I was the son of survivors, raised in the proverbial "Egg Basket" of Central New Jersey. In other words… on a chicken farm. During my childhood I was surrounded by Jewish farmers, all survivors, all speaking a TSBRUCHINAH YINGLISG, a broken English. They were very content with raising their new US citizens…their children, on their farms in Monmouth and Ocean Counties. And…what else did they have in common? It was their love for TORAH.

My very first memory of first seeing… of first touching a Sefar Torah was when my Father schlepped me in our pick-up truck to the farmer's synagogue, a KLEINE STIEBEL, a small house, in Howell. There, in front of the main entrance, I heard a Klezmer band playing FRAYLICHA music. I saw tables being set up with Borscht, and with herring, and with lox and smoked whitefish, and with vegetables from everyone's local garden. What's going on here, I wondered? It was a Torah dedication. You see… for this small, one room synagogue, it was their first permanent Torah.

I didn't know whether to run to the congregants who were celebrating and dancing or… to those who were crying… with tears of joy running down their cheeks. Every parent called for their children… Josel-la, Malka-la, Rifka-la, Velvul-la!!!! Die Toirah kimt. Zehghen yetzs. The Torah is coming – Look now, Look quickly!

I truly stood in awe on witnessing the effect this Scroll had on me and on everyone who surrounded me, while it was being carried into the building under an old and yellowed Tallis. All of the children, including myself, were pushed together to see and witness the scribe, the Sofer, dip his white quill into the ink well and then scratch out the last few letters onto the crisp, new parchment of the Sefar Torah. "When finished, the Sofer said, the end of the Torah will have the CHAZACK, the strength, from the beginning of our next generation… our KINDERLACH… these children surrounding our new Torah". Truly, a memory which will never leave me.

Later in my childhood, my Father decided to send me to CHEDAR, to a yeshiva. It was the Bezalel Hebrew Day School in Lakewood. For me, it was an eye opener. I was immersed into prayer, into learning Gemmurah – the Talmud, and into learning our Jewish laws and customs and… for my first time, into davening daily Schachris in the morning.

It was a Monday. The Sefar Torah was removed from its Ark and one of the upper grade students, an eight grader, read a portion from the week's upcoming Parsha. Afterwards, out of the middle of no-where, the Rebbe, who was over-seeing the davening, points to me and says: YOU! The new bücher, the new student, you're going to do Gallila. WHAT?... WHAT?... I said to myself… I'm going to do what? The kid next to me said that I'm going to tie-up and dress the Sefar Torah…. Tie the Torah?... I can't tie my own shoe laces together well and now… on my first day of school… I was chosen to stand up in front my new classmates to tie the Torah!

The cold sweat in the palms of hands began to warm up as someone placed a small Tallis over my shoulders. My soon-to-become friends surrounded me as the Torah was lifted high into the air by the Rebbe. What a sight to behold! A huge Sefar Torah, hovering high above my head. I can't recall how many columns widths were exposed but… I can say this… I was covered by the shadow of the elevated parchment. Then, after I finished rolling the scroll together, I was handed this small "BINDLE", this small cloth belt, which… in itself… showed everyone from its creases that it has been tied and untied hundreds and hundreds of times before my hands touched it.

With the BINDLE in one hand, I then placed my arms around the scrolls of the Sefar Torah, literally "hugging it". Here I was, the new kid in school, being given the honor to touch, to HUG, to properly dress the school's Sefar Torah. For me, and for the remainder of my formal education through college, my first day at school never "got" any better than this.

Again, later, when I began to transition from single numbers to my pre-teen years, my Father came to me and said, in an uncertain tone of voice, to GAI UNDS LOIFT TZU DER HOIS, NEM A KAPPALEH UND KIM MIT MEHR – "go and run to the house, take a yarmulke and come with me".

Where am I going? What am I doing with this yarmulke on my head? It's Sunday? There's no school today! I hoped my Father wasn't imagining that he was Abraham and I was Isaac and he was taking me back to school to allow the Rosh Hashiva, the Principal, to sacrifice me for something stupid I did earlier in the week.

Well, it didn't turn out to be a sacrifice – kind of. Soon, we arrived at a small cemetery. I can't recall in which farming community it was located in or to which small shul it was attached to. But I can say this. It was my first time at a cemetery.

In the distance were people that my family and I knew. Fellow chicken farmers like Chayyim, and Motël along with my classmates and their families. No one was dressed in any formal clothes, i.e., no black suits. In fact there was no hearse to be seen pulling up. But yet, I heard muffled whimpering and I saw everyone who gathered was crying. Handkerchiefs were being passed around to wipe the tears away from everyone's punim.

What's going on here? Who died? Who is being buried today? Then, there was silence. It was an eerie silence. Everyone who gathered together earlier began to part… to form an open pathway. While standing on my toes, I saw the now opened path connect the station wagon to the recently dug hole in the ground. Soon, the station wagon's back gate was opened and a cardboard box was carried towards the freshly dug grave. When the box was opened, an old… a very old Sefar Torah was removed from it. Also removed from the box was the Torah's mantle, a tattered and matted down velvet cover. The Sefar Torah was dressed one last time.

By now I was asking far too many questions to my parents. Why is paper and cloth being buried? Why are so many people here for this? After the Sefar Torah was gently placed into its resting place, it was quickly covered with dirt. Several people took their turn to speak to the gathered and now openly crying congregation, including myself. There was one word which kept being used over and over again by those speaking. It was "NESHUMA". I didn't understand it then, "NESHUMA"? What is it?

Ultimately, I did understand the words spoken years earlier at that cemetery. Being now in my teens, I realized that the tears and whimpers which were being shed at the burial of the Sefar Torah were not for its parchment's words or its cloth mantle. It was for its NESHUMA. Yes, a Sefar Torah has a NESHUMA. It does have a life… it does… have a soul.

We are there when it's born… when the Sofer scribes upon its parchment, God's words. We are there to dedicate its birth, with fanfare, when the last letter is scribed.

We are there when the Sefar Torah is removed from its Ark on Shabbos, and on lifecycle events such as Bar and Bas Mitzvahs.

We are there when we surround ourselves with its NESHUMA, its soul, on Kol Nidre evening when we ask for forgiveness and to nullify our past year's transgressions.

And, we are there when the Sefar Torah's NESHUMA is returned back to its maker in Heaven.

For the past several moments, I was able to share with you my personal connection with the Sefar Torah. I hope, I wish, that your connection is similar to mine, if not closer. And, as we continue with our Yom Kippur prayers of forgiveness for our NESHUMA… for our souls, please remember this: we are expecting. We are expecting the arrival of a new NESHUMA. The bookmarks placed into everyone's Machzorim for these holidays, is your early invitation to witness next month this birth - through the quill of a Sofer.

In a moment, the Hazzan will continue with our Kol Nidre services. And when the Ark is later opened; and at Neilah services tomorrow evening, our families will come up to the Bimah to see, and to touch, and to kiss our Sefar Torahs. Each of us will hear from their NESHUMA, their souls, wishing us a Happy, and a Healthy and a Prosperous New Year.

May everyone here tonight, be inscribed and sealed for a good year.

L'shanah tovah.