The other day, I saw a man begging for change in front of Macy’s Union Square. His feet were bare and bleeding, his face smudged with dirt. People carrying shopping bags and briefcases passed him on the street without a second glance, as if he was no more important than the garbage can he leaned against.
My heart hurt for this man. But I too walked passed him, sipped my iced coffee and pushed the despair out of my mind.
I see homeless people every day. If you work downtown, you probably do too. When I first moved to San Francisco two years ago, I would see them and physically feel sick. Now my heart is callused. I see them. I feel sad. I continue walking. The homeless blend in with the city’s scenery.
I read newspapers daily. I’m troubled by Internet headlines about murder, poverty, anguish, war, famine and disease. But after more than a decade as a news junkie and journalist, any variation of “Man shot …” reads like old news. The sorrow I feel is momentary.
Such is the world we bring our children into.
Well, not me, personally, since I don’t have any, nor do I feel old enough to bear children. But my friends now are having kids — a stunning realization that has occurred twice this year, most recently last month, when I received an Evite to a brit milah for my friend Loal’s son, Jonah.
Jonah Wilhite Isaacs entered the world June 10 at a healthy 9 pounds, 7 ounces. Eight days later, I arrived at Loal and Wendy Isaacs’ Concord home for Jonah’s brit milah.
Nearly 50 guests attended the family-room ceremony. We listened as Wendy and Loal explained to their friends and relatives the history of the brit milah, which is the formal recognition of the partnership between Jews and God in general, and between the baby boy and God in particular. It’s the oldest continually practiced ritual in the world.
The circumcision was actually very short. Jonah cried for only a moment when moyel Mark Rubenstein, a retired pediatrician, carried out the procedure.
“When we met Mark, he said the actual circumcision was a minor part and that welcoming the child in a proper way was the most important part. We totally agreed with that,” Loal later told me. “I wanted it to be a celebration, a welcome home party with meaning.”
Loal and Wendy succeeded. The readings, responsive and otherwise, focused on the miracle of creation, and on Jonah’s potential to bring joy and light to his family, community, the Jewish people and the world.
“How amazing,” said my friend Jess, “to bring your child into the world surrounded by so much love.”
Later in the evening, when the crowd dwindled, I pleaded to hold Jonah. He felt like a doll in my arms. I wanted to photograph and frame his perfect toes and feet, those tiny appendages that will one day take him to amazing places.
Our planet spins on an axis of contradictions. A crowded family room in the East Bay celebrates a new life with champagne and frosted cake, while over the bridge or across the globe, others wander alone.
I feel discouraged by what’s wrong in the world every time I read a newspaper or a sign asking for spare change. This is daily.
But the brit milah — like so many Jewish rituals — filled me with optimism and even an objective. The Isaacs’ ceremony pointed out that the responsibility of sustaining life does not belong only to those who create it.
“He brings blessing to our lives, as he reminds us that the world is not yet complete. We each share in the task of perfecting this world” was one passage from the ceremony.
May we all take that advice to heart. Because while it might be a big, bad world in which we live, it is also beautiful. Let’s make it more beautiful, together.
Welcome to the world, Jonah.
Stacey Palevsky lives in San Francisco. She can be reached at [email protected].