Forgiveness. We think that we know what it means. Forgiveness. One word represents the tidal wave that is time, encompassing past, present, and future. It was just Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, when friends and family are asking each other for one thing: forgiveness. We always answer with the same “Yes, yes, of course” or “You know that you never did anything to me.” But did we actually forgive?

Then there are the people who don’t ask for forgiveness, though you wish they would. And there are the people whom you don’t know whether you can forgive, even if they did ask. Those are the people we feel negatively impacted our lives. Hurt us. We all have those experiences. But the thing about forgiveness is it only has one face. It’s the same words in every situation, no matter the situation. Forgiveness is an ending - and it’s a beginning. But how do we do it? It’s easy to say that you forgive. It’s easy to say that you want to. But it’s not so easy to let go of the past, of the hurt that now defines a piece of your heart. The answer to how to forgive is actually simple. Once we know the secret, we can forgive at the flick of a wrist.

Sherlock Holmes, Sam Spade, Nancy Drew, Hercule Poirot, Precious Ramotswe, Kinsey Millhone, and David Cohen. Which name doesn’t belong? The mystery aficionados among us will recognize the first six names as fictional detectives. As for the seventh, well, in the U.S. at least, it’s less common to associate an obviously Jewish name with the concept of working as a professional private investigator.

As someone who grew up reading Nancy Drew – and went on to become hooked on various other detective and/or mystery series – I always had a half desire to become a detective myself. But for most of us, I suspect, the idea of actually going into that field never seriously crossed our minds. David Cohen, however, did start thinking along those lines by the time he was in high school and college. “I wanted something interesting, where I would be unique in my profession - something with which I could help people,” he says.

When Dovid Mandel volunteered during the busy pre-Pesach sheimos season, little did he realize that he’d soon be in charge of burying our community’s sheimos on a more permanent basis.

Sheimos – literally, “names” (referring to the name of G-d) – consist of printed Torah materials as well as objects that have innate holiness and thus require a respectful burial. Aside from organizing and arranging for either the burial or selling of the sefarim (Torah books) brought to the shul, the one- to two-hour weekly job includes making sure that the sefarim collected conform to the Agudah’s values.

When longtime sheimos head Bill Lerner “retired” from this voluntary position, after 25 years, many people tried to assume his role but found it overwhelming. “I wasn’t planning to continue after Pesach,” admits Mr. Mandel, who is a Ner Israel Kollel Fellow in addition to being an expert dealer of antique sefarim, “but I tried it and it was fun. The place looked absolutely terrible, and I saw that nobody wanted to do it.” Mr. Mandel, who was asked by Agudah president Michael Fulda to take on the job, mostly worked alone until recently, when two teenaged volunteers, Moshe Cohen and Yaakov Weiskopf, began helping him. Yaakov’s father, Rabbi Mordechai Weiskopf, has managed the actual burial in years past.

Sheimos Logistics

Thousands of bags of sheimos are dropped off annually in the small alcove outside Harav Moshe Heinemann’s office. Since it is impossible to store them there, these bags are pushed through a laundry chute-like opening in the floor to be stored in a sizable room on a lower floor. When the room fills up, which has been every two years, it is time to bury the material in the Agudath Israel Cemetery. Selling and giving away the sheimos has alleviated the need to bury the tightly-packed room more frequently than that.

If you are over age 39 (Jack Benny’s permanent age) you have surely heard the tune “Enjoy Yourself.” It was composed by Carl Sigman and Herbert Magidson (Yidden, of course). The words of the first refrain go like this:

Enjoy yourself; it’s later than you think

Enjoy yourself while you’re still in the pink

The years go by as quickly as a wink

Enjoy yourself, enjoy yourself

It’s later than you think

At an early summer political dinner, I had the chance to meet Congressman Dr. Andy Harris. I wondered whether, instead of the usual handshake and two-minute back-and-forth that’s usual with people of his stature, he would he allow me more time to delve into his unique life story with a sit-down discussion? Happily, Congressman Harris was eager to oblige!

I met the personable “Americanophile” in the Longworth Office Building in Washington, D.C., on a humid, cloud-covered summer afternoon. Dr. Harris was kind enough to grant me the opportunity to hear who he is and what he stands for. While only a few Where What When readers may be represented by Dr. Harris in Maryland’s 1st Congressional District, we will nevertheless find his life story, ideology, and personal beliefs interesting. Certainly, his views on the issues are relevant to all voters in the upcoming midterm elections.

It’s 8:30 a.m. on a hot summer day, and a group of counselors holding bright posters wait to welcome children to camp. Suddenly a bus appears. Cheers burst out as the counselors jump up and down and crowd around to high-five and hug the campers as they arrive. The bus doors open, and the campers pile out with great big smiles. Now the day begins.

Horizon Day Camp is a special camp for children from all over Maryland and D.C. with cancer. Cancer is not exclusive to any religion, race, or nationality. It touches us all in one way or another. Children with cancer do not get many opportunities for fun and miss out on many activities. They are constantly being pricked and prodded. But once they arrive at Horizon, they enter a world where they are treated royally.

The English language serves as an ever-changing landscape where new words, abbreviations and expressions crop up on a yearly basis. In fact, Oxford adds approximately 1,000 new entries to the dictionary every year. Some new words like “froyo,” which is a synthesis of the words “frozen yogurt” are quite useful. “Froyo” saves you 50 percent of the syllables it took you to say the original two words, giving you more time to concentrate on deciding what flavor to order, while still maintaining a close resemblance to the etymology.

On the other hand, there are new words that are actually old words with new meanings, often leading to confusion. This is because they are used in completely unrelated contexts and have no bearing on the more commonly known usage. For example, “troll.” Now, I remember trolls when they were these unassuming, pot-bellied, plastic figures with dark beady eyes and a mop of hair that stood straight up in a triangular formation. The new meaning of troll is completely different. It means “to harass, criticize, or antagonize someone, especially by disparaging or mocking public statements.” There are of course other definitions of troll. (Look them up yourself, just as your English teacher taught you.) But either way, this new definition has gained ground and is becoming an acceptable household word.

When one refers to terminal illness, the first word that usually comes to mind is cancer, a frightening thought. But many cancers are not terminal, and illnesses such as emphysema and kidney or congestive heart failure may also, at times, be included in the realm of terminal illnesses.

When dealing with a family who has received the devastating news that their loved one – child, spouse, parent, or any other family member – has been diagnosed with a terminal illness, hope must never be taken away from them, as gloomy as the caring physician may paint the picture. We must be realistic, but we must also always be hopeful.

~When we hear about the opioid crisis, we think, “That has nothing to do with me.” Yet innocent people have become addicted, often through no fault of their own. Here’s a look at this uniquely American epidemic and a story of one frum woman who lived through it.    

The nurse was at my door, but I couldn’t even answer. I had been crying all morning, and when the doorbell rang for the third time, I knew I had to let her in or she’d leave. Once inside, she checked my vitals, but even though I was now in the presence of

The very mention of the word “Germany” brings on revulsion in me – not surprising for a child of survivors who was brought up with concentration camp stories at the dinner table. But the tour I was considering was being led by Dr. Shneyer Leiman, a professor of Jewish history, whose lectures have always enthralled me. He is a walking encyclopedia, with a dry sense of humor, who truly loves to share his erudition with others. Because of a “chance” meeting with another couple near Jerusalem, whom I had met on a tour that Dr. Leiman led in Lithuania, I hesitantly signed up at the last minute, becoming group member 13. It was going to be a small group.

This was my second visit to Germany. The first was just a short stopover, when I was returning to Israel from Austria via Munich. Now I would be spending 10 days in the land of the people who murdered my grandparents and uncles. What a comforting thought!