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Jay Litvin |
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Jay Litvin was born in Chicago in 1944. He moved to Israel in 1993 to serve as medical liaison for Chabad's Children of Chernobyl program, and took a leading role in airlifting children from the areas contaminated by the Chernobyl nuclear disaster; he also founded and directed Chabad's Terror Victims program in Israel. Jay passed away in April of 2004 after a valiant four-year battle with Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma, and is survived by his wife, Sharon, and their seven children. He was a frequent contributor to the Jewish website Chabad.org. His essays can be found in the book, The Life I Have: Essays on Fatherhood, Finding Judaism and Illness
You turn on the computer and this man appears, sits across the table from you for several hours, and shares something of his innermost self with you...
There is one benefit in feeling stupid, at least when you’re old: compassion.
You will discover a world as authentic as your own, yet heretofore completely unknown to you. It is as fresh as Rembrandt’s, as far-reaching as Einstein’s, as unusual as Van Gogh’s, as terrifying and macabre as Edgar Allen Poe’s. It has its own harmony an...
Okay, so I yelled a little too loudly when I yelled at my daughter. Okay, so maybe she didn’t deserve as much of my anger as I let out. But, she did deserve some of it, didn’t she? I mean, could I just let it pass? Not say anything? Who would she become, ...
My hair, thank G-d, is growing back. Hair, beard, eyebrows, eyelashes, the works. My color has returned, or at least transformed from a yellow brown pallor to a more healthy tone. I'm lookin' good. At least that's what everyone says...
I picture it pulsating somehow, like a lighthouse, like a heartbeat, like the rhythmic in and out, on and off, here and there, now and then, dark and light of life
This is what compassion does: it simply comes to say hello, with kindness and grace; to be a companion in whatever circumstance presents itself; to banish loneliness, and if not, to accompany the lonely in their solitude
There was no longer this "prison" or "vessel" or "garment" of the body. There was no longer soul and body as separate entities. What I was experiencing was in contradiction with all the language that I'd read and heard through the years
“I present the material, but your child doesn’t seem to get it . . . Have you considered private tutoring?” Why do I get the impression that everyone—the child, the parents, the home environment—is to blame, except for the teacher?
With the spread of terrorism, our children are far too often graphically exposed to the worst of what life and humans offer. What can we do to help them deal with these horrific events?
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