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This is always a great honor, to stand under a chuppah, the traditional Jewish marriage canopy, and look into the eyes of two people who love each other and bless their marriage.

It took falling in love with Mary to know that I wanted to receive that wedding blessing, to be under that same chuppah standing beside her.

I wanted to celebrate the shelter I had found with Mary and our growing family. I wanted to invite others into the openness of our chuppah, to hold the poles, to support our couple-hood and dance circles around us.

Mary said we should throw exactly the wedding we want and then suggested the following Saturday for a full wedding but with a handful of guests.

This is too much. We need a florist, a videographer, a reception room and a space to hold a ceremony. How can we hire a photographer on such short notice?

And what are we going to wear? We have to plan a ceremony and send out invitations and find two maids of honor, Mary. While I was worrying myself to the point of paralysis, Mary calmly took out a notebook and began planning our wedding that was to take place in six days.

Nobody is going to fly across the country with six days notice, Mary. You gotta call my parents. They usually plan their travel 6 or 8 months in advance and they might not be able to come.

She is totally ignoring me. But, to be fair, she ignores me with love. I asked her again to please call my parents and tell them we were getting married the following Saturday night.

I get it. I called Mary on the ride into the city. How was your Dad about the whole thing? Is everyone freaking out? Again, the message was clear.

Other people were more excited about this wedding than I was. I was too exhausted to be excited.

I was still fighting. I simply. Mary worked on the details while I wandered the streets of New York working on my attitude. But I was also on the phone planning the ceremony with our friend Judy, receiving messages via well-wishers, getting with the program.

It was all happening. I can remember the conversation when we chose the song for our first dance as wife and wife. I was standing in front of a deli on Madison avenue, talking to Mary, staring at the food and people on the inside.

In fact every time I talked to Mary who was still producing a daily, one hour talk show that same week while planning everything, she would remind me of my own words, words I had confidently spoken to loving couples underneath chuppim over the past few months.

Free to take that first step into an unknown future. Free to cross waters that might not even part for us. This is us, in love, taking that first step, made even bigger and more meaningful by the marching and loving and.

Who have given us permission to stand on their shoulders and see farther than they ever imagined. Before we even took off, I had already told the flight attendant about our plans to marry.

Later, he brought me a glass of champagne and toasted our marriage. I never drank champagne on an airplane before, but today was a new day.

And the more I told people about it, the more it dawned on me that I had become a joyful bride to be. Details shmeetails. I win! The day before the wedding, I ran to the lumber-yard in Santa Monica to purchase four plain, wooden chuppah poles.

Then I raced to Sears and bought a flat sheet and some fabric markers. In the last couple of years, our family has gotten to know a homeless woman named Amy who stands at the corner of PCH and Sunset every morning, asking drivers for food.

She has 12 grandchildren. She has a sweet tooth. She wants to get back into the good graces of her family. Sitting at the light, staring at sparkling waves in front of me, I started to believe it myself.

Maybe she IS somewhere better than this place. Maybe her family HAS found her. Make sure she gets it before Christmas! But of course I was dubious.

I figured the guy would eat the food, drink the water and toss the rest. I know how these homeless people operate.

Cut to yesterday. She popped up from the sidewalk where she was sitting with her little dog and another woman who was wrapped in a blanket and ran to me.

He gave me the bag. Tell her I got the bag. She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a brown imitation leather wallet.

Inside, I saw one or two dollar bills and nothing much else but then she pulled out a worn, graying piece of white paper that looked like it had been hidden in there for years.

She unfolded it and showed it to me. May I take a picture to show her? I love that little girl of yours. She removed the enormous sunglasses that have been hiding her tired eyes since the day we met and clutched my forearm.

I was blessed to witness these milestones for seven years and in that time learned much from the students, their families and my Rabbi.

At every Bar or Bat Mitzvah, before the Torah reading, it was the custom at our shul that the Rabbi line up the family and pass the Torah through the generations, from grandparents to parents, ultimately handing the Torah into the capable arms of its youngest recipient.

Before the Rabbi even brought the Torah to the front of the bima, the sight of the family alone would bring the congregation to tears.

I would stand to the side and play softly on my guitar and the family would just kvell. It all seemed perfect and right.

So many interfaith families belonged to the temple that watching the rabbi withhold the Torah from a non-Jewish parent became a familiar sight.

The more it happened, the sadder I became. I remember on more than one occasion seeing the Torah withheld from a non-Jewish parent despite the fact that this non-Jew was the only person making sure the child even went to religious school!

Sister Mary Benedict was a woman of service, tending to the most needy people in New York City in the late s. Mary and I met eleven years ago, brought together by mutual friends.

We did not meet on JDate. We did not meet at the college hillel. We never went on an Israel trip together.

We did not then and do not now work in similar fields. On the surface, we are pushing completely different agendas. However, we are on the same page where it counts—being mothers, trying to be of service and share our blessings, and being role models especially for people struggling to come out.

Growing up, I never imagined I would marry a non-Jew but here we most thankfully are, legally married with two daughters, two dogs, a mortgage and a hamster.

Like my sister who is married to a Jewish man, I would have loved to have gotten married in front of friends and family instead of frantically racing to do it six days before the presidential election, fearful of Prop 8 passing and denying us the chance to marry legally.

I would have loved all of this the way many of those non-Jewish Bar and Bat Mitzvah parents wanted to embrace the Torah but were not allowed to fully participate in the ritual.

We like that. Reconstructionist Judaism defines itself by being a movement that opens its doors to everyone. As I perform and teach in Jewish settings around the world on so many weekends, it is usually Mary who takes Sarah to Religious School and it is Mary who picks her up.

It is Mary who insists on us going to services even when I am so happy to have a Friday night without work and in town. It is Mary who fills our car with food for collection at the Temple.

In truth, it is often Mary, my Catholic wife, who carries the weight of our Jewish family life and she does it with grace and love.

A few years back on Simchat Torah, the festive celebration marking the conclusion of the cycle of Torah readings, Mary and I spent the evening dancing, singing, reading and celebrating the Torah at our shul.

The celebration went on and on, like the Torah itself, without end. I have been dancing and wrestling with the Torah for my entire life, so when the Rabbi placed a Torah in my arms and circles upon circles began dancing around me, it was a very familiar feeling.

I could barely breathe. Within moments I began to sob. Mary held on to the Torah as we held her in the middle of our circle of dancing and singing.

I lowered my head and wrapped my tallit tightly around myself as my tears formed a small pool on the sanctuary floor. Concerned someone might slip, I wiped them into the wooden floor, back and forth with the sole of my shoe until they were gone.

When we include those who might not be Jewish but who nevertheless help us to move our faith forward, we are better. My tears have long dried since that night, but in the most important ways they are still there, along with the tears of our ancestors, sealed into the hardwood floor of our faith.

I pray for a time when we all feel free to sing a new song, to hold the Torah close to our hearts, to dance on our tears with nothing but joy. I met David Garber in while moving into a one bedroom apartment on the corner of 2nd and Idaho in Santa Monica.

I was alone, and I made the mistake of loading my arms with way too many cassette racks, hauling them from my car to the elevator, straining my back and nearly dropping them all onto the cement floor of the parking garage.

Like an angel, Dave Garber showed up, introduced himself and took the entire weight of those cassette racks off my hands. I watched his eyes fill with tears.

There goes another casualty in my very real war on straight men, I thought. But he seemed like a nice guy. Turns out he was a very nice guy. The nicest, in fact.

I was reeling from a break-up, cursing the fact that I had to move to a new place and start over again, but that day, after meeting Garber for the first time I knew I was going to be OK.

It was a beautiful beach day. I tell you, he helped me move my stuff upstairs until my car was empty.

The answer: Dave Garber. It turned out my keys fit the lock to the apartment right across the hall from his. Within days OK, minutes we were a sitcom in search of a network.

I became his Mary Richards and he became my Rhoda Morgenstern. It was as if we needed to find each other. I had healing to do, and so did he.

We lived in that corner together, our doors wide open, our circles of friends intertwining, our lives becoming inextricably linked, for years.

We shared meals together, went to afternoon movies, watched Six Feet Under and The Sopranos together, borrowed books and music from each other, and talked and laughed through everything together.

I critiqued every woman that crossed his threshold and took no prisoners. I could go on and on about Garber. How well-read, even tempered and insightful he is.

How kind he is to my family. How optimistic and interested he is. How he can talk to just about anyone about anything.

He was the first one at the hospital for the birth of our daughters. When he visits our house, he never tries to wake me up when I fall asleep in my TV chair after dinner.

Back in the day and on more than a few occasions he woke up early, sometimes after working until 3AM to answer the door wearing only a bathrobe or, if I was lucky, only the sports pages just to let me hang out on his couch, watch TV and do the crossword puzzle.

And when the time came, back in , he lovingly steered me in the direction of Mary Connelly who is now my wife. She gained a husband in all of this, too, ya know.

A few months ago, Garber left his full time job to volunteer for the Obama campaign in Nevada. Is there a worse place to be walking the streets, canvassing, ringing doorbells, standing outside grocery stores, registering voters than in the state of Nevada between June and November?

Could the volunteer job be any more thankless? Just imagine the difficulty of all of it? Uprooting, volunteering, not knowing whether it will all pay off.

Would YOU do it? But were we surprised when Garber told us he was packing up, paying his own way and heading to Nevada to help turn the state blue for Obama?

Not in the least. David and I talk every couple of days. He has no idea of what is going on in the news, the polls, and he rarely sees the divisive, unimportant political posts that all of us are guilty of sharing from time to time.

He works 14 hours a day with a water bottle in one hand and a pen and clipboard in the other, registering voters, He falls asleep every night in a tiny rented room with a shower curtain for a wall that he has to pay for himself.

I find myself tearing up when I think of the hard work he is doing on our behalf. This morning, Mary and I took a Shabbat family walk through this neighborhood we love so much.

Two dogs, two daughters, two moms, meeting friends on the way, laughing it up, enjoying the ocean breeze and sunshine. I thank God for the freedom Mary and I have, for the peace we find here, for the future we want to provide for our girls, for everything we have and all of the progress that has been made in our lifetime.

When we got home, the phone rang. It was Garber calling from Nevada. I actually think I heard the sound of glitter falling around him.

Enough already. I do miss him terribly. I miss our lunches at Real Food Daily and our 6 mile walks and how he fits so nicely into our family.

Who pitches in like this, I asked myself as I hung up the phone. The answer will always be the same: Dave Garber. As an economist by degree, a mother, a Jew, a lesbian and a former Massachusetts resident, it is beyond clear to me that Mitt Romney is in no way a better alternative to what we have in place right now to become the next president.

This is also clear to the GOP as well. The next president will make decisions on taxes. Romney has promised to keep in place the Bush tax cuts that have so devastated this country and have made the rich isolated, self-serving and protective of their wealth and unwilling to part with any of it no matter how this country is sinking into financial ruin.

Along with two unpaid for wars, extending those tax cuts will continue to lead us faster and further towards economic collapse. And how about a transvaginal ultrasound for the road?

The next president will have to serve as a leader and inspiration to the new, growing majority in this country who are non-white, as well as the majority of non-males, all who have been historically marginalized and demonized by power driven elected officials and their constituents.

The next President cannot be gaffe prone and brazenly inaccurate in front of people who too often appear to celebrate their own ignorance.

He must raise the level of discussion and not blow with the wind as Romney has demonstrated he does with great consistency. The next President must have some kind of a connection to the middle class—which at this point Romney does not—and at the very least APPEAR to care about the poorest and most vulnerable in our midst—which he also does not.

He often becomes tongue-tied and laughs nervously around these topics—huge red flags. Did the Democrats invent these laws and prohibitions?

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Are you Julie Silver? He blessed our Thanksgiving meal with wisdom and grace. He gave my wife and me a marriage blessing underneath the chuppah.

He was pure love. I will never forget this man who raised my wife to be kind, generous, to love her life, and I know exactly why Mary says yes when the world says no.

The sun has barely risen here in the Palisades, and I am looking out over the dark Pacific Ocean, Sally snoring, nestled at my feet, the tea kettle just beginning to whistle.

I am so overwhelmed with emotion that I had to write something, anything, that will help me order and clear my thoughts. I rented a car and checked into my hotel—nothing new.

My concert at Temple Beth Am was booked a year ago, so you can imagine how good I was feeling that the weekend had finally arrived.

Unfortunately and mysteriously, I woke up the next morning and the room was spinning. The floor was actually crawling up the wall right in front of me.

Within minutes I became so violently ill I thought I was going to die, right there, alone in a Miami hotel room. In a flash of clear thinking right there on the bathroom floor I realized: I have friends in Miami.

I managed to find my cell phone by crawling to my backpack and called Rachelle Nelson. She arrived within minutes carrying every over-the-counter medicine under the sun and 10 bottles of assorted beverages.

She called doctors, sang to me, wiped my face with a cool cloth and sat with me until Karen Bookman Sobel arrived to take me to the emergency room.

I barely remember any of this I was so nauseous but I do know that Karen made sure I got fast-tracked at the hospital.

She told me stories about her sons and her travels and she made me laugh. The nurses were wonderful. Finally I was able to sit upright.

Susan stayed with me for the rest of the day. Unbelievably, I was able to do the show later that night. And I was able to sing the next morning.

After 25 years, this community reminds me every minute of every day that I am not alone no matter where I am in the world.

I tell you, angels are everywhere. They drop in unexpectedly. They change the scene. We had just put our almost 4 year old daughter Sarah down for the night and I was getting ready to fly to New York early the next morning.

It was election season, an exciting one, and the country was on the verge of electing its first black president. That said, the mood in our home was mixed.

California would soon vote against marriage equality and loving couples throughout the state would once again be citizens in an America that would seek to criminalize our behavior, or at best, marginalize us as deviants.

We muted the TV but we heard the message loud and clear anyway: California is gay enough. Gay teachers will make gay students and gay parents make gay babies.

Mary and I looked at each other in gay silence. Sarah was fast asleep, dreaming in the next room. This was it.

We decided at that very moment to get married while we were still legally allowed to do so. When marriage equality was finally made legal in California, Mary and I had planned to get married in July of on Cape Cod.

We had a guest list of almost people and wanted to make it easier for everyone by holding the ceremony on the east coast where most of our family lives.

We were excited to throw a big wedding. We loved each other and we wanted to stand up for it, in front of the world, our world.

This was not to be. For the months leading up to the vote on Prop 8, I was consumed with anger knowing that the validity of my marriage would be voted on by the public.

Meanwhile, our gay and lesbian friends were getting married in droves. In many instances, I was officiating at these weddings. This is always a great honor, to stand under a chuppah, the traditional Jewish marriage canopy, and look into the eyes of two people who love each other and bless their marriage.

It took falling in love with Mary to know that I wanted to receive that wedding blessing, to be under that same chuppah standing beside her.

I wanted to celebrate the shelter I had found with Mary and our growing family. I wanted to invite others into the openness of our chuppah, to hold the poles, to support our couple-hood and dance circles around us.

Mary said we should throw exactly the wedding we want and then suggested the following Saturday for a full wedding but with a handful of guests.

This is too much. We need a florist, a videographer, a reception room and a space to hold a ceremony. How can we hire a photographer on such short notice?

And what are we going to wear? We have to plan a ceremony and send out invitations and find two maids of honor, Mary. While I was worrying myself to the point of paralysis, Mary calmly took out a notebook and began planning our wedding that was to take place in six days.

Nobody is going to fly across the country with six days notice, Mary. You gotta call my parents. They usually plan their travel 6 or 8 months in advance and they might not be able to come.

She is totally ignoring me. But, to be fair, she ignores me with love. I asked her again to please call my parents and tell them we were getting married the following Saturday night.

I get it. I called Mary on the ride into the city. How was your Dad about the whole thing? Is everyone freaking out? Again, the message was clear.

Other people were more excited about this wedding than I was. I was too exhausted to be excited. I was still fighting. I simply. Mary worked on the details while I wandered the streets of New York working on my attitude.

But I was also on the phone planning the ceremony with our friend Judy, receiving messages via well-wishers, getting with the program.

It was all happening. I can remember the conversation when we chose the song for our first dance as wife and wife. I was standing in front of a deli on Madison avenue, talking to Mary, staring at the food and people on the inside.

In fact every time I talked to Mary who was still producing a daily, one hour talk show that same week while planning everything, she would remind me of my own words, words I had confidently spoken to loving couples underneath chuppim over the past few months.

Free to take that first step into an unknown future. Free to cross waters that might not even part for us.

This is us, in love, taking that first step, made even bigger and more meaningful by the marching and loving and.

Who have given us permission to stand on their shoulders and see farther than they ever imagined. Before we even took off, I had already told the flight attendant about our plans to marry.

Later, he brought me a glass of champagne and toasted our marriage. I never drank champagne on an airplane before, but today was a new day. And the more I told people about it, the more it dawned on me that I had become a joyful bride to be.

Details shmeetails. I win! The day before the wedding, I ran to the lumber-yard in Santa Monica to purchase four plain, wooden chuppah poles.

Then I raced to Sears and bought a flat sheet and some fabric markers. In the last couple of years, our family has gotten to know a homeless woman named Amy who stands at the corner of PCH and Sunset every morning, asking drivers for food.

She has 12 grandchildren. She has a sweet tooth. She wants to get back into the good graces of her family.

Sitting at the light, staring at sparkling waves in front of me, I started to believe it myself.

Maybe she IS somewhere better than this place. Maybe her family HAS found her. Make sure she gets it before Christmas! But of course I was dubious.

I figured the guy would eat the food, drink the water and toss the rest. I know how these homeless people operate. Cut to yesterday. She popped up from the sidewalk where she was sitting with her little dog and another woman who was wrapped in a blanket and ran to me.

He gave me the bag. Tell her I got the bag. She reached into her back pocket and pulled out a brown imitation leather wallet.

Inside, I saw one or two dollar bills and nothing much else but then she pulled out a worn, graying piece of white paper that looked like it had been hidden in there for years.

She unfolded it and showed it to me. May I take a picture to show her? I love that little girl of yours.

She removed the enormous sunglasses that have been hiding her tired eyes since the day we met and clutched my forearm. I was blessed to witness these milestones for seven years and in that time learned much from the students, their families and my Rabbi.

At every Bar or Bat Mitzvah, before the Torah reading, it was the custom at our shul that the Rabbi line up the family and pass the Torah through the generations, from grandparents to parents, ultimately handing the Torah into the capable arms of its youngest recipient.

Before the Rabbi even brought the Torah to the front of the bima, the sight of the family alone would bring the congregation to tears. I would stand to the side and play softly on my guitar and the family would just kvell.

It all seemed perfect and right. So many interfaith families belonged to the temple that watching the rabbi withhold the Torah from a non-Jewish parent became a familiar sight.

The more it happened, the sadder I became. I remember on more than one occasion seeing the Torah withheld from a non-Jewish parent despite the fact that this non-Jew was the only person making sure the child even went to religious school!

Sister Mary Benedict was a woman of service, tending to the most needy people in New York City in the late s. Mary and I met eleven years ago, brought together by mutual friends.

We did not meet on JDate. We did not meet at the college hillel. We never went on an Israel trip together. We did not then and do not now work in similar fields.

On the surface, we are pushing completely different agendas. However, we are on the same page where it counts—being mothers, trying to be of service and share our blessings, and being role models especially for people struggling to come out.

Growing up, I never imagined I would marry a non-Jew but here we most thankfully are, legally married with two daughters, two dogs, a mortgage and a hamster.

Like my sister who is married to a Jewish man, I would have loved to have gotten married in front of friends and family instead of frantically racing to do it six days before the presidential election, fearful of Prop 8 passing and denying us the chance to marry legally.

I would have loved all of this the way many of those non-Jewish Bar and Bat Mitzvah parents wanted to embrace the Torah but were not allowed to fully participate in the ritual.

We like that. Reconstructionist Judaism defines itself by being a movement that opens its doors to everyone.

As I perform and teach in Jewish settings around the world on so many weekends, it is usually Mary who takes Sarah to Religious School and it is Mary who picks her up.

It is Mary who insists on us going to services even when I am so happy to have a Friday night without work and in town.

It is Mary who fills our car with food for collection at the Temple. In truth, it is often Mary, my Catholic wife, who carries the weight of our Jewish family life and she does it with grace and love.

A few years back on Simchat Torah, the festive celebration marking the conclusion of the cycle of Torah readings, Mary and I spent the evening dancing, singing, reading and celebrating the Torah at our shul.

The celebration went on and on, like the Torah itself, without end. I have been dancing and wrestling with the Torah for my entire life, so when the Rabbi placed a Torah in my arms and circles upon circles began dancing around me, it was a very familiar feeling.

I could barely breathe. Within moments I began to sob. Mary held on to the Torah as we held her in the middle of our circle of dancing and singing.

I lowered my head and wrapped my tallit tightly around myself as my tears formed a small pool on the sanctuary floor. Concerned someone might slip, I wiped them into the wooden floor, back and forth with the sole of my shoe until they were gone.

When we include those who might not be Jewish but who nevertheless help us to move our faith forward, we are better. My tears have long dried since that night, but in the most important ways they are still there, along with the tears of our ancestors, sealed into the hardwood floor of our faith.

I pray for a time when we all feel free to sing a new song, to hold the Torah close to our hearts, to dance on our tears with nothing but joy.

I met David Garber in while moving into a one bedroom apartment on the corner of 2nd and Idaho in Santa Monica. I was alone, and I made the mistake of loading my arms with way too many cassette racks, hauling them from my car to the elevator, straining my back and nearly dropping them all onto the cement floor of the parking garage.

Like an angel, Dave Garber showed up, introduced himself and took the entire weight of those cassette racks off my hands. I watched his eyes fill with tears.

There goes another casualty in my very real war on straight men, I thought. But he seemed like a nice guy. Turns out he was a very nice guy.

The nicest, in fact. I was reeling from a break-up, cursing the fact that I had to move to a new place and start over again, but that day, after meeting Garber for the first time I knew I was going to be OK.

It was a beautiful beach day. I tell you, he helped me move my stuff upstairs until my car was empty. The answer: Dave Garber.

It turned out my keys fit the lock to the apartment right across the hall from his. Within days OK, minutes we were a sitcom in search of a network.

I became his Mary Richards and he became my Rhoda Morgenstern. It was as if we needed to find each other. I had healing to do, and so did he.

We lived in that corner together, our doors wide open, our circles of friends intertwining, our lives becoming inextricably linked, for years.

We shared meals together, went to afternoon movies, watched Six Feet Under and The Sopranos together, borrowed books and music from each other, and talked and laughed through everything together.

I critiqued every woman that crossed his threshold and took no prisoners. I could go on and on about Garber.

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