I have learned over the years that my High Holiday experience was different from many Jews I’d later meet. Growing up in my Orthodox bubble of New York and then Cleveland Heights, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur were mainly about the prayers. “Where are you going to daven (pray)” was a far more likely question than, “Who’s coming over for Rosh Hashanah dinner?” In fact, we usually did not have any guests for Rosh Hashanah dinner. The solemnity of the day didn’t feel compatible with the celebratory atmosphere of guests. Yom Kippur break-fast was a small and unimpressive affair.

In Cleveland, as in many other Jewish communities, there’s an organization called Bikur Cholim, which helps Jews struggling with illness, in a stunning variety of ways. Cleveland tends to attract members of the tribe from all over the world, thanks to our award-winning hospitals, and Bikur Cholim supports them with kosher food, rides, housing, and services you would have never even thought you needed. It’s an astonishing display of Jewish kindness during a person’s most vulnerable moments.

Last week, my husband and I drove to Narrowsburg, New York to bring our youngest daughter Nomi to Camp Sternberg. It was a beautiful drive through the Poconos and she was so excited to go off for her very first adventure at overnight camp.

My baby is going to camp.