I always had a romantic view of camping. Something stirred in my soul as I pondered sleeping outdoors under the stars, cooking over a crackling campfire, watching waves lap lazily along a sparkling shoreline.

My first "camping" experience was with my dad. He and I, and later, my sister as well, were in the YMCA Indian Princesses program (now known as the Adventure Princesses program). It was special daddy-daughter time. We had great fun, especially during the seasonal weekend "campouts," which involved sleeping in cabins and eating in a large communal hall, playing games, tobogganing in the winter, and doing all kinds of crafts and outside activities. The dads built campfires where we sang songs, lit marshmallows on fire and ate s' mores. For my young self, it was a rugged outdoor experience. At least that's what I thought.

Then I went to Camp Windego, a Girl Scout camp in Wild Rose, Wis., for two-week stretches during a couple of summers. There, we slept in tents on wood platforms. I learned to build a campfire myself and cooked whole meals over it, eating things I never ate before. It's amazing what you'll eat when you're starving and there are no other options.

I learned to canoe and make floatation devices out of my wet clothes. I discovered that I disliked outhouses, especially in the middle of the night, although an outhouse was a major improvement over digging a hole in the woods for such purposes. I also learned that I truly didn't like mosquitoes or spiders, no matter what. They simply didn't fit my romantic view of camping.

Despite outhouses and bugs, I still dreamed of sleeping under the stars, and looked forward to "real camping" someday.

Fortunately, I married someone who loves the outdoors. He never camped as a kid, so we bought a little tent and went camping. It was fun to watch him enjoy the experience.

Fast-forward a number of years, and weekend camping trips became part of our family's summer ritual. For several years, we enjoyed the serendipity of rain-free camping. We grew more confident in our outdoor skills and purchased a beautiful tent that would sleep all five of us comfortably, with room to spare. We headed to Devil's Lake in Baraboo, Wis., for the tent's maiden voyage—an apropos description for the experience.

After setting up and admiring our new purchase, and then filling it with sleeping bags and gear, we built a fire and cooked dinner. Exhausted by the three-hour car ride, fresh air and activity, we snuggled in under a starry sky—the ultimate in camping romance. I remember thinking we forgot something.

Several hours later, I woke to popping bursts of light, crashing thunder and the sounds of three distressed kids. A stream of water poured from the roof seams onto my head.

I remembered what I forgot: One must seal the seams of a new tent to avoid leakage.

"Try to go back to sleep," I told the kids. That lasted for maybe five minutes, as our sleeping bags absorbed water that not only came from the ceiling, it flowed from the sides of the tent as well.

My husband and I stared at each other as lightening flashed again, wordlessly communicating an action plan. He got up, ran outside, started our vehicle and turned on the lights. With the kids loaded inside the minivan, he and I made record time tearing down the mud-covered tent and its sodden contents, stuffing everything into the trunk area. Within 10 minutes, we were on the road toward home, the kids sleeping soundly in the back seat.

Did my romantic notions about camping change after that experience? Heck, no.

When we lived in Minnesota, I was a Girl Scout leader, and volunteered to chaperone a summer overnight campout in August. The night was clear and the Perseid meteor showers were scheduled to be in full view, so we let the girls who were interested sleep under the stars.

The meteor shower was indescribable. We lay on the ground in our sleeping bags, eyes cast upward, trying to count the twinkling stars as they made their way across a velvet sky. My childhood dream was coming to fruition! The night air cooled. The girls' voices quieted one by one. Confident that they were finally going to sleep, my eyelids drooped.

Until someone screamed, "What was THAT?" I looked up. Then I heard it—a soft flutter.

Then I saw it. Or rather, them.

Bats.

Of course, the bats were more interested in eating the mosquitoes and other nighttime bugs than bothering a bunch of girls in sleeping bags on the ground; however, the girls were unconvinced. They ran into their tents.

My idyllic image of sleeping under the stars ended. I became more pragmatic about camping—but not completely.

One Memorial Day weekend we headed to Minnesota's North Shore. I was excited to learn that there were campsites available right on the lakeshore. All practicality disappeared as I imagined sleeping next to the lake, the sound of the waves carrying into my dreams. (Feel free to insert a sigh here.)

However, I forgot something. Again. The average May low temperature in that area is 40 degrees—a whopping 8 degrees above freezing, often made colder when the wind comes off a recently defrosted Lake Superior. Throughout the night, one or another family member was up, shuffling in his or her bag to pull on one more sweatshirt, a pair of socks, even gloves. Only a crack-of-dawn fire and cup of hot chocolate helped alleviate the chill—as did sitting in the car with the heater on "high."

Our kids are grown now, and my husband and I both prefer sleeping on a mattress to not sleeping on the hard ground. We love being outdoors, but appreciate life's comforts as well.

Still, if I ever have the chance to sleep under the stars with my grandkids—I will do it. Bats and all.

I love the rhythm of communal events–carnivals, parades, concerts and even an occasional protest. I love watching people interact with each other, seeing how they dress and talk and wondering about their lives. As a writer, I am inspired by people's stories and as a photographer–well, I do my best work when people are unaware of my presence. Candid photos are like little gifts of time, permanently capturing little slices of life that reflect the human soul and sometimes, a community's spirit, too. 

Sunday's Israel Solidarity Day was rich with those experiences. An estimated 8,000 plus people filled Ravinia in Highland Park to celebrate their common heritage and demonstrate their love and affection for the Jewish Homeland. Jewish United Fund put the event together with the help of numerous sponsors–so there was no charge to attend. There was falafel and hummus (seriously, what else do you need to eat?) People enjoyed music, arts and crafts, a communal walk for Israel–and having lots of time and space to simply visit and picnic with friends and relatives from all over Chicago. 

Then there were the drums. Their passionate percussion reverberated from every corner of the park, calling everyone to the center to dance, to shout, to celebrate Israel and life, to delight in the sunshine of a beautiful spring day. At first, only a few little kids pounded out the rhythms with the King David Drummers, but it didn't take long for a crowd to gather and become caught up in the joyful noise, toes tapping, hands clapping and feet moving in cadence. 

Looking through my photographs of the day, I see people from every age group represented–from tiny babies to great-grandparents. People are laughing, hugging and calling to family and friends across the park. An impromptu patchwork of picnic blanket villages grows across the crowded lawn, creating a home base for families, friends and congregations. 

I captured my favorite moment of the day while taking a break in a quiet area of the park. A young boy carried a huge Israel flag and was waving it back and forth to the music in his head as he danced along the walkway. He was completely involved in his sweet, personal celebration, and I picked up my camera to snap the scene.

His uninhibited joy represented my feeling about the whole day. Hooray for fun! Hooray for Israel! Hooray for Chicago's Jewish community! 

Hooray for spring! 

 
Photo by Christine Sierocki Lupella

I'm waiting.

Sometimes, I find myself holding my breath - hoping and daydreaming like child anticipating a birthday party and its colorful trappings. The assortment of brightly wrapped gifts. Friends - so many friends - playing games and laughing and singing "Happy Birthday." Clusters of vibrant balloons magically floating in midair.

Technically, spring arrived less than a week ago, along with a disappointing blast of frigid air. I am sure I was among a multitude that begrudgingly donned a heavy sweater for the billionth time; pulled on boots that become exponentially heavier the more often they are worn, and wrapped their faces in a sagging scarf.

Will winter never end? My own thought joined the cacophony of complaints that would be deafening had they been spoken aloud. We long for freedom - from layers of clothing, from stale, dry, heated air, from gray skies that dump sleet and snow on our tired souls.

We're all waiting. The signs are there - a teaser for what is yet to come. On this particular day, the sun is actually shining and my dogs take advantage, sprawling in radiant rays that stream through the windows and across the floor. Birds - returning from their winter homes - hover around the feeders, their satisfied chirps audible even through closed windows.

A crusty carpet of snow still covers the lawn. (I live north of the border and we received the majority of white stuff during the past weeks' storms.) There was a rumor that we'd be getting more tomorrow, and I sigh in disgust.

Oh, well. One of these days, the snow will disappear and spring will really be here. I can't wait to open windows and let fresh air blow through the house, to see the crocus' tiny pops of green, purple, yellow and white - sometimes even through the last stubborn patches of snow. At this point, I almost look forward to wiping mud from my dogs' paws every time I take them outdoors, because it will mean winter has melted away.

We are all waiting for spring.

The real spring.

The spring that summons winter-weary souls to head outdoors, to drink in the sunshine and warmer air and the promise of long, leisurely days and sultry, starry nights.

I am ready to dig in the garden, to walk along the lake and feel its breeze kissing - rather than biting - my cheeks. I am ready to walk the dogs, to ride my bike, to sit on the porch and sip coffee in the morning.

This time of year, it's challenging to mindfully celebrate each day, whether or not the weather inspires me to do so. I appreciate winter for what it is - a time of rest and reflection for all living things.

However, like the bulbs and seeds that have been sitting silently in the frozen ground for months, I've had enough. I am ready to bloom.

Are you?

  
A view of Jerusalem from the Mount of Olives during a recent trip to Israel.
Photo by Christine Sierocki Lupella

I started writing this message on a sunny Shabbat morning in Jerusalem, during my first visit to Israel. The first few days of my adventure involved myriad hours touring this ancient city, although people - rather than artifacts - made the biggest impression on me.

I am a Christian and my concept of Israel has mostly been based on Biblical knowledge, an amalgamation of history and faith. As an American working for a Jewish communal organization, I have some notion of Israel's importance in the global arena - but I have not always had detailed reasons for supporting Israel that I can share with others.

During my travels with journalists and others from the American Jewish Press Association, we shared a post-Shabbat dinner discussion with several people from the Jerusalem-based Shalom Hartman Institute, "a center of transformative thinking and teaching that addresses the major challenges facing the Jewish people and elevates the quality of Jewish life in Israel and around the world."

Dr. Marcie Lenk, a Hartman Institute fellow, discussed the program she directs, "New Paths: Christians Engaging in Israel" project. She cited results of a Pew Research Center Report (December 2012), noting that  50 percent of American Evangelical Christians sympathize with Israel, 10 percent with Palestine and 27 percent sympathizing with both. She worked with a Christian team to develop an "Introduction to Israel" course for Christians, taught by Christians, rather than Jews. Eight U.S. churches are testing the curriculum.

The idea is to help people think about Israel as "more than the place that Jesus walked," Lenk said. She ultimately hopes American Christians will connect with modern Israel in some way. While the course includes some history, that is not its sole focus. The Institute wanted to avoid getting into "dueling history books," she said. Instead, Christians can read Israel's Proclamation of Independence and discuss what it meant for Jews, how Israel has been portrayed by American and global media - and whether Israel has yet met the goals set forth in 1948. The idea is to demonstrate the complexity of modern Israel, Lenk said. Poetry - written by both Israelis and Palestinians - is also part of the curriculum.

My experience in Israel was emotional and inspiring. As I walked through Jerusalem's Old City, the spicy scents, raucous chatter and bright colors provided a backdrop of history against the bumpy stones layered beneath my feet - a reminder of what life might have been like when Jesus walked those same streets 2,000 years or so ago.

For several days, ancient Jerusalem consumed my mind. Archaeological treasures were everywhere I looked. There was so much history, so much to learn - it was almost overwhelming. At the same time, people dressed in modern garb, drove cars on the streets, ate together, argued about election results and breathed life into the ancient scenery. Far more than a tourist destination, Israel is home for 7.9 million diverse people who make Israel a daily experiment in democracy on the world stage.

I now have a concrete connection to Israel that I lacked prior to a few weeks ago. While Israel is far too complex to understand in the context of one week, I have a much better grasp of its culture and people, of the landscape, and a connection to my faith tradition that defies my previous imagination. I believe dialogue between people of different cultures is exciting and necessary for finding common ground. I hope the Hartman Institute's New Paths program promotes this kind of open communication, which in my opinion, has the potential to change the world for the better.

For more on the Shalom Hartman Institute, visit http://hartman.org.il/

If I was limited to only two words, those are the words I choose to describe Israel. 

The change started when I was invited to tour Israel with the American Jewish Press Association. I have not been out of the country since I was 14 and never had my own passport. I hoped my husband could go, but his work schedule did not allow it. 

That meant I would be going to a different country thousands of miles away. Alone. 

I didn't know anyone on the tour. I didn't know anyone in Israel. 

Truth: I was nervous. But not enough to miss this kind of an opportunity. 

I wasted a lot of energy worrying about whether my passport would arrive on time. Of course, it did. As my travel date approached, I felt nervous again. What if I got sick? What if someone in the family got sick while I was gone? What would it be like? What should I pack? 

The translation, of course, is that I'm a closet control freak and there would be a lot of things out of my control. 

I let them go and focused on packing. 

Because the Israel Ministry of Tourism sponsored our tour, we were offered opportunities to see and do things that most people would not be able to do - at least not in the week or so we have been here. 

I connected with history in a way I never imagined. 

I got lost (fortunately, with a colleague) in the Old City of Jerusalem. We had a "map" that was not the most accurate device. I hate getting lost, but we just kept walking. 

A young man from one of the shops in the marketplace helped us find our bearings. He was one of the first to do so without insisting on shekels first, so I asked him whether he had scarves in his shop - which he did. He wanted us to see his brother's jewelry shop around the corner, so we followed and spent nearly an hour looking at the lovely designs, talking with them about their life in Israel and purchasing some of their wares. 

They offered us coffee or tea, which we gently refused - but then one of them said in his culture, it's important to receive hospitality when it is offered. So we accepted and were treated to a delightful cup of tea with mint leaves. 

If we hadn't been lost, we never would have met them. Yes, they were selling but they were also open to talking about their culture. 

I lost my fear of people I don't know - OK, so it's not fear, but it's a general discomfort that I can hide pretty well. I've gotten to know some of my colleagues and I feel like we're old friends after traveling together for so many hours and miles. 

Like I said, Israel changed me. 

Yesterday I checked three things off my bucket list. Things I figured I'd never do because I was really afraid to do two of them. 

We went to a reef in Eilat, a beautiful resort area on the Red Sea, to swim with dolphins. Not just swim - dive. As in put on a wetsuit, mask, tank, weights, flippers and all those good things and gracefully descend into the water. I have snorkeled before, and love it. Getting used to only taking air through my mouth from a tank was a little unsettling. My teacher was a patient man who spoke calmly to me when I became impatient with myself. Meanwhile, the dolphins circled around us. I'm pretty sure they were laughing at me.

I finally relaxed and we descended 15 or 20 meters. I faced my fear and did it in Israel. 

Like I said, it changed me. 

A couple of hours later, I was high in the Eilat Mountains on the back of a camel. She was a lovely, soft creature with long eyelashes and a mellow attitude. It was more exciting than scary - I have ridden a horse before and I think it was more comfortable on the camel. Truthfully, it may have been faster to walk. But we were on camels! In the mountains! The only sound was the padding of their feet on the rocky soil, occasional laughter or conversation, and the wind whispering the secrets of the ages as we ascended the mountain. 

After our ride, we gathered in a tent and enjoyed Bedouin-style hospitality. A young man served us tea and bread, both cooked over an open fire. Several ibex came down the mountain to check us out. We relaxed and enjoyed each other's company. 

Then our host talked us into staying for the newly established "adventure course" - a complicated maze of ropes and zip lines. I said, no, I would watch the others and learned again that when hospitality is offered in Israel, it must be accepted. 

Five minutes later, I was wearing a helmet and my legs, waist and rear end were wrapped up in a belt. I ascended a ladder to the first part of the course - truthfully only 20 feet or so off the ground - and stopped. 

I was finished. I said, "Thank you," and started to go back down the ladder. 

Our host - and my supportive colleagues - cheered me on, urging me to keep going. One deep breath and I was on my way across the rope, and then across another and then it was time for the zip line. 

I held my breath, wrapped my hands around the ropes holding me up, sat back and jumped. 

I never, ever thought I would do something like that. I felt like a little kid again (although I probably would have been too scared to try it when I was a kid.)

 

Inside, I realized that most of what holds us back is our own thought patterns. 

I had to go to Israel to figure out how to let mine go. And now, I'm ready to take on the world! 

Israel is more than history. It's more than politics. It's a vibrant, growing country with more opportunities than anyone can imagine, with strong, interesting, open people. 

I love it here and can't wait to come back. 

Thank you, Israel! 

Twenty-five years.

A quarter of a century.

My "babies" celebrate this landmark birthday today. I keep thinking that is not possible.

I was almost 25 when they were born, and that was last year—OK, it seems like last year. Time seems to fold into itself as it passes, making it possible for me to look into their eyes and see them as men, teenagers, toddlers, infants. All at the same time.



It bothers me when I am not with them on their birthday, and this is one of those years. Their dad and I missed seeing them over the weekend because everyone had a different schedule. A couple of us are traveling starting today and into next week, so we are putting off the official commemoration for a couple of weeks.

My husband and I are celebrating our boys in our own way today, playing "Remember when…?" via phone, text and email. Silver and gold threads of memories run through my mind, becoming the warp and weft of our sons' life tapestries—a weave of random moments that make up a beautiful, dynamic whole.

Here are a few of the images that came up in our conversation:

Hey, I know that guy: One nearly inconsolable newborn who quieted within a minute of being tucked in next to his sleeping twin on their first day at home.

Shopping saga: A young (haggard) mom pushing a grocery cart filled to the top and then some, a 3-year-old seated in the front. She drags another cart behind her that contains two baby carriers (and two babies).

Thumbs up: Two babies laying on a blanket on the living room floor and sucking each other's thumbs.

Double choking phenomenon: When one baby gagged on delicious wallpaper paste-like cereal or tasty ground up peas, his twin would gag as well—even though he wasn't eating anything at that particular moment.

Fashion by the foot: Combining two pairs of miniature Chuck Taylor high tops, one turquoise and one yellow—hey, it was the 80s—so the boys' shoes "matched," only on opposite feet.

Home sweet home: A four-year-old boy announces that he is NEVER getting married. Mom: "Why not?" Son: "Because I'm going to live with you FOREVER!"

Then there are the memories that became trophies on the mantel of family legend:

Call the cops: After a multiple-mile hike on the bluffs of Devil's Lake, Wis., on a hot summer day, a tired dad tucks an exhausted toddler under each arm to make the trek to the car. One is practically asleep by the time they get to the parking lot, but the other has more hiking to do and starts yelling, "Help me! Help me!" at the top of his lungs. Parents are grateful that people in the park laugh rather than call the police.

Blacktopped: The 3-year-old who knocked his front teeth loose after a fall on the driveway and then told the dentist, "I got blacktop on my teef." The dentist polished his teeth to shiny white—and they eventually tightened up.

Logic from the left: Although one boy was scolded for doing something, the brother—who was in the room at the time—would do exactly the same thing. Parent: "Why did you do that when I just told your brother not to?" Offending child: "But you didn't tell ME not to do it."

More logic from the left: "Why should I take hair advice from a guy who has none?" Said to the follicly challenged father, ending a passionate discussion about household hairstyling requirements—and providing amusement to the father nearly a decade later.

Blowin' in the wind: The dad drives past an 80-foot Norway pine on his way home and notices the branches swaying near the top. He stops, opens the car window and looks—realizing that the swaying is due to the presence of  a 6- or 7-year-old son who climbed the tree "because he wanted to put a piece of tape at the top."

Birthdays are celebrations, but they are also mile markers—indicating where we have been and who we have become.

Happy birthday, A and E. Your mom and dad are always with you, wherever you might be.

 Glitter. 

 Greenery. 

 Flashing strings of lights. 

Spending and baking and eating—what a sight. 

I've been looking at the American holiday season with a different lens. While I learned early on that not everyone celebrates Christmas, I hadn't really thought about how it might feel to other people, when the decorations, school programs, television commercials and everything else shouts—no, screams CHRISTMAS!  

Recently, I had a conversation with one of my coworkers who grew up in a non-Jewish community. The school choir, of which she was a member, performed a holiday concert each year. She enjoyed singing some of the traditional, non-religious tunes. Religious Christmas songs were included in the repertoire, but there was no musical representation of Chanukah. She said sometimes that emphasized the feeling that she didn't fit in. 

Certainly, the choir director and the school didn't purposely mean to hurt anyone. Back then (I hate saying that—it's a clear indication I am way past 35), people didn't really think past their own beliefs and experiences. Fortunately, that has changed over the years, but there is always room for improvement. 

And here I am on the other side of her experiences—a minority among people who celebrate Chanukah. Fortunately, I don't feel left out. No one here at JUF minds my endless questions about how to spell or say different words, what they mean, which food goes with what celebration, and so on. Folks are patient, kind and respectful—a testimony to the people with whom I work and the overall attitude of this community. 

For Christians, Christmas is supposed to be a celebration of Christ's birth, a time to spread peace on earth and bring joy to the world. Somewhere along the way, trees, decorations and presents appeared in the mix. 

OK, I know. Who doesn't like trees, decorations, or especially presents? Making a list of our heartfelt desires and checking it twice (we were naughty sometimes, but mostly nice), and wondering which wishes would magically be granted Christmas morning was part of the holiday's mystique in my child's mind. I loved spending time at my grandparents' respective homes during what was essentially a two-day celebration of food and family. 

We always went to church as a family, sometimes on Christmas Eve, sometimes Christmas morning, singing Christmas carols, hearing the story, celebrating not only the birth of Christ but, I suppose, the birth of our faith traditions as well. 

When my husband and I had kids, we helped them focus on the holiday by singing "Happy Birthday" to Jesus and blowing out candles on a little cake. It was a simple way to get the message across that we worried would be lost in the commercial craziness. We taught them to be thankful and more than that, worked to demonstrate the joy of giving—whether money or time or material goods—our tzedakah, if you will. We hoped the message would follow them into adulthood and be passed to our grandchildren. 

With all these things in mind, my holidays have become something bigger. Perhaps that is my gift this year—this connection to people, without it mattering whether we celebrate the light that lasted eight days or the one my faith tradition calls the light of the world. 

 Let there be peace, joy…and light! 

Happy Chanukah.