When my godfather and great-uncle Howard passed away in 2020, I had the honor of speaking at a memorial gathering for him that happened to occur in the midst of Sukkot. I wanted to take the opportunity to relate his remarkable life to the holiday, a Jewish celebration with which I was certain many in the hall that day were unfamiliar.
He had a huge personality. He was the consummate storyteller. A humorist. A world traveler. A summer camp drama specialist. A beloved special-needs teacher.
I explained that Sukkot is a holiday in which we celebrate the harvest and give thanks for our bounty while dwelling, at least symbolically, in a temporary shelter. I suggested that perhaps it is a reminder to enjoy all that life has to offer while we can, because we know that our own home here is fleeting.
My uncle was the complete embodiment of that idea: someone who soaked up every bit of the world’s beauty and joy during his time here. His was a life well-lived, leaving nothing on the table.
Since his passing, however, I’ve begun to think more expansively about what it means to give thanks for our harvest.
I’ve come to realize that our bounty is not only about what we receive but what we have the opportunity to give. My uncle’s dedication to teaching children with special needs wasn’t somehow separate from the world travel, the storytelling, the theater and everything else that brought him joy. It was all part of living a complete life.
That realization has been part of a shift in my own worldview: understanding that what we do for ourselves and what we do for others aren’t two separate pieces of our lives.
A ticket agent who helps me find seats for a concert I want to see and a nonprofit that enables me to achieve my vision of helping someone more vulnerable than I am are both, in very different ways, giving me opportunities for joy, meaning and fulfillment.
That realization feels particularly stark to me during what is now the fifth Sukkot since the full-scale invasion of Ukraine.
Earlier this year, I had the opportunity to visit Kyiv during the coldest part of winter and bear witness to people continuing to live under the onslaught of seemingly endless missile and drone attacks.
I met older adults with limited mobility living in fifth-floor walk-ups, their windows blown out and their heating systems damaged or destroyed. People who cannot run down five flights of stairs to a bomb shelter every time an air alert sounds and who instead huddle in hallways or on kitchen floors, praying that the next explosion does not send shattered glass flying through their homes.
These are people often living in the apartments where they raised their families, homes that in some cases were passed down to them by their own parents. Ukraine is the only home many of them have ever known.
As Tevye says in “Fiddler on the Roof,” when explaining why the people of Anatevka remain despite the danger: “We stay because Anatevka is our home.”
Piece by piece, we can create a canopy of care for people living through circumstances none of us would ever choose for ourselves.
And that brings me back to Sukkot. Because not all homes are intended to be temporary. Sukkot gives us an opportunity not only to contemplate the fleeting nature of our own shelter, but also the very real vulnerability of those for whom living in a home exposed to the elements is not an act of ritual observance, but a condition of genuine insecurity.
For those in Ukraine this High Holiday season, with another winter quickly approaching, the stakes are not symbolic. They are windows that keep out the cold. Heat that works. A room in which one can sleep without rain or snow entering through a damaged wall or ceiling.
At World Jewish Relief, this Sukkot and throughout the new Jewish year, we will be focused, as we have been since the beginning of the invasion, on repairing homes damaged by missile and drone attacks. Replacing windows. Restoring heating systems. Repairing roofs and walls.
And, in doing so, bringing some small measure of safety, security, peace and dignity to residents.
As we contemplate what a home means and give thanks for our own bounty, we should also think about our extended family in Ukraine, those whose homes are by no means intended to be temporary.
Through World Jewish Relief’s Ukraine Home Repairs program, an individual, family, congregation, organization or community can adopt a home, joining together to reach the $3,600 necessary for one home repair.
Perhaps that, too, is a way to think about Sukkot.
Each of us can place one piece of sechach on the roof. And together, piece by piece, we can create a canopy of care for people living through circumstances none of us would ever choose for ourselves.
Eight years ago, I traveled to visit the village from which my late Uncle Howard’s parents emigrated: Obodivka, Ukraine.
In the country from which so many Jewish families came, those who remain need us now more than ever. And perhaps one way to give thanks for the bounty we have received is to recognize the blessing inherent in being able to give something.
Because not all homes are intended to be temporary.
David Weisberg is the executive director of World Jewish Relief USA. A longtime Jewish communal leader, he previously served as a Federation CEO for 15 years. A writer, public speaker and liver donor, he is the author of “David’s Chopped Liver” and “Border Song.”
