Considering the many members of various shul constituencies graduating from somewhere and/or into something else, this current publication of The Shofar truly could be titled the moving-on issue. Some of the young adults in the shul family, having successfully completed the required studies from various levels of schooling, are graduating and taking well-deserved pride in that milestone of achievement. And some of our elementary school-aged folks may now be moving into the summer program at our shul that, in some instances, may launch their more formal introduction to Jewish learning.        

          And what about the shul itself? This issue marks the graduation of Judith K. Weiner from three terms of compelling leadership as president of the shul, back into civilian life, if you will, a life she has indicated that will return her more closely to her family and to her passion to make art. By the same token, this writer is also a graduate — not from an academic institution worthy of a mention in this issue — no, those graduations are long past. In this case, graduation means into a position that speaks to the issues of the day — graduation and otherwise — the decisions consequential to the success of our shul.

As I think about graduations and their inspirational ceremonies so carefully choreographed, I am reminded of one that took place a long time ago. And yet, I remember it still and, more to the point, I remember a decision I made at that time, and why it matters now.

The speeches droned on, extolling the greatness of our class — our great strides, great achievements, great futures. I and the other tall women in the class had been relegated to the top tier of the bleachers, where we secretly enjoyed advantages over the petite seniors seated prominently in the front row. We could gossip, giggle, and generally act like the teenagers we were, even on this august occasion — our graduation from one of New Jersey’s finest high schools, we were assured.

As the ceremony inched forward, I found myself daydreaming on this sweaty June afternoon, held hostage in the late-day sun. The speechmakers were plotting the future; I was plotting ways to dump my tall, blond and blue-eyed boyfriend who, throughout my junior and senior years, had been, well, useful — a handsome escort to the prom and movie dates on Saturday nights. But I would be off to college in the fall, my sights on more far-reaching horizons.

So when my friend Carol whispered, “Let’s leave,” I was startled.

“Holy cow!” I said, glancing over my shoulder. “It’s a long way down.”

“Aw com’on. We’ll slip off the back and shinny down the brace. Are you coming or not?”

Admittedly, I was tempted. But then I thought of my mother and father and my big brother seated there in the stands, so proud of me, scanning the sea of 200 royal blue gowns and mortarboards for my grinning face.

Looking back, I’m glad I didn’t leave. I’m thankful I had the patience to sit through all the sermonizing, so filled with encouragement and promise, feeling as though maybe those words actually could be meaningful to me. And I remember standing as tall and as stately as I could when my name was called to collect my diploma.

To be sure, a lot has happened since that graduation, seemingly a lifetime ago — no doubt more than those speechifiers could have predicted, and certainly more than I could have imagined — that one then, so endowed with memories; this one here and now, so filled with expectation.

Nevertheless, I find it astounding that, given the decades that separate the two, the lessons that emerged then are just as applicable now: Sara, do your damnedest to merit the title “graduate,” assume with dignity and purpose the responsibilities you have inherited, and don’t disappoint those who have helped you aspire to it.

—Sara Bloom