“Would a thinking human being drive on the Baltimore beltway?” asked a neighbor. “Would a non-gambler gamble?” was the response. Sometimes, however, “ehn brerah” (there is no choice). Whenever my vibel Shirley joins me for a trip involving the use of the beltway (aka as Route 695), her reaction shifts from panic to near hysteria. Nu, she’s right! Let me explain.

To enter the beltway you must increase the speed of your car from 40 miles per hour to 60 mph within a few seconds! This feat is accomplished on a narrow ramp leading to this raging river of cars, and as you enter, approaching vehicles keep you from moving into any space. The average speed on the Beltway is about 70 miles per hour. It is therefore in your best interest to have patience and wait for the traffic to ease up, when you will have a few seconds to act or to vehr tsuzetst (go bananas) waiting for the next opportunity to enter the race course.

So here we are, back at school, with excitement and dread all mixed together. As parents, we begin the year (not unlike the children) hoping for a teacher who’s a “match” for our child and will create the setting for healthy growth and learning. We daven for our child to be successful, to keep up with the work, and to feel socially and academically adept. And, as always, we think about the optimum ways to help this happen: How can we become a true partner in our child’s education? What happens if we have concerns? Is it best to keep quiet and hope things work out by themselves? Or is it better to be proactive? Is there a “best way” to advocate for our children?

As I walked out of my apartment in Queens, I was struck by the beauty of the cloudless and sunny Tuesday morning. Normally, I took the bus or subway to work. Both would drop me off right in front of the vast bustling World Trade Center Plaza around 8:45 a.m. I would then walk across the Plaza to my office in the World Financial Center, directly across the street from the World Trade Center Towers, and arrive at my desk slightly before 9:00 a.m. That particular Tuesday morning, I decided to hop on an express bus to the World Trade Center. The clear skies made the express bus an attractive commuting option, since there was no rain in the forecast. I had scheduled my first meeting for 9:30, rather than 9:00 since the recitation of selichos at shul that morning would slightly delay my arrival at the office.

We are all familiar with the statement of Chazal that finding one’s shidduch is as difficult as splitting the Yam Suf (Red Sea) (Sanhedrin 22a). A similar statement is made about parnassa (livelihood) (Pesachim 118a). I recently heard an interesting explanation of this that has relevance for eating issues as well.

The Chofetz Chaim Heritage Foundation distributes a set of CDs on emuna (faith) that have a collection of Rabbi David Ashear’s short talks on this topic. Rabbi Ashear attributes the following understanding to Rabbi Pesach Eliyahu Falk of Gateshead.

What is the difference between splitting the sea and splitting a thick wood board, for example? Once the board is split, it stays split and has no tendency to come back together. However, when water is split, as great as that miracle is, constant effort is required to keep the water split. There is a natural tendency for the water to recombine that has to be combated.

Last Purim, when Tom and Gloria Golbert of Princeton, New Jersey, came to their daughter and son-in-law’s Purim seudah in Long Island, they did not know that they were about to experience their own personal Purim miracle.

“If I were a good mother, I would have been in the kitchen helping my daughter; instead, I stretched out on the couch and picked up a magazine on the coffee table,” relates Gloria. “It turned out to be Jewish Action, and as I was idly thumbing through it, it almost opened itself up to page 36, where I saw the words, ‘Peretz Scheinerman,’ and I shouted, ‘That’s my great-uncle!!’”

Gloria, was so excited to see the article, “Unbroken Faith: American Jewish Families Who Defied the Odds” [Spring 5776/2016] that she immediately contacted her children. When she spoke to her son, Bob, who lives in England, he told her, “Mom, I can’t believe this! I have never seen or heard of Jewish Action, but today it was in my mailbox. I saw the article and said to myself, Peretz Scheinerman is my great-great uncle!”

Any hospital stay, especially an unexpected one, can be a time of great stress. It’s bad enough that you are not feeling well and are stuck in this strange place rather than at home, where you are comfortable. On top of that is the vulnerability you or your family experience by not being sure of the outcome of this episode. Unfamiliarity with the health care staff, who are (hopefully) attending to your needs, creates another layer of anxiety. It’s confusing to even know “who’s who.” Is this person entering the room a PA? Intern? Resident? Nurse? Doctor? Mickey Mouse? (If you see Mickey Mouse, you may need an adjustment to your medications.) Even when you feel you are receiving excellent treatment, it is obvious you are not the only patient your doctor or nurse needs to tend to, and understaffing can be a problem.

Once upon a time – going back to the 13th century, actually – the word diet meant much more than the food we consume. It derived from the Greek word diaita, which signified a way of life that comprised not just food but the entire gamut of healthy living, including exercise and other healthy habits. Fast forward to the 21st century, when the word diet is more popularly used as a verb and now typically refers more to the foods we don’t eat than those we do. How did this happen, what are its implications, and how can we change this mindset?

Unlike in our grandparents’ time, we live today in an age of excess, in which food is all around us all the time. We eat more and move less. And so we gain weight, plain and simple. To reverse the effects of weight gain, we occasionally restrict our food, until we lose some weight. We either meet goal or give up. Either way, we eventually resume our “normal” mode of eating, and the weight we lost soon returns, often in spades. And the cycle inevitably resumes, so that dieting becomes a yo-yo activity with no end in sight.

When I think of Netanya, my mind’s eye goes straight to its beautiful beach. The blue sky, warm sand, sparkling water, and, of course, the waves – crashing against the shore one after the other, each one in harmony with the next but coming in at a different angle. Recently, I had the privilege of spending Shabbos with a most incredible family in Netanya. Similar to the waves of the ocean, the Lehman family has found a home in the welcoming community of Netanya, yet remain distinct.

I meet Dina Lehman by the boardwalk on erev Shabbos. I assume she frequents the beach quite often, but she laughs and says, “People have to bring me out.” When the grandchildren visit, she enjoys the ocean’s beauty with them, but life is busy, and she doesn’t always have the time to relax by the beach. As we sit on a shaded bench next to the boardwalk, with paragliders cruising along the cliff line like giant kites, Dina shares her aliyah story.

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This is not the sort of article I normally write. It’s an opinion piece. I’ve got something to say and there’s not a lot of time, so I’m just going to say it: Vote Trump and feel good about it.

For me, living as I do in Israel, there is only one issue. I judge an American presidential candidate based on how I think he will behave towards Israel. (For those who think that is a parochial view, hang on until this article’s conclusion.) As far as I am concerned, America has not done too well on that score for quite a while. Today, when Israel builds five new buildings for Jews in Jerusalem, the American secretary of state calls up Israel’s prime minister and yells at him for 45 minutes. I want that to change.