his absence created a space in which certain patterns became visible and unavoidable.

He is present in the memory that initiated the Kaddish series.

He is present in the texts I turned to in order to make sense of that loss.

And he is present in the recognition that writing was never just something I used to describe my life.

It was one of the ways I continued to carry it.

Conclusion

There is no clean endpoint to any of this.

If there is a single thread that runs through all of this, it is not resolution but continuity. The same impulse appears in different settings: to take experience seriously, to work through it in language, and to use writing as a way of making sense of what has not yet settled into meaning.

Papa’s death set this process in motion, but it did not contain it.

What followed was not a conclusion.

It was a life that continued to write itself.

Footnotes

The journey

• Raised to not belong
• What kind of Jew?
• A bigger Jewish world
• The life I didn’t plan
• Between two worlds
• Papa’s fingerprints