Summary: <p> How do we think about Mother’s Day when our own mother has passed away? Even if we are blessed to have our mothers alive, how do we think about lots of joyful moments in the spring season when that joy belongs to other people, but not to us? </p> <p>How do we dance at somebody else’s adult child’s wedding when our own adult child is still looking?</p> <p>How do we feel joy for somebody else’s graduations when our own season of graduations is long gone, when young family energy is a distant memory?</p> <p>How do we attend a brit milah or baby naming for somebody else when there are no babies in our family?</p> <p>In our parched season, can we truly feel joy for somebody else? This is the question of the prophet Habakkuk in the Haftarah for Shavuot, second day:</p> <p> </p> <p><em> Though the fig tree does not bud</em></p> <p><em> And no yield is on the vine,</em></p> <p><em> Though the olive crop has failed</em></p> <p><em> And the fields produce no grain,</em></p> <p><em> Though sheep have vanished from the fold</em></p> <p><em> And no cattle are in the pen,</em></p> <p><em> Yet will I rejoice in the Lord,</em></p> <p><em> Exult in the God who delivers me. (3: 17-18)</em></p> <p> </p> <p>I have bolded the word Yet to highlight the question: how, in a down time, do we exult, do we feel joy, do we nevertheless sing? </p> <p>There is a Hebrew word to the rescue which we will discuss in Talmud tomorrow: firgun, which means to be genuinely happy for somebody else’s happiness. Firgun has been described as the opposite of Schaudenfreude. Firgun is such a spiritual challenge that there is no English equivalent. Can we do it? Are we capable of it? Can we nurture it within our own parched hearts?</p> <p> </p> <p>Happy Mother’s Day.</p> <p> </p>
