Exercise is a topic that arouses passions, either positive or negative.

For enthusiastic exercisers, it is the highlight of their life. “I found a beautiful trail near my house, and I go there to walk and run a few times a week,” said Dovid. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything. It clears my head and makes me feel great. I am always surprised that there is no one else on the trail.”

Then there are people like my friend Sara, who says, “The only exercise I do is jumping to conclusions.” For these non-exercisers, it is uncomfortable to even talk about exercise, something they know they should be doing but don’t.

Recently, a small business owner contacted me for advice. He said, “I understand that you are an industrial psychologist and you work in the nonprofit and for-profit sectors.” I asked him how I might be of assistance. The gentleman went on to describe the numerous problems he has with his current employees. I asked him about his former employees, and he said that they were mostly unmotivated, ungrateful people who used him and then either quit or he had to fire them. I asked what prompted him to call me. He said, “I want you to help me fix the problem. I need you

Recently my father was in the hospital for a couple of weeks. That drew my attention to the nurses who care for those who must spend time in the hospital. It was inspiring to meet people who dedicate their lives to caring for others at their most vulnerable time. It is not easy or pleasant work. The nurses I saw were on their feet all the time, responsible for many patients, and dealing with life and death situations. We had a WellTab tablet for my father, so I could see the nurses coming in and out of the room even when I wasn’t able to be with my father.

Another thing I noticed through the WellTab was that you could tell immediately which of the nurses were part of our community. The way they dress – in skirts, covering their hair, and with long sleeves – is different and unique and makes them stand out from the other staff.

Diego Rivera,* the owner of a popular 7-11 was having a regular long spring day when, all of a sudden, the doors to his convenience store were flung open, warm air rushing behind. It was a young man who seemed agitated while trying to appear calm, cool, and collected. Decked out in a suit, white shirt, shined shoes, and tie, the young man came running in asking for assistance.

by Malka Katz

 My rabbi was always talking about how important it is for families to celebrate Pesach together at home, so it was hard to believe when he told us, “Get away for Pesach.” I knew why. For several years, my husband had been on a heavy regimen of chemotherapy and radiation, and we needed a rest. Although feeling guilty for leaving family, I booked a modest hotel in Miami run by dear friends and looked forward to a relaxing week. By the end of Pesach, we had gained more than that.

I got up in the middle of the night and noticed it was 3:30 a.m. For those of you who don’t know, this getting up at night business is a middle-aged thing. I went back to bed and couldn’t fall back to sleep – also not uncommon in my stage of life. It didn’t matter how tired I was or that I tried my usual mind-clearing, deep-breathing and muscle-relaxing techniques. Nothing seemed to work as 3:30 turned into 4:30 then 5:00. Once I realized that sleep wasn’t in the cards, I allowed my mind to wander and thought about my plans for when the sun finally came up. But until it did, I didn’t want to get up and wasn’t in the mood to start the laundry or put up a pot of chicken soup.

My first professional position in Jewish communal work was as the Youth and Education director in an “out-of-town” community, Wilmington Delaware. My wife Arleeta and I arrived with our one-year-old son Doniel in July of 1969. We were excited to take up a new and exciting challenge. Wilmington had a very small Jewish community, and we barely had a minyan of shomer Shabbos Jews.

A few days after we moved into our lovely apartment, the elderly chazan of the one and only OINO (Orthodox-in-name-only) shul asked if I’d join him in the shul’s kitchen for tea. The chazan was an ehrliche Yid from “de heim.” He had made it to the U.S. before the war and found work in Wilmington as a shochet and cantor. He was an old-school Jew who preferred Yiddish to English.

Kiryat Sefer, Modi’in Illit

I entirely identify myself as part of the Israeli chareidi community. I am also an immigrant from the U.S. and am identified as such as well. I first came here to learn in yeshiva only after getting a college degree.

My rebbe told me in the name of Rav Hutner, zt”l, that all immigrants to Eretz Yisrael are a “transition generation.” We decided to go through a transition from the way we grew up into a different kind of life that we now wish to lead. This is not to say that we grew up with anything inherently “bad”; we just want something else for our children. We want them to be sheltered from what we were exposed to in the “old country.” We want to give them the opportunity to grow to greater spiritual heights than we were able to obtain.

Many of you reading this article know me. After all, I grew up in Baltimore and spent my whole life here. Some of you know me as a businessman, with a 40-year career in specialty foods. Others know me from my articles in the Where What When or as a trustee of Baltimore’s wonderful Ahavas Yisrael Charity Fund. What many of you may not know is my profound attachment to music and especially to my guitar. Let me tell you the story.

Tzivia stepped back and examined her work. Perfect. A big picture of the Chazon Ish was now hanging in her living room – her living room! Wouldn’t Moishy Herman be impressed. She picked up Mom’s abstract painting, “Desert Winds,” now sitting forlornly on the side and gently placed it behind the couch.