Recipes for a Sacred Life: True Stories and a Few Miracles by Rivvy Neshama (best books to read for young adults TXT) 📕

Jeanne and I walked to the Pearl Street Mall and had dinner at a new Asian restaurant—very hip, very Thai, very Boulder. But when the waitress brought the bill, she gave us the same old fortune cookies from the Chinese restaurants of my youth in Philly. The fortunes, however, were on a whole new level. Instead of “You will be rich and famous and travel to many countries,” I got this:

Doing the best at this moment puts you in the best place for the next moment.

Whoa! I immediately switched my focus more onto what Jeanne was saying and less on my travails, which I was waiting to tell her.

It was a karma wake-up call, and a hopeful one at that. You can change in an instant—and so can your life—moment by moment by moment.

DO A MITZVAH.

WHAT’S A MITZVAH?

When I was young, I didn’t know what a mitzvah was. I only knew from the way my mother said it that it was something big.

“Aunt Sally is sick again,” I’d say. “I guess I should go see her. But it’s snowing and I have a report to finish and Aunt Sally’s always grumpy—”

“See her,” my mom would interrupt and then add with enthusiasm, “It’s a mitzvah!”

She made a mitzvah sound special, even jolly. Visiting Aunt Sally?

I now know that mitzvah, a Hebrew word, has many meanings. First off, it means “commandment, divine law, or the fulfillment of same.” But it also means “connection” and has come to mean “a blessing.” How does a commandment become a connection and blessing? It works like this:

While we are always connected to our divine source or higher self, it’s when we follow the divine laws that we get to feel and express that connection. Spirit asks, we respond, and our lives become blessed.

There is no lack of opportunities to feel this connection since the Torah is chock-full of commandments. Along with the Big Ten—Thou shall not steal and the rest—there are 603 others. Some tell you what to do: Leave a corner of the field uncut for the poor. Return a lost object. Others tell what not to do: Don’t hurt orphans. Don’t bear a grudge. And they refer to all aspects of life since all of life can be made holy. It’s even a mitzvah to make love with your mate.

But over the years, mitzvah has come to mean simply a good deed, any good deed. And doing mitzvot is considered the way to live a good life and find happiness.

The idea that good deeds may be the path to happiness is not just a religious concept but might be ingrained in our DNA. Scientists have discovered that altruistic actions often lead to a happier, healthier life. One study even shows that giving to charity affects the same part of our brain that is stimulated by sex, drugs, and money (which sounds like the lead-in to one of my father’s jokes: “So this guy says to me, ‘Hey, mister, you got a dollar?’”).

Now, for many years, I didn’t know these laws or studies, but I always knew when I was doing a good deed, and that always felt great. And when you do a mitzvah, you not only feel blessed but are blessed—often watched over and guided. That’s what happened to me when my father died. My sisters, who live in California, and John and I in Boulder immediately made plans to fly to Philadelphia for the funeral. Still, there would be a few days before then when our mother would be alone, and I was the only one who was able to go right away. I was also the only one who, at that time, suffered anxiety attacks if flying solo. But thinking of Mom all alone made me book the ticket.

I packed my security items—prayer beads, spiritual books, and a cheesy love novel—kissed John goodbye, and walked with fear into the plane. Once seated, I began to pray: Please God, don’t let me have an anxiety attack, let me be okay. Then I looked around and saw that the plane was half empty. So once everyone settled in, I decided to change my seat. Row 9, my lucky number, was totally free. I first tried 9E but then moved to 9A, a window seat that seemed to draw me to it. I buckled up and said a silent prayer of thanks for having the whole row to myself.

Just then, amid announcements of takeoff, a latecomer, looking upset and disheveled, burst in. He viewed his ticket to find his seat and sat down right next to me. With all these empty seats, he had to have 9B? Why did I leave 9E? I opened my cheesy novel to read, hoping he’d leave me alone.

But that was not to be. He was clearly geared up and started to talk. “Good book?” he asked.

“Supposedly,” I answered, a little embarrassed to be reading it in the first place.

“The Bridges of Madison County,” he said, viewing the title. “Is it about bridges?”

“No,” I said, more embarrassed still. “It’s about love.” Sensing his need to talk, I put the book down and looked at him more closely.

His face was unshaven, his clothes were rumpled, and he was holding a tattered brown notebook. Its title was penciled in: “Job’s Journal.” He’s looking for work, I thought, and hasn’t had much schooling. He doesn’t know it should be “Jobs Journal.”

“Are you looking for a job?” I asked, nodding at his notebook.

“No,” he said, and smiled wanly. “I changed my name to Job, after Job in the Bible. You know, the one who suffered more than any man should bear.”

Then he told me his own story and I understood why.

Like Job, he had been stricken with loss, one after the other. But unlike Job, a man of faith and integrity, his had been self-inflicted—through ego, betrayals, and lies. Once a youthful idealist, he was now, he acknowledged, notorious and loathed. He had lost everything—most of all, his character—and despite his