Shinshinim 2024-2025

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Shabbat Shalom, I can’t believe this is the last time I’m going to stand here on the bima, looking out at all of your beautiful faces.

Like Yoav said, it's hard to believe this year is coming to an end. This year has been the best year of my life. The chance to express myself, learn, explore a new world, form long-lasting bonds, and feel a deep sense of purpose made this year such a life-changing experience for me. It came with its fair share of challenges  - adjusting to the language, the weather, the busy schedule, and the distance from home, especially in these times. But every time I walk into Beth Emeth, all of that fades away, and this giant love fills my heart. The warmth and love you gave us, and the deep connections we created here, have been my anchor this year. Your community became my family, and even though it’s hard to believe this chapter is coming to an end, the beautiful thing about family is that it’s forever. I believe that’s true for us, too. Because of you, I’m leaving this year a different person - more mature, more hopeful, more connected to my Judaism and Israel, and with a deeper understanding of the world and the goodness in it. 

This year, I’ve learned a lot about life in North America. I discovered that you always take your shoes off when entering someone’s home, and that almost every conversation somehow circles back to the weather. And surprisingly, I’ve learned that Canadians don’t eat nearly as much maple syrup as I thought they would. Though to be fair, I fully imagined people carrying bottles of it around in their bags. 

But seriously, I’ve learned so much about the challenges and beauty of Jewish life in the Diaspora. The biggest realization for me was this: here, being Jewish is a choice you have to actively make every single morning when you wake up. It’s something you do, not just something you are. That idea made me appreciate my own Judaism in a way I never had before. Until now, I mostly took it for granted. Believe it or not, I only learned what a siddur was, and held one for the first time shortly before coming here. But in Beth Emeth, I’ve discovered that Judaism has so many shapes, voices, and paths. The Jewish spirit of this community gave me space to find my own personal connection to tradition and faith and take the parts that truly speak to me.

I’ve also learned how incredibly strong, united, and connected your community is - to each other and to Israel.  Two moments, one at the very beginning and the other at the very end, of this year made this lesson even more powerful. On our first Shabbat in Toronto, we heard the heartbreaking news about the murder of six hostages in the Hamas tunnels, just moments before the IDF reached them. I remember walking around Earl Bales, in shock at how deeply the community here felt the pain, even from thousands of kilometers away. And two weeks ago, at the Walk with Israel, where 56,000 people showed up, I once again saw your love, strength, and connection in action. I leave this year knowing that Israel cannot exist without you being its voice here in the Diaspora. Thank you for standing with Israel, for your incredible support and love.

There’s a Hebrew poem by Noam Horev called “The Temporary People.” It goes something like this: “We grow up thinking that the people who walk with us the longest are the most meaningful.  But sometimes, people come into our lives for just a short time, exactly when we need them. They help us see things clearly. Teach us something. Push us to grow. Give us strength. And then… they leave. That doesn’t make them any less important. In the story of our lives, those temporary people earn a full, deep, and meaningful chapter.” That’s exactly how we feel about you. You are forever a part of our story. You are forever our home. 

This week, I received my official IDF enlistment date. In November, I’ll begin the IDF paramedic course. It’s a year-long training in army bases and hospitals, and afterwards, for two years, I’ll be placed with combat units to provide medical care in the field. I know that all my experiences this year, everything I’ve faced and everything I’ve learned, will guide me and strengthen me on this next journey.

I would like to take a moment to thank my first-term host family: Jen, David, Ben, Danielle, and Vicki. From the moment I arrived, you made me feel like part of your family. Thank you so much for everything you’ve done for me. You have become my home away from home, and I love you all so much. I know our bond is one for a lifetime!

Now is the time for us to say our “Todot”, thank you’s: 

I also want to take this opportunity to thank Yoav - no one else in the world will ever truly understand what I’ve been through this year like you do. What we share goes beyond friendship. Thank you for bearing with my craziness and walking this journey hand in hand with me.

Guys! Please never hesitate to reach out to us - send a message, say hi. And if you’re ever in Israel, you have to let us know! We promise to take you to all the best spots! So, for one last time, thank you, and Shabbat Shalom.

YOAV- Thank you to our amazing supervisor, Avivit, who has supported us from day one, always encouraged us to express ourselves, guided us in this journey, and was there for us no matter what. You are incredible, and we love you so much.

NOGA-  Thank you to our Layleader, Beth Werger, for giving your heart, always making sure we have everything we need, and checking in on us. That really meant the world!

NOGA- Thank you to the whole Synagogue staff - Candace, Rabbi Morrison, Marilyn, Sari, Jennifer, Natalya, and the caretaking staff  - for believing in us, always being there to help with anything, and for being so loving and welcoming. You are truly the best, and we feel so lucky to have had you by our side this year.

YOAV- But most of all, thank you to every single person in this community who welcomed us, supported us, attended our programs, encouraged us, hugged us, and showed us such love and kindness. Thank you for everything you taught us, for all the warmth and care you shared, and for becoming our home. Toda.

Good morning everyone,

We’re entering a time in Israel that’s never easy and especially not this year. the season we call the Yom’s as I’m sure y’all know—Israel’s National Days of Remembrance. This week, we marked Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day. And for me, this day is always especially difficult.

 I grew up with three great-grandparents who survived the Holocaust. So, the Shoah wasn’t just something I learned about in school—it was a big part of my life. In the morning, a siren sounds across the entire country. For two full minutes, everything stops. Cars pull over on the highways. People stand still on sidewalks, in stores, in classrooms, at home. No one moves. The whole country pauses—together—in silence And it’s not only the siren. On this day, every TV channel, every radio station, shifts. No regular programming, no upbeat music. Only Holocaust documentaries, interviews with survivors, quiet, reflective songs. It creates an atmosphere that’s impossible to ignore—and that’s the point. It pulls you in. It grounds you in the heaviness of the day. And it makes sure no one forgets. When I was
little, I didn’t fully understand some of the things my great grandparents did. Like the time we went to a restaurant and my great-grandfather quietly wrapped his bread in a napkin to take home. Back then, it seemed strange. But looking back, I understand.

Two of my great grandparents passed away when I was still fairly young, but I remember them clearly. I remember visiting my great-grandmother in the nursing home. She had Alzheimer’s and barely remembered anything, but she always remembered one song—Ani Gitara. Her father used to sing it to her, and every time we visited, we’d sing it together.

My great-grandfather Yosef is still alive. He just turned 100 this past December. He was the sandek at my brit milah, and he has always been a central part of my life. He is very sharing about the holocaust because he feels a responsibility to share the stories of what he went through. He is the only survivor from a family of 28 people. When he was five years old, his entire family made aliyah to Israel. But not long after, they had to return to Poland because he had a serious illness that couldn’t be treated in Israel at the time. He still carries a deep sense of guilt about that decision—he believes it cost his family their lives. 

There’s one story he always tells that has stayed with me more than any other. When he was a young boy living in the ghetto, he worked in a matzah bakery during Passover. The work was extremely difficult—long hours, heavy labor, and no rest. One day, his mother came to visit him at the bakery. She brought a pot of food—whatever little they had. He was exhausted and starving, and he sat down and ate. And ate—until there was nothing left. 

At the end of the day, as payment for his work, he was given a loaf of bread. He was so happy. He says he felt rich. He ran through the streets, singing and jumping with joy. But when he got home, he found his mother and siblings crying. Confused, he asked, “Why is everyone crying?” And his mother quietly told him, “Yosef… you ate all the food we had for the whole family.” He asked her, “Why didn’t you stop me?” And every time he tells this part of the story, his eyes fill with tears. And she answered, “You were so thin… so hungry… I just didn’t have the heart to stop you.”

That’s the story that stayed with him. Not a story about victory. Not a story about joy. A story about hunger. About survival. About being a child in a world where there was never enough.

 And now, it’s our turn to keep these stories alive. We are the fourth generation—the last one that still grows up hearing these stories directly from the survivors. But we know that soon, that won’t be possible anymore.  The survivors won’t be here to tell their stories. And when that happens, it becomes our job to remember them. To share their stories with others. To make sure that never again. 

But I want to end on a more hopeful note—even if it’s hard to find one on a day like this. If there’s one thing my great-grandfather always tells me, it’s this: He looks at me, smiles, and says, “Seeing you grow up, my beautiful grandson—that’s my victory over the Nazis.” And that, to me, is what remembrance is really about. Not just remembering what was lost—but honoring it by choosing life.

Shabbat Shalom

Noga: 

As Yoav mentioned, next week we’ll celebrate Purim, a holiday centered around two strong women - Vashti, who stood up to the king, expressing her own wishes and voice, and Esther, who used her power to save the Jewish people. Interestingly, Purim is celebrated close to International Women’s Day, which happens to be today, March 8th. This day is meant to recognize the achievements of women and remind us that there is still progress to be made in creating equal opportunities. Inspired by these two meaningful occasions I want to share with you the story of a very important woman in my life: my grandmother, Savta Chana.

My grandmother’s story began in 1948, when she was born in a British detention camp in Cyprus after her parents, Holocaust survivors from Poland, were redirected there on their way to Israel. After a year, they arrived in Haifa, where my Savta lived until she met Saba, in the army. The two got married, settled in Ra’anana, and Savta worked as an art therapist while raising three children. When my uncle Eran, her eldest son, was killed at the age of 21 while serving in the army, Savta had to adjust to a new reality where sadness was always present alongside everything else.

My grandparents’ house is only 7 minutes away, so growing up, we spent a lot of time together. It might be hard to imagine, but as a child, I was wild and full of energy. My grandmother saw that wildness in me and encouraged it, letting me explore, get messy with paints and mud, and embrace my natural joy. Savta and Saba took us on hikes all over Israel. Savta used to hold my hand, encouraging me with songs, stories, and games until I forgot that my legs were tired. When they traveled abroad, she would leave me an envelope for each week they were away, filled with a beautiful drawing, a short note, and a small gift – as if a letter had arrived just for me from another country. And whenever she felt like rearranging the furniture at home, she would always make sure there was still enough space for me to dance by the radio.

one day when I was ten, Savta sat with my brother and me and told us she was diagnosed with cancer. While fighting the illness, she never hid her bald head and answered all my tough questions. She insisted on continuing to host us, cook for us, and read us stories and that taught me a lot about life, strength, and optimism. After a year, she recovered, and we went on a trip to Slovenia to celebrate. At one point during the trip, it was just the two of us and a crazy rainstorm that I had never seen before started. We stood under an umbrella, completely soaked, and she said, "You’ll never forget this moment." This is one of my last memories of her. Six months later, they found out her cancer had returned, and in just a few months, she passed away, on March 1st, 8 years ago.

It's very symbolic that Savta Chana passed away in the month of both Purim and International Women's Day, as she was such a strong woman and a true inspiration to me. Despite losing her son, she didn't let herself fall into darkness and learned to live alongside the grief. I know that if she were here, she would be proud of me for choosing to come here, and I'm sure she watches over me from above. Thank you, Happy Purim, Happy International Women’s Day, and Shabbat Shalom.

Yoav:

Good morning everyone

We stand here today in a time of uncertainty, yet we also stand at the edge of one of the most joyful days in the Jewish calendar—Purim. A holiday of laughter, celebration, and unity. A holiday that reminds us, that even in the darkest times, joy is not just an escape—it is an act of strength.

One of the traditions that capture this joy is "Haktara"—a hilarious, highly anticipated tradition. Every year, just before they leave school for good, the seniors put on a show where they humorously act like their teachers, highlighting their well-known traits and quirks. In my Haktara, I played as my computer science teacher, who does funny gestures. I deliberately exaggerated his gestures, making them even more dramatic and hilarious. The entire school gathers, parents come to watch, and for one night, everyone laughs together. It’s not just about fun—it’s about bringing students and teachers closer, creating a shared memory before the seniors move on to their next chapter.

But Purim isn’t just celebrated in schools. Walk through the streets on Purim night, and you’ll hear it—the loud, unified sound of people drowning out Haman’s name with graggers, stamping feet, and collective boos. The atmosphere surrounds you with echo from every direction. The chazan in the Shul has to signal with his hand when it’s time to stop the deafening boos and graggers—though sometimes, people don’t stop. And sometimes, instead of quieting down, his signal only makes the noise even louder Everywhere you turn, there is laughter, and energy. And the next morning, the streets fill with something else—children running from house to house, arms full of mishloach manot, gifts they spent weeks preparing. It is a day of giving, and spreading joy from home to home.

For me, Purim has always been a holiday of unforgettable moments. But one memory stands out the most. When I was in sixth grade, I told my grandfather I wanted to dress up as a Transformer. For weeks, he worked on the costume, crafting every detail by hand. And when Purim arrived, it was incredible—when I lay down on the ground, the costume actually looked like a car. I still remember the way everyone gathered around, amazed at the transformation. People kept asking me, "Where did you buy that?" And every time, I answered with pride, "My grandfather made it for me." Even now, that moment is one of my strongest memories of Purim.

And yet, as we stand here today, we cannot ignore the weight of the past year. This is our second Purim in the shadow of war. Our second Purim where celebration comes with an ache in our hearts. But if there is one thing Purim teaches us, it is that we do not allow darkness to consume us. We do not stop dancing, we do not stop giving, and we do not stop lifting our heads high.

So let us take this Purim as a reminder—of resilience, of joy, of the unbreakable spirit of our people. We will laugh, we will sing, we will celebrate. Not because we forget, but because we remember who we are.

Am Yisrael Chai,

Shabbat Shalom

Yoav:

Good morning everyone

We stand here today with heavy hearts. I am sure you all know by now about the devastating news—the return of the Bibas family, not as we prayed, but as lifeless bodies. It is a tragedy that shakes us to our core.

Every hostage should have come home—not today, not tomorrow, but yesterday. Every single moment that passes is another moment stolen from them and their families. And yet, instead of bringing all of them back alive, we are forced to witness cruelty beyond words.

And if that wasn’t horrific enough, we saw a breach of trust—when a body, said to be Shiri Bibas, was returned, only for us to later find out that it wasn’t her. A shocking and inexcusable violation of the agreement.

But there was something else that caught people’s attention. Some of those who escorted the return of the hostages’ bodies wore different-colored headbands. At first, it might not have meant much to those watching. But let me explain to you what these colors represent.
You all probably recognize the green headband—that is Hamas. But there were others. The black headband? That is ISIS. The red headband? That is the Palestinian Islamic Jihad. And the yellow headband? That is Al-Aqsa Martyrs’ Brigades, affiliated with Abu Mazen.

They did not wear these colors randomly. They were sending a message: We stand together. All these terror groups, some of which have pretended to be separate, openly demonstrated their unity. And that unity is aimed at us.

And so, in this dark time, we must ask ourselves—how do we respond? The answer is clear: We must stand together too. We must strengthen our unity, our resolve, and our commitment to each other as people. Because when we are united, no enemy can break us.

Let us pray for the safe return of all the hostages who are still waiting to come home. Let us not stop fighting for them. And let us never forget that our strength comes from standing as one.

Shabbat Shalom.

Noga:

Shalom everyone

I can hardly believe I stand before you today as we approach the one year mark since the brutal attack on Israel on October 7th. A year has passed, yet, this unimaginable tragedy persists and the suffering continues. It continues for the hostages in the tunnels of Hamas and for their families who fight for their lives day by day. It continues for the soldiers, some of whom are our friends, who display incredible courage protecting us, and for their families wishing for their safe return. This year has brought overwhelming loss, pain, and profound grief for all of us, Israelis and Jews in Israel and the Diaspora.

Among the countless faces and stories of this war, I have chosen to focus today on Naama Levi. Naama, a soldier serving as an observer at the IDF surveillance base in Nahal Oz, was brutally abducted by Hamas terrorists on the morning of October 7th. The video of her abduction, portraying a young girl surrounded by armed terrorists, barefoot, hands tied behind her back, and in blood stained sweatpants, has become a symbol of Hamas's brutality, shocking people around the world.

For almost a year, Naama has been held captive. I want to share her story, perhaps because she reminds me of myself, a young girl yearning for peace,

dedicated to helping others, filled with passion and dreams for the future. Naama is also the daughter of Ayelet Shahar, a dear friend of my mother, which adds a personal dimension to her story and makes her struggle resonate deeply. I can’t help but think it could easily be me in her place, an abducted soldier wondering if anyone remembers her, if anyone is fighting for her, or if she has been forgotten.

Naama was born on June twenty second, 2004, has three siblings and lives in Ranana. About a month after October 7th, I thought, somewhat naively, that it was a relief her birthday was still far off, as she would surely be home to celebrate it by then. I never imagined we would find ourselves a year later still waiting for her return. The name Naama means “delight” or “pleasant,” which perfectly captures her warm and joyful personality. She was a member of “Hands for peace”, and has always believed in the power of peace and unity. Even during her abduction she kept on saying “I have friends in Palestine” showing she believed that once the terrorists realize she sees the people in Gaza as friends and neighbors they will release her. Naama is also a dedicated triathlete, and I hold onto the hope that the courage, determination, and resilience she has developed through her training are helping her stay strong, hopeful, and alive.

As I reflect on this year, I refuse to accept that Naama is still being held by terrorists underground, enduring horrific conditions and living in fear for so long. How does the world keep on turning? Why hasn’t everything stopped? When I enjoy a warm meal or listen to my favorite music, I can't help but think about how Naama, in captivity, is deprived of these simple freedoms and pleasures. I worry that as the days pass, we may begin viewing the hostages as distant figures rather than recognizing Naama and the other 100 hostages as human beings- mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, brothers, sisters, grandchildren, and friends, just like us. I’m afraid Naama becomes nothing more then a symbol, a poster that is placed on a chair, not because we are devoid of emotion, but so that we can continue to live and not have to feel every moment the suffering she goes trough, the pain, fear and despair.

I would like to quote the words of Dr. Ayelet Shahar Levi, Naama's mother, which she delivered at the rally on July 7: "...we know from testimonies of the returns, that for many days, weeks, you were alone. Alone with your captors who moved you from place to place, between combat zones, so many times. We know that you were injured, but you continue to stand on your feet with determination and bear in this hell. What else has happened to you now? What else has happened to you, since the women and children returned and you are still there in the tunnels, all these days and weeks and months? we don't know. It's hard to think. We don't want to imagine, and the heart breaks and goes out to you. Time passes, the days pass and the minutes drip pain upon pain, and the longing for you is endless. I want to remind everyone tonight that this horror continues. The moments we saw in the videos are not over. The terrorist attack continues. Pure terror that increases day by day. This is the time for all of us, for everyone to learn from you Naama. For nine months I carried you, I waited for you and you came to us into the world. And now, after nine months of terror, I'm waiting for you to come back to me, to us. Everyone is waiting for you. mom loves you Mom will hug you and take care of you. Mother is waiting for you."

Today, as days become years, I’m trying to cling to every ounce of hope I can find. I picture Naama returning home to her mother’s arms, and I hold all 101 hostages in my thoughts, each deserving that same moment of reunion. I would like to finish with a massages of hope by Shanika Shaked:

If the flowers still bloom, if the seasons still change in turn, if the sky is still above me, if the mountains still stand, if the streams still flow to the sea, if all nature still believes, than I believe as well. 

Thank you and Shabbat Shalom

Yoav: 

I stand here today, almost one year since the war began, and it’s hard to believe how much has changed. It’s heartbreaking to think about the pain we’ve all been through, and yet, we are here, standing strong together.

On October 7, I found myself far from home, in central Asia, travelling with my family. That day, I felt completely helpless. While my family and I were physically safe, the overwhelming sense of being so far away from my country, not knowing what was happening, or when we could go back, was crushing. I remember checking the news constantly, hoping for updates, trying to reach friends and family in Israel. My heart was racing every time I heard my phone buzz. Flights to Israel were canceled, and the uncertainty only grew. For the first time, I felt like I might have no home to return to. It was this strange feeling of being safe, but also feeling like a part of me was in danger. The physical distance felt like a wall, keeping me from protecting the people and places I love most, as I’m sure many of you felt, too.

Almost a year has passed since that tragic day, and it’s sad to think about how much we’ve all endured. The heartbreak that swept across Israel was felt by everyone, no matter where we were. It felt like our country was being torn apart, and for a while, there was only confusion and pain.

But in that chaos, something remarkable happened. We came together in ways we hadn’t seen for a long time. Despite our differences, despite the disagreements that had previously divided us, we helped one another. People from every walk of life, every background, extended a hand to their neighbors, showing kindness, generosity, and unity.

The commitment and bravery of our soldiers, who stood and are still standing on the front lines, inspired the entire country, as they defended our homeland with unimaginable courage. It wasn’t just those Israelis who were already serving, but so many who were on vacation, or abroad for other reasons, and who dropped everything and rushed back home to fight. People from all around the world, from every corner of the diaspora, returned to Israel, ready to defend the land they love. These men and women embodied the spirit of Israel, proving once again that our people will always come together in times of need, no matter where we are.

There’s a song that became very popular in Israel a few years ago, by the band Full Trunk. I want to read you a part of the chorus:

"How stressful is it, then why a city?
Chillin' in the Kibbutz at half the price."

The members of this band live in the kibbutzim on the Gaza border. The song paints a picture of life in a kibbutz, showing how peaceful and laid-back it can be, away from the pressures of city life. But after the attacks on October 7th, that peace was shattered. The kibbutzim, once places of calm, a magnet for the peace-loving, became front lines in the fight for survival.  The band has now said they will no longer perform this song, as life on the kibbutz is no longer “chill.

The contrast between the kibbutz's peaceful past and the harsh reality of the present reflects the strength and resilience of those living on Israel’s front lines. On October 7, they held on for hours, standing strong against terror. This bravery shows how deeply rooted our spirit is, and how, despite everything, we find hope in our unity.

This is what gives me optimism. Even though we continue to face difficult times, we stand together as one people, no matter where we are. We’re stronger because of our unity, and we’ll continue to support each other through whatever challenges lie ahead. This is the strength of Israel and the Jewish People and the strength that carries us through these difficult times.

May we hope and pray for the safe return of all the hostages. Shabbat Shalom.

Yoav:

Hi everyone my name is Yoav and right beside me is Noga, and we are going to be your UJA Shinshinim this year. We are super excited to be here, we feel honored to be a part of this community and looking forward to getting to know each of you during the year.

I will start by telling you a little bit about myself, I’m 18 years old and I live in a small city near Tel Aviv called Givat Shmuel. I grew up in a close family, not just with my parents and siblings but also with my grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. We’ve always been really close, and they have all been a big part of my life. In school I concentrated in computer science, psychology, and literature. I chose that mix of subjects because I’m very interested in human related subjects but also in science subjects. I’ve also been involved in Krembo wings which is a unique youth movement that aims to integrate kids with and without special needs. I instructed in the youth movement for the past 4 years and it has been incredibly meaningful to me. It taught me the importance of patience, empathy and helped me to appreciate the differences of people. In my free time I love listening to music, I’m doing everything with music and going to live concerts is one of my biggest hobbies. I also like hiking, drawing, and reading. I decided to become a Shinshin because I want to find a way to give back to the community and to experience being a jew outside of Israel.

There's a saying that ‘every end is a new beginning’. As I close one chapter of my life in Israel, I’m excited to begin this new one here in Toronto. This journey represents a fresh start, not just for me, but for all of us as we learn and grow together over the coming year.

Noga:

Shalom everyone,I’m thrilled to be here today and introduce myself to you. As Yoav mentioned, my name is Noga. In Hebrew, my name means “something sparkly,” “brightness,” and it is also the name for Venus. I’m 18 years old and live in Tsur Yigal, a small town, or “Yishuv,” in central Israel near Kfar Saba. I have one older brother named Rotem and three sweet dogs.

I love everything related to art. I used to draw and paint a lot, and my newest obsession is making wire jewelry. In high school, I majored in biology, chemistry, and physics, and I absolutely loved it! For the past six years, I have been active in the Israeli youth movement “Krembo Wings,” which, as Yoav mentioned, is an inclusive youth movement for children with and without disabilities. I deeply connect to the values of the movement, which emphasize empathy and inclusiveness, and it has truly become a part of my identity.

You might be wondering why I decided to come to Toronto to be a UJA shinshinit. Let me share a little about that. By the end of 11th grade, I knew I wanted to take a year before my army service to grow and experience more before entering such a demanding system for 3 years. I thought that serving the Jewish world this year would be the best way for me to do that, as I would love to contribute to the sense of community, explore the Jewish world, and gain a better understanding of who I am as a Jew and as an Israeli.

I’m beyond excited to get to know all of you, join your community, learn from you, show you Israel through my eyes, and form meaningful bonds.

Unfortunately, the past 11 months have been incredibly difficult and heartbreaking. Leaving Israel, our home, our family, and our friends at such a time is harder than ever. However, we know that this is the right place for us to be right now and the best thing for us to do in this painful situation.

If you see us in the hallway at the shul or anywhere else, please feel free to say hello! We would love to meet each and every one of you. Additionally, we invite you to check out our fun fact posters hung in various places around the shul – every week we will share a different fact. This week, we’ve shared facts about ourselves so you can get to know us a little better!

Thank you so much for your warm welcome, and Shabbat Shalom.