NMH Magazine : Spring 2008

Parting Words, Texas Tales Told by a Rabbi

Laura Scheinkopf ’88

My first gig as a rabbi was in the tiny, dusty border town of Harlingen, Texas. I arrived in mid-September 1997 for a two-week sojourn during the High Holidays; as a visiting rabbi, I would come back periodically throughout the year. I was a second-year rabbinic student, and I felt like an impostor.

As I stepped out of the airport, a wave of heat knocked the kishkes out of me. A slender man of about 60, wearing Levis and cowboy boots, materialized as my driver, giving me a half smile and a “Hey!” as he grabbed my bag. Our journey ended at a tiny temple obscured by vines, where I resisted the urge to grab my companion and say, “What are Jews doing here? Haven’t we suffered enough?”

Inside was a set of Union Prayer Books from the 1950s, an out-of-tune piano, and the biggest Torah I’d ever seen. “Maybe it’s a Texas thing—big state, big Torah,” I joked to my companion. All I got was a grunt as we rolled this giant Torah together. Somewhere around Exodus, however, he stopped, leaned back on his heels, and said, “B-i-i-i-i-g Torah.” I felt faint as I realized what lay ahead: weekends of sweltering heat, a Torah on steroids, and the Marlboro man.

During my visits, I stayed in the Kopel home. The Kopels were in their mid-60s, with a well-appointed home that included an English bulldog who liked to suck on a security blanket. Despite being forewarned (“That one is loco, rabbi!”), I showered attention on the dog that first day. He returned the favor by following me ceaselessly around the house, until he lost it and started chasing me, wheezing and drooling as if possessed. I reached my room and slammed the door, hearing a thud as he hit the other side. I was safe—or so I assumed. Later, when I stepped out of the bathroom, I heard an ominous growling from under the bed. Pulling the dust ruffle back, I beheld the crazy canine holding my bra in his slobbering jowls. I made one attempt at retrieving the garment but gave up, fearing the loss of a finger. I called my sister in Boston the next day, sobbing about my first day.

“And now the dog has my bra!” I cried.

“Well, you better get it back before he runs through the house with it in his mouth. I don’t think those southern Jews like to see the rabbi’s undergarments on the first visit.”

I hung my head and trudged into the kitchen, now bustling with holiday dinner preparations. I quietly described my predicament to my hostess; without missing a beat, she shouted to her husband, “Honey, your crazy dog is under the bed with the rabbi’s bra, and he’s not coming out without a piece of Velveeta!”

Despite this initial misadventure, I soon discovered that the Jewish community of Harlingen had a heart much larger than its population. They needed me to read Torah and lead prayer, but I needed their optimism, affection, and lack of pretense. By traveling to the periphery of the American Jewish world, I learned that which is most essential to sustaining Jewish communal life.

A month after my first visit, the Kopels’ 30-year-old daughter was diagnosed with breast cancer. The news devastated the community. I couldn’t conceive of how to offer comfort that would not seem cloying or ignorant, so I kept my distance. But my humility was misplaced. After services one Friday, the women gathered in the temple’s tiny kitchen and spoke of the sadness of watching the Kopels’ daughter suffer. There was laughter, however, when someone cracked a joke about a prosthetic breast: “Just make sure you keep it away from that dog.”

Another woman joked, “You know how he loves the brassieres of young women!”

We laughed as friends who’d traveled the far reaches of human experiences together. I felt gratitude for all I’d gleaned from this out-of-the-way place and its people, who showed me that what you say in the face of suffering is not what matters; it’s your willingness to say anything at all. Because of the Koppel family’s situation, I assumed I would stay elsewhere for a while, but as our laughter tapered off, Mrs. Koppel turned to me and said, “Please stay with us.”

And so I did, through embarrassment and into self confidence, grateful for the chance to grow.

Rabbi Laura Scheinkopf is a member of the Houston Rabbinic Association and a contributor to Jewish Book World Magazine. She lives with her husband and two children in Houston, Texas.