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Part 2: The Turning Tide

Updated: 9 hours ago



My Long Journey Home to Judaism: Part 2

The Turing Tide


Winter turned into spring. Spring turned to summer. Summer turned to fall. And fall, well, fall fell into a deep dark winter. With only 2 semesters of my studies left, the carpet was pulled out from under my feet. I was forced to leave Columbia against my will due to financial factors and decisions that were out of my control.

In a moment, all of my hopes and dreams were crushed, yet again. Shattered, like glass, and scattered to the wind. Where would I go from here?


Every ounce of my being wanted to throw in the towel. Would this cycle of building up and destruction ever end? I was not sure I wanted to stick around to find out. The only thing that kept me holding on was the glimmer of life and love that my soul found in writing poetry of the love it once found, even if it could never be held.


So, write, and write I did. About life, about loss, about pain, about strength, about courage, and about love. I wrote on the train. I wrote on the bus. I wrote as I walked up and down the busy New York streets. I wrote in my tiny nest of an apartment. I wrote until I felt I could write no more, and then I wrote still more.


The freedom I found in expressing my soul gave my heart enough courage to hold on. I did not know what I was trying to hold on to, or hold on for (for that matter), but hold on, I did. In deciding to hold on, I also had to decide where I would go. Back to the Deep South? Stay in the City? Go an hour east to a family friend in my home town?


I decided I would stay around, or near, the City in case somehow, some way a door reopened for me to finish my studies. That door never came, but again, Hashem proved He had a different door in mind.


Since I wanted to stay in the City, I knew I had to try and find somewhere to live that had at least some semblance of nature around. All the noise and hustle and bustle of “the City that Never Sleeps” was proving too much for my soul at the time. So, I searched for apartments on the outskirts of New York. I found several listed in a small beach town in Queens.


So, on a rainy and dreary day, I hopped on the train and took the nearly 2 hour ride to Belle Harbor. When I arrived, it was pouring. And I smiled as I strolled slowly down the sleepy beach town streets until I found the entrance to the boardwalk. Drenched, I slipped off my shoes and ran to the ocean. I waded shin-deep in the mighty waters and let my soul be washed by the waves.


In that moment, I felt alive. I felt free. And with an unexplainable sense in my soul, I felt at home.


The realtor I was to meet for apartment showings never showed up. So I spent a little more time sitting on the boardwalk in the pouring rain taking in the sights and sounds of the ocean. I don’t know how long I sat there, but eventually I made my way back to the bus stop, and started the long journey back to Uptown Manhattan.


I searched out other realtors and a week or so later I made another trek out to the beach for apartment showings. On the bus, I sat next to this friendly older woman. She had bags full of baby clothes. I made a comment about how cute they were and she started talking all about her family. She asked me what brought me to town and I told her I was apartment hunting. We talked and talked until we arrived at the beach. We got off at the same stop. She invited me into her home for tea. She just met me, but she offered to come to the apartment showing with me to “put in a good word,” which, she said, “helps in this part of town!”


It was not until I moved into the apartment a few months later that I understood why the nice older woman was concerned about who was moving into her neighborhood. It turns out, the town was made up of mostly Jewish residents, most secular, some Hasidic, and some residents were clearly not Jewish at all.


The apartment complex I was renting was owned by nice Jewish family. On Saturdays you could tell my apartment was also situated in a part of town with a number of Hasidim. From my small balcony, however, you could see a large Catholic Church. None of this made any difference to me at the time. But, again, looking back, Hashem’s hand was on it all.


Shortly after moving into my apartment, I was able to find a job at an Emergency Veterinary Clinic. I was also still working a few nights back in Uptown Manhattan. This left very little time for sleep and the stress of emergency medicine had my soul seeking an outlet. There was a bar around the corner from my apartment. On Fridays (my day off) I would clean in the morning, grocery shop in the afternoon, and, on occasion, stroll over to the bar in the evening if only to talk (or should I say, vent) to the bar tender over a glass of tequila.


It was at the bar that I met my one friend in the town. A nice Jewish man. Though he was very secular, this too was a work of Hashem’s hand. One day, we were talking and my friend showed me His Tanakh. He said, “See! It’s just like your bible!” It was then, that I kindly had to tell him that I don’t know if I had ever even opened a bible let alone read one.


Growing up, my family was very non-religious. My parents occasionally dragged us to Church on Christmas and Easter, only because it “was thing you do” in the town were I grew up. Yet, our only understanding of Christmas was a Christmas tree and of Easter, the Easter Bunny. We celebrated these holidays more as American Holidays than for any particular reason.
I do remember being a small child and being awestruck by the warm atmosphere and the sense of wonder. This wonder and awe, perhaps, was fueled by the fact that I could not wrap my little head around the contradictions of what I would hear in the pulpit and the stark difference to the abuses I was facing in other areas of my life. If there was a god, I certainly could not comprehend why he (or she, I honestly didn’t know or care at the time) would allow such things to happen.

Anyway, back to my friend. When I told him about my non-bible reading, he became even more excited to tell me about the Tanakh. It was written in Hebrew, with English translations. At the time, I was trying to take it all in, but my heart did not process anything.


Fast forward a month. At work, I got bit by a dog, the wound became infected, and my body became septic. I was hospitalized for over a week. My roommate was an old Jewish woman, who had fallen into a coma and was receiving hospice care. Her children would come every day and recount story after story after story of her joyous life.


One day, her oldest son finally showed up. It was then that she finally went to sleep for a while (may Hashem give rest to her soul and may Moshiach come today so she may live again!) Due to the Jewish customs, her body could not be moved for 3 days. The hospital had no other rooms available. So I had to lay there, horrified, saddened, and sobbing in my bed.


This, again, did not make sense to me at the time. Looking back, however, it was as if Hashem was telling me what He was about to do.
I will perhaps get into detail later, but for now, suffice it to say that after doing some digging on my family ancestry (of which hardly anything is known by anyone alive today), it appears that I, in fact, hail from Jewish heritage on my mother’s side.
I cannot be certain (due to lack of concrete paper trails and possible name changes), but it appears that we may come from German Jews who fled to Europe to escape the progroms, who then eventually came to the USA. When they arrived here, my family moved to well-known Jewish towns in New York and other parts of New England.
Doing more research, it appears that no one would move to these towns in those days unless they were Jewish. Deeper digging reveals that once my family was in the USA, they (from the looks of things) started intermarrying. (One person, for certain, married into a family of a renowned preacher of his day). Eventually, it seems, all attachment to Judaism (and religion in general) was slowly but surely cut out of my family.

Laying (septic) in the hospital room with this Jewish grandmother, a blessed memory, is a very fitting description, it seems, to describe the spiritual state of my family: Septic without Hashem. With no one to carry on the torch of the Jewish faith within our family, our heritage would soon be cut off forever if something was not done.

Too, as I walk deeper along this journey, it appears that I was again bit by a ferocious dog within the confines of religion. My soul became septic, but Hashem had mercy. In love, He used all of the pain, hurt and abuse to bring me to the Jewish faith (as will be told in the Parts to come). I have mostly healed from that spiritual dog bite, and it is now my prayer, that perhaps one day, I can be like that old Jewish mother and grandmother. With stories of Jewish peace and love; hope and joy told that will balance out the stories of pain, loss, and heartache.

You see, little did I know, Hashem was about to move in ways that are still hard to comprehend to this day.


I recovered from the dog bite shortly after the woman's passing and was able to be discharged home. From there, I worked hard and hardly slept. But I kept on keeping on. In late October, I lost two of my most beloved patients, Warrior and Gabriel (two abused, emaciated pit bulls). One day, I was asked to give a tour of the hospital to a nice group of people, so I did. Then, out of nowhere, I was informed that the company I worked for would be selling the company and would not be taking on the Internal Medicine department in which I worked. Turns out, I gave such a great tour of the hospital that I literally sold my own job out from under my own feet!


At that point, I was physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted. Put frankly, I was fed up.

The dark cloud of destruction was back again. And in the confines of my apartment, I blamed god, whoever god was.


I needed to vent to someone. So I strolled down to the beach town bar. I knew the bartender would listen. It was there, in my weakest moment that a pastor of one of the non-denominational churches showed up and sat next to me.

Some have told me, that, “See in your weakest hour J-man showed up!” But standing where I am today, this "showing up" was truly the work of the darkness that sits in a higher realm who came to pray on a weak, tired, and vulnerable soul. Knowing it could attach itself to my frail heart, it leaped in for the kill when I was at my lowest. (To know what I mean, just read The Book of Job).
I do not say this lightly, but with wisdom-filled hindsight. Even still, Hashem took what the enemy meant for evil and turned it for good.

The pastor and I talked and talked. He asked me what I thought about god. I said, “I am not sure you really want to know.” After conversing some more, I told him that I believed there was a power greater than myself. God or some spiritual energy, I did not know. But if a god existed, I was not in the good graces of him, her, or whatever it was.


I also talked about the stars. The moon. The energetic forces. Again, without knowing it, all the ways in which I spoke about my notions of G-d evidence the spark of a Jewish soul that lived within me long before I knew it existed.


Dismissing my comments about my notions of a mystical, energy-bound higher power, the pastor told me about the J-Man, and invited me to the Bible study he was having at the coffee shop next door. I did not go that night. Nor the next Friday. It took me several months to finally go. Once I went, I kept going.

Looking back, it’s quite fitting (or perhaps ironic) that in the congregation, there was a Jewish man who was contemplating converting to Christianity. This meeting with, and befriending, a Jewish Convert phenomenon would be a constant theme in nearly every church I attended while I journeyed through the church system. This phenomenon seems no small consequence nor coincidence, as if Hashem was putting pieces of my family history before my eyes, like a mirror. Eventually, He would ask me to choose between Himself and life or a false god and death.

Anyway, after meeting with the pastor, I spent many a Friday night in angst deciding whether or not to make the walk up the block and stop one door earlier than the bar or not. Without knowing why, one Friday, as I was walking to the bar, I did stop. Dead in my tracks, I stood in front of the coffee shop window. The dimmed lights gave a warm vibe and the smiling faces seemed so filled with joy--something my soul was definitely missing at the time. So, sheepishly, I knocked on the door.


The pastor who had met me those many months ago opened the door with a smile and asked, "Are you lost?" With my eyes glued to my shoes not knowing how to answer I said, "No, I just thought I'd come to your meeting if that's all right." He warmly welcomed me in. The other people in the room gave a friendly hello too.


The lesson: Moses and the Burning Bush

I remember my comments being about feet and fire. Souls and star dust. But the rest, I cannot recall.


The group was very friendly. In no time at all, they became like family. In the Friday Bible study groups, I was urged to read the Bible. Hesitant, because I really hate reading due to my dyslexia, I scrounged around my apartment for the bright neon green book I knew I had carried with me in every place I lived, but never ever opened.


I eventually found the green neon book in the back of my dusty bookshelf. Brushing off the cobwebs, I cracked the spine:


Genesis 1:1 “In the Beginning God…”

Am Yisrael Chai!

by Kimberly Davis



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