A snapshot of how I felt 3 days after the murder of innocent people in Pittsburgh.

Tonight as I walked to the path, someone screamed in my direction “if you don’t believe Jesus was our savior, you are a walking zombie who is going to burn in hell.” I’ve heard this said to me so many times, for so many years, in so many different ways. Today, for the first time in 22 years, I felt scared for my safety. I sped up to stand next to the woman who had just yelled back at him thinking if I were close to her, she might protect me if he decided to do something to me. When I got to the station and I thought I might throw up. My vision got hazy and I began to weep. I stumbled down the subway stairs and landed on the platform. I stood there in a daze, looking around for somewhere to sit and catch my breath when I saw him. Standing there like a glimmering beacon of hope. A man. A short man. A short man with salt and pepper hair in a long black coat. A short man with salt and pepper hair in a long black coat, wearing a Kippah. A short man with salt and pepper hair in a long black coat, wearing a Kippah, reading his Siddur. Reading his Siddur in the middle of the station, for everyone to see. We were steps from the man who had just scared me so bad. My weeping quickly turned into sobbing. I went up to him and I thanked him. I couldn’t even express why I was thanking him, I just said the two words. “Thank you”. He understood what I meant. We stood next to each other for a while before he asked “are you okay”. I looked up and we met eyes for the first time. I said through tears “honestly I’m not okay. I’m scared.” His response: “don’t be scared, the anti-Semities remind us why being Jewish is so special.” We continued to chat all the way to Hoboken about a bunch of different things. He reminded me that this is our moment to be strong. To stand up even taller. To tirelessly fight for what we believe in. I will fight everyday for the rest of my life to make sure that man reading his Siddur on the subway tracks is safe to read his Siddur without having to feel scared. I can’t believe this is where we are right now.

This experience prompted me to return to my child hood synagogue. Here’s how that felt. (Nov. 3, 2018)

I went to Temple tonight. I think it was my first time there since my Bat Mitzvah. As I pulled up the familiar street, my mind flooded with memories. All memories that made me smile.
As I sat through the service, words I hadn’t sang in years came rushing through my head and out of my mouth. I remembered it all. Everything was the same. The service ended and the man next to me turned to me with a “shabbat shalom” and a handshake “you have a beautiful voice” he told me. “Don’t cry” I thought. “Shabbat Shalom, thank you so much” I said choking back tears. I walked out into the Hall and was met by the Rabbi. He walked over to me and put out his hand. I shook it and he asked “don’t I know you?” I told him he could have one guess as to who I was. He couldn’t. “Sarah Portney” I said. His face light up as his arms wrapped me in a warm hug. The same hug he gave me as he told me he was proud of me on my bat mitzvah day. We were excited to see each other. He told me I’m always welcomed. Then he walked me around to our cantor, his wife and our old hebrew school teacher each of whom he made guess who I was. Each one of them gave the same warm reaction. I chatted with Cantor Marcy and after a few exchanges she said “what happened, you just had to come home tonight?” “Don’t cry” I thought again. But she was right. I had to come home tonight. I expected some big sad speech from the Rabbi, but he didn’t do that. He reminded us that shabbat is a celebration, no matter what. A time to shed light on what’s dark. A time to reflect. I feel so lucky to be part of such a beautiful community. It sucks that something so terrible had to happen to remind me how much being Jewish has shaped who I am as a person, but I could not be more grateful for it. To many more shabbats and much more light