And on like this, and the rabbi

is laughing now like my grandfather would,

nodding and pointing, and every now and then

looking up at me.

I tell him how so many things

are just unexplained.

Do you know? he says,

his hand sliding across the counter

to the container full of spatulas.

He pulls one out and holds it up.

Once, in the desert, Moses

and his brother, they were in trouble.

They needed water,

so they begged for a miracle.

So he was given a staff

and told by Hashem to speak to a rock.

A rock! So do you think he

would go in front of all

those people and speak to a rock,

like he was supposed to do?

Would you, Ari? Talk to a rock?

No.

So he hit the rock instead,

because he was mad. Frustrated.

Have you ever wanted to hit something?

You know, when you are frustrated?

Well, you know what? Water came out, just like

he was promised, and all

those people got what they needed.

To them it was all a mystery:

a desert, a rock, then water

flowing through the tents,

children playing, animals drinking,

who knows. Unexplainable.

Moses, though, he knew better.

He did what he thought he had

to do to be the leader.

He knew the directions

but didn’t trust to simply follow them:

Speak. Not hit.

Don’t get mad,

trust the miracle

that he’d already

been given,

not bring doubt into it

or get frustrated because it’s

not the way he wanted it to happen,

or just to look strong or smart,

like he thought everyone else wanted him to.

So even though everyone else drank,

he didn’t get to drink at all.

Maybe, the rabbi says,

it’s as simple

as believing that

you don’t have to be

what others want you to be.

You can do the right thing

because your life

is already a miracle.

His voice glides through his beard.

I want to see you, Ari,

on your birthday. Do your

best to remember all you can.

Practice the prayers. Come see me.

We can get through this together.

He takes my hand,

rests his other hand

on top of Mysterious World.

This is a good book of mysteries.

Then he places a worn book on the counter,

the pages folded, strands of leather

hanging out.

This is also a book of mysteries.

I spend my life with it.

We are alike, Ari. You with your book,

me with mine. Let’s share these.

I am here, Ari,

if you want to call me,

if you want to tell me about Bigfeet,

or when you go to Muir Woods,

or little green men,

or you find something strange.

He lifts The Diet Book

off the counter,

looks at it, eyebrows raised,

pointed. He speaks without

looking away.

Whatever you are trying so hard to do

on the outside,

it’s who you are becoming