Hands and Feet of God

Bridging Divides and Reclaiming Our Shared Humanity in Troubling Times

As I write this, it’s been 365 days since the Hamas attack at the Nova Music Festival in Israel. Many Jews and interfaith Jewish families like ours distinctly remember that day, just as Americans can recall exactly where they were during the terrorist attacks on 9/11, twenty-three years ago. On 10/7 last year, I was pregnant and home alone with our son while Matt was on a work trip. I remember reading the news, shaking, and calling Matt. It felt like the Holocaust in 2024, and I was afraid. Very afraid.

Matt instructed me to take the mezuzah down from our front doorpost. I pushed back—not our mezuzah!—because to me, the mezuzah isn’t just a symbol of a Jewish household; it’s a sacred vessel containing a Hebrew prayer from Deuteronomy in the Old Testament:

You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your might. And these words which I command you today shall be upon your heart. You shall teach them diligently to your children, and shall talk of them when you sit in your house, and when you walk by the way, and when you lie down, and when you rise up...

Reflecting on the year after the attacks at the Nova Music Festival, I think about the hostages and consider my children. I want them to know that in America, we don’t tolerate shrinking to cowards and terrorists. We are brave, and we are free. So, in honor of the men in my family who have fought for our country and the wives who stood beside them, the lives lost at the festival, and the hostages still in Gaza, I’ve placed our mezuzah back on our door frame.

While I’m not personally Jewish, there’s another reason I love our mezuzah on the door frame...

In the aftermath of the recent hurricane disasters, as many of you know, I’ve been spearheading relief recovery for families in dire need in two separate communities—Chimney Rock, NC, and St. Pete Beach, FL. Much of that effort involves raising money and gathering items donated by all of you for essential supplies for good people who have lost everything: houses, cars, wedding albums, family heirlooms—all gone. In collecting essentials for others, piled high in my foyer and living room, I’m forced to take stock of my own essentials. What are my needs? What excess can we give? And how can I continue to serve?

As I reflect on what I have to offer—resources and money, time, organization, hope and prayers, expertise, and friendship—I think about how many of you contributed to this effort.

And you know what’s interesting about how we’re giving and serving, especially during times like these? We’re blurring the lines of division in our country and coming together with a common goal: to help. That’s what America used to be. We used to be Americans. (Please do not fact-check this. I love to wax nostalgic.) Now, we’re Republicans or Democrats. (Or Jews or Palestinians. You get the idea.) And if you’re one, you might easily be in cahoots with the other.

“No, the Josephs are not invited to our Christmas party. Did you see the sign in their front yard?!”

With all the election hubbub and wars, I wonder if we can hold our differing beliefs sacred—whether political or religious, written on signs in our gardens or hanging on our front doors—and not tear each other down. I know we can, because I’ve seen it happen in the last two weeks of spearheading disaster relief.

I’ve witnessed people and families being incredibly generous, not expecting anything in return, giving to others as if they were family. My living room and foyer are piled high with donations from people who will vote for Trump, Harris, and neither. Christians, Jews, Buddhists, Not-sure-ists, a mix-of-this-and-that-ists. Military families. Billionaires and people living paycheck to paycheck. None of these donations came with strings attached. No one wanted to sway your vote or influence the way you pray or where you worship. My sister-in-law’s rabbi from NJ (Hello!) sent boxes of essentials that eventually found their way to rural Appalachian Baptist and Methodist families in dire need. All these donations came from the heart, unconditionally. Because at the end of the day, there is a thread that connects us all.

This is the silver lining—if there could ever be one—in devastating tragedies.

Regardless of our beliefs, we can apply the same giving and tolerant mentality we’ve championed over the past few weeks to support devastated communities and continue to reach out to help one another, even after the storm settles, even with differing beliefs, and when today’s news becomes old news.

365 days after the attacks on the Nova Music Festival, I’m handing my baby off to friends and family to pick up boxes to load into relief vans heading to WNC. As I cross through the threshold of my front door with another box full of essentials, I say to myself, “Hands and feet of God.” I’m grateful to have our mezuzah back on our door frame. It’s a beautiful reminder that serving others is a moving prayer—a way I can be part of something greater than myself.

When I walk out the door to serve, I look at it and am reminded: I am American. I am free. I am brave. And to serve others is to be the hands and feet of God.

In times when division feels almost nauseating and exhausting, I’m asking you to be brave enough to blur the lines—not only in times of crisis. Reach across party lines or religious boundaries, and hold it sacred in your heart that, at the end of the day, we may have differing beliefs, but we are all—well, most of my readers—Americans. Land of the free, home of the brave. The thread that connects us all.