Part 1: Lessons of Love from A Soul Connection Written in the Stars
- Kimberly Davis
- May 1, 2025
- 8 min read
Updated: 9 hours ago
My Long Journey Home to Judaism: Part 1
Lessons of Love from A Soul Connection Written in the Stars
Hashem’s hand is on everything. In love. In loss. In laughter. And, yes even in pain. We may not realize it or see His hand at every given moment, but if we take the time to look back with open eyes, the Mighty Conductor is clearly visible.
It was the Fall Semester of 2017 at Columbia University in the City of New York. Due to the necessary course requirements for entry into the Dual Doctorate Veterinary Programs I wanted to apply to, I made the decision to switch from the Post Bachelors, Pre-Veterinary Medicine program to a second Bachelor’s degree in Biomedical Sciences.
In my eyes, the change would require a few additional classes, but in the end would provide all of the necessary application requirements. Looking back, however, the Creator, blessed be Hashem, had His hand on everything. And it was this program change that proved to be the catalyst, it seems, which Hashem used for an entire course change for my entire life.
One of the additional classes that was required in switching programs was an undergraduate writing course. Since I made the decision to switch programs at the last minute, there were only two options for the writing class available. After setting the rest of my courses in place, the option was down to a single course, at a single time, so, I signed up.
The course was on Data Sciences. I was the only female in a class with 11 boys (some were grown enough to be called men) and a male graduate student TA as the instructor. This situation did not sit well with my soul at first, but proved to be a valuable teaching lesson in the end.
Anyway, the semester was structured such that, as a class, we would read articles on a particular invention, mechanical concept, or new (or modern) technology that changed the course of history and then write a thesis paper on each topic.
The first paper was the Turing Machine. I was in my early 30s. I had not formally written a University paper in over 5 years, let alone at an Ivy League University. To say the least, this first paper was daunting, especially given the learning disabilities I was born with. Instead of going quietly into the night, I made an appointment with the teacher (we COULD NOT call him professor!) to discuss my concerns and my fears about possibly not being able to comprehend the complexities of the writings we were to read for the assignment.
You see, because of my learning disabilities, my entire life I had been told that I am not good enough, that I am dumb, stupid, and the like. When I got into Columbia, the general message was not, “Congratulations!” The message, instead, was, “where is your just kidding letter?” These sentiments cause self-doubt, even when none is warranted. Yet, creep in, self-doubt did for this first paper at Columbia.
In our meeting, I also advised the teacher that there are often times when my brain seems to interpret or comprehend things much differently than most, picking out the most minute details and connecting things others don’t see—which, I told him, has proven to be problematic in University settings previously. I thus asked him for advice on how to deal with this.
The teacher was very understanding and encouraging. He urged me not to shy away from any idea that pops into my head. To look at them all, explore them all, and to find my own unique voice. About my dyslexia, he did not say much, but as if without a word gave quiet acceptance that there might be some upside down, backwards, and missing words in my writing and he would be ok with that so long as it was obvious that I made a strong effort to edit properly and write coherently.
The papers for the first assignment were read and class discussions were had. As the only female, it was hard at first for me to have my voice be heard. I would, on occasion, speak and have to fight the wolves in the process. Draft after draft was written of my first paper. And edit after edit was made.
As I always do, I wrote too much, and (in the end) I then edited my own voice too much. When the final grade came in, I was not completely satisfied with myself. I knew I could do better. So, another meeting with the teacher was made to discuss what I could do to improve.
His advice, “Don't be scared of your own voice. You have one, a strong one. Use it!” Little did he know the power in those few short sentences—words I had never heard until then, at least not strung together in an encouraging statement like that.
Our next paper was on Gaussian writings. Our third paper was on Foucault and his prisons.
By this third writing process, I was starting to find my voice. I was standing my ground (respectfully) in the den, and was allowing the creative process to flow instead of questioning myself at every turn. By this time, I had also made it a relatively routine pattern to go to office hours or seek help in the writing center when I needed help clarifying my own ideas.
It was during one of these office hours when my soul had a glimpse of true love.
As usual, one Tuesday afternoon, I and my teacher were discussing the papers the class was assigned to read.
I: ratting off all the ideas and connections I had seen in the paper.
He: encouraging the chaos of my of mind to expand as far as it could go so that I could finally come to a finite and concrete thesis statement.
We were in debate about Foucault and his darned prisons.
Out of nowhere, we turned to face each other at the same time and the same time, we both lost our breath. In the middle of a crowded room, our souls spoke more words in silence than a thousand prose written over a thousand years. Time stood still, and in that moment the cages of the Foucaultian prisons we had both been enslaved to suddenly came crashing in and nothing but a familiar comfort between souls was felt.
No words were ever spoken about it (at least not to each other). There was the quiet understanding that we both did not know what that just was, and it was certainly the wrong time to even dare to figure it out. But, what that type of connection did do, however, was make room for true and open dialogue of some things I would usually never dare to tell another human being (let alone a teacher or professor) or put into writing.
Too, that type of connection made way for our souls to be able to say, “I get you.” “You are not a mistake.” “Tell me what you have to say, and I will listen without judgement.”
This came to an important head in the final paper of the semester, which was to be a research type paper. Each person in the class had to choose from a list of modern inventions or technologies and then perform research upon which we would write our final thesis papers.
From the list, I chose “Designer Babies”. Little did I know the path down which research into this topic would lead. From designer babies, to Eugenics, to the killing of disabled children, and ending up in the Holocaust.
This research was astounding, appalling, and down right soul-crushing.
The thesis statement possibilities were endless. However, because of the unspoken connection, office hours were filled with personal stories, fears, and an all too true acknowledgement that had I been born just a few decades earlier, I might have been in the gas chambers because of my disabilities.
My concerns—for humanity, for a repeat of history—came tumbling out of my soul like a cascade of endless water. I had this ferocious yet veracious need in my soul to stand up for all the lives lost and to give life to the fears of all the lives that could be lost in like manner if the current social climate does not change. The room was heavy. But, the conversations were held in love.
My teacher wanted to hear it all. He again told me to let every idea be spoken, be given a life of its own, and to be considered. After many a trying conversation, we landed on a pinpoint thesis statement. And off I went to writing. Draft after draft, the horrifying discoveries were endless. Dwindling it down to the allotted page count was a harrowing feat. But accomplished the dwindling was in the dwindling hours of due day.
This paper, and its final words still stick with me to this very day: “—before they even have a chance at life.”
Life. What a word to end the semester on. Life. The word I would later hang my heart upon.
After the semester was over, my soul was finally able to dare breath a word of everything it held private for 5 months. And when my soul spoke, the only way it knew how to express the love it felt was in prose about stars, and the moon; love, and the light it shone in the darkness. For me, these notions were the only way my soul knew to talk about the speaking of souls as if they had known each other for a million lifetimes.
Perhaps this story seems inconsequential in the telling of my long journey to the Jewish Faith. But, as I would come to find out, my poems about the moon, and stars; light in the darkness; and love were the first glimmers of the Jewish soul that I had tucked away under my ribcage.
Again, none of it made sense in the moment. But standing where I am today, now it’s all perfectly clear.
At the time, I did not know why I again was face to face with the truths of the Holocaust within the University setting. You see, during my first undergraduate program, the same situation occurred as well. In my final semester, the registrar wrote me to say that they noticed I needed a writing course in order to graduated. There was literally only one class available for me to take given the rest of my double-major course load: "Witnesses Not There". This class was about Jewish Children of Holocaust Survivors and the Stories these children had to tell.
Looking back from where I stand today, again, Hashem's hand was on everything. As you will read in later Parts of this story, my story became a living example of the works I read and wrote about. I again have a ferocious, yet veracious need in my soul to stand up and speak out. For myself. For the Jewish Community. For Israel. For life. For Love. And for Truth. The parallels are uncanny. And I still cannot fully comprehend Hashem's workings, but I know His hand is on it all.
This love-connection of souls occurred just prior to when my entire world was flipped upside down and torn apart (yet again). Before any notion of religion or faith even entered my mind, let alone my heart.
It seems that before Hashem made any move to bring me to Himself, He first wanted me to know what true love felt like, so that, when He truly showed up, I would recognize true love, and therefore, recognize Him.
Too, it was as if He made my heart feel life and love, so that when the false gods tried to fool me with death, my soul could know the difference. This test, in turn, proved to be true. I did, in the end, end up being sold a bill of false love in the name of religion that was foreign to my soul.
I was able to recognize the falsities by comparing what was declared as love to this true sense of love felt long ago. Ultimately, the comparison revealed the hate dressed up in sheep’s clothing, to which I said, “This is not right. Something is wrong here. This cannot be love. This cannot be G-d!”
Am Yisrael Chai!
by Kimberly Davis
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