I learned the Aleph-Bet with her voice (song)..

I came to the USA for the first time in 1996 because of Debbie Friedman.  After the incredible experience of singing in her choir at Limmud UK a couple of years earlier, I came to Hava Nashira to learn with her.  After a couple of years of seeing each other at Hava Nashira, and back in the UK for the Reform movement festival, we ended up spending some truly blessed time together one Summer when she came to Elat Chayyim to teach and I was working there. 

Debbie helped me to find my way, find myself, and I eventually moved to the US and completed my rabbinic studies at HUC-NY.  She inspired me in so many ways, and shared so much of herself.  She taught me how to stand in front of a community and 'take my clothes off' (figuratively speaking!) - to sing and pray and teach from a place of radical honesty.

Over 16 years there are so many memories, experiences, conversations, celebrations... I've been trying to write them all down because I don't want to forget a single one. I will forever treasure our friendship and miss Debbie terribly.

It is only in the last few days that I have come to realize just how significant Debbie's music has been in my life. In fact, I was sitting in the Shloshim service at HUC-JIR New York last Wednesday when it hit me: Debbie's music brought my family closer together and closer to our Judaism!

My father first heard Debbie's early music at youth group events during his teen years. He quickly took a liking, and I think that my first exposure to Debbie's work came when my dad bought an album (I think it was the Carnegie Hall concert) and played it in the car. My mother, often unable to find the spirituality in Jewish music that my dad thrived on, kept asking him to replay Oseh Shalom so she could sing along.

Later, when I had the opportunity to create my own Bar Mitzvah service, Debbie's music was featured prominently with songs like And The Youth Shall See Visions and Miriam's Song; the lyrics and melodies provided the anthem to a service based on the ideals of peace, freedom, and youth empowerment. Three years later, at her Bat Mitzvah, my sister was playing Debbie's music on flute and bringing tears to the entire room!

Thank you, Debbie, for all your contributions to the Jewish community and for enhancing my family’s connection to it. I hope that my children, and all the youth of their generation, will come to appreciate the gifts you have given us.

Debbie's music has been a part of my life since childhood.She visited my synagogue when I was a little girl through adulthood so I was fortunate to see my children fall in love with her music too, especially when she was the artist-in-residence and they sang with her.

I cherish the memories of singing with her and shmoozing with her when we both worked at HUC in NY. It was really special to bring one of my sons, who sang with her years before at temple, to visit her Music as Midrash class. She loved her students and truly kvelled over their accomplishments. During services and recitals, Debbie was happy in a supporting role. She graciously agreed to lead services at one of the Prospective Student Open Houses I ran but insisted on having the students be front and center.

Her music and her humanity have touched the lives of so many people. 

We will continue to sing her songs. Her memory is for a blessing.

We heard Debbie in her late teens in Boston, when she played the guitar and sang a few songs in the Temple, and she was very very good and we encouraged her to develop her repetoire and to go forth with her new innovations.  We heard from her and kept in touch for many years, and were happy to know that she and our daughter Shira who is a Cantor, graduate of HUC, became good friends til her death. 

I had the privilidge of knowing Debbie from age 14.  At the very first CAJE convention, I taught a workshop entitled "Songs for Shabbat Everybody Should Know".  It was a session on Traditional Shabbat Zemirot.  Debbie came to the session and said to me "I came to learn "Traditional" Judaism from you.  I sang in Debbie's chorus and attended her classes to learn "Reform" Judaism from her.

We were lifelong friends, making music, healing, laughing together.  Because of Debbie, I was always able to navigate between Reform and Conservative Judaism with ease. Just by being who she was, she changed 1,000 years of Jewish music, and opened many people's hearts and minds to many different forms of prayer 

I am privilidged to have known her.  May her memory always be for a Blessing!

B'ahavah,

Cantor Shira G. Belfer  

At the ordination and investiture at Temple Emanu-El last spring - May, 2010 - each of those being ordained and invested had selected a piece of music to be played as they stood at the Ark with David.  One of the students had chosen Debbie's Psalm 150.  When it began, we all turned toward Debbie, as her face broke into a smile from ear to ear.  You'd think no one had ever played any of her music in public before! She was utterly delighted.  It was so emblematic of Debbie's humility and charm.  She was such a sweet woman.

It’s the Delion Deli, corner of Waverly and Broadway at 7:55 am on a freezing cold February morning last year. I’ve stopped for a hardboiled egg and cup of tea on my way to HUC for my 8:40 class. Debbie is standing at the counter deep in a jocular conversation with one of the deli men about the kind of muffins they are selling that morning. They are on a first name basis, enjoying an interchange that had clearly begun long before today. Debbie takes out her credit card to pay for 8 or 10 muffins, some bagels and a large carton of orange juice. As I make my way up to the register, Debbie lights up when she sees me and promptly asks me what kind of muffin she can give me. I thank her and politely decline the offer. “What’s the occasion?” I ask, wondering why she is hosting a breakfast party in the middle of the semester. “It’s for my class,” she says sighing. “You know, these kids don’t eat breakfast. They rush out of the house, they’re so busy. I just want to make sure they get to eat something…” I notice the amount of the bill she pays for sizable, fancy muffins and bagels in this pricey deli in a prime New York location - a small fortune! As we walk together to school, I help her carry the bags of food. I realize later I am participating in an ongoing part of Debbie’s routine as a teacher at Hebrew Union College. Debbie was able to cut through the formalities and cultivate relationships with everyone with whom she came in contact - from the deli man, to the members of her audiences, to each student she taught, to every person in a sick bed who was blessed by her healing presence. She found the humanity within all of us. Her music continues to do this, too. It softly asks us to shed our hardened outer shell and sing with open hearts. Before we know it, we become more than participants in her song; we become co-creators our own deepest prayer. Debbie, your Torah will continue to nourish us, like those sweet muffins you gave your students.

At HUC, I was blessed to be a member of Debbie’s class entitled “Beyond Mi Shebeirach”, in which Debbie would teach us her music and share many of her stories with us.  Every week, we’d sit in a circle, eating muffins, singing Debbie’s songs, playing her “schlepper” guitar which she purchased on a whim from the Home Shopping Network, and conversing about spirituality and music.  Oftentimes as we sang together, Debbie would stop singing, close her eyes, and immerse herself in the sounds we were creating.  We were all continually impressed and amazed by her ability to connect with the Divine, no matter the environment or circumstance.  Needless to say, we all became quite close with Debbie that semester and made many memories that will last a lifetime.

While we were deeply saddened to lose Debbie as our teacher when she moved back to California, we kept in touch via email and the occasional phone call.  When I found out that she would be performing a concert for my home congregation in St Louis, I jumped at the chance to perform with her.  She graciously allowed me to join her on the bimah for a concert on Saturday, November 6, 2010.  She instructed me to come to the temple for a sound check that afternoon.  Upon my arrival, Debbie finished the song she was practicing with her band, hugged me tightly, and said, “Trace, what’s going on with you?  Something isn’t right.”  She was, of course, correct, and though I tried to brush off her concern, she sat me down on the steps of the bimah.  I couldn’t help but to tell her that my mom had been released from the hospital the previous day, after a very scary 10-day stay.  It was impossible to hold back my tears, finally releasing all of the fear, sadness, and anger the past couple of weeks had built up inside of me. 

After a few moments, I somehow found the courage to ask her the question that had been brewing throughout my mom’s hospital ordeal.  “Debbie, how can you sing Mi Shebeirach time after time, when we all know that our prayers are not always heard and answered.  Doesn’t it ever make you angry?”  She looked at me sweetly, closed her eyes, and thought.  “Oh, Trace,” she said.  “No words any of us could ever pray can work to heal the body.  Only God, and sometimes good doctors, can do that.  Our words and our songs, however, can heal the soul, or at the very least, bring us comfort.   So many times, that’s all any of us ever need.  I can sing this prayer because I believe that with my whole heart.” 

At that point, my tears turned to sobs.  Debbie stopped talking and put her arms around me, letting me cry and silently healing my soul.  That night at the concert, Debbie sang her beloved Mi Shebeirach to all of us in the audience.  More than once, she looked directly into my eyes, as if she was praying on my behalf.  It was during one of those moments when I realized just how right Debbie was.  Just as she had healed my soul, we have the power to heal others by singing her songs, and the songs of our own hearts.   Every time I sing Mi Sheberach, or any of Debbie’s other songs that touch me so deeply, I will forever feel Debbie’s arms around me, giving me the love and support I need to make it through even the roughest of times.

Debbie touched our lives deeply, personally and profoundly.  During her very difficult and challenging earlier illness Joe Glaser a"h and I spent much time with her. Together we talked and held close.  As she was able to move towards some physical recovery and resume her great work we talked about creating healing services and of course she took them to a whole new plane of possibility.  We shared many good times together and at a Shabbat dinner at our home in New Rochelle we introduced her to slow baked bologna southwestern style, which I had learned in Dallas.  She loved it and couldn't stop reminding me  of how good it was. Debbie knew how to enjoy the simple pleasures of life as well as elevate us all to touch the heavens and stand tall. As we stood and sat with her she too would stand and sit with us.  I'll never forget the times she would greet me outside the City Diner on the upper west side, running out of the restaurant calling "Shelly" at the top of her voice.  She was a human being of precious gifts, deep love and caring soulfulness.  We miss her terribly.  Her neshama will continue to touch and bless us forever.

While Debbie was teaching at the SSM, my rule for deciding which classes I should take with Debbie was to take everything she was teaching that would fit into my schedule in any possible way: I felt with Debbie, as I did with a few other faculty members, that I could only gain by being in her presence and absorbing anything she was offering to teach. This led me to take a class in Composition with my good friend Rollin Simmons. In that class, under Debbie's guidance, we studied the traditional bed-time Shema and Hashkiveinu texts, including the line 'the souls of the living and the dead are in Your hands'. Debbie encouraged us to engage with the idea of death, but also to reflect on the legacy of life. From that class, we penned a verse reminding ourselves to hold on to the lessons learned from our teachers and strive to leave a positive legacy for those yet to come.
 
We see so clearly in Debbie's passing how many people were affected by her teaching, her infectious enthusiasm, and good humored coercing. For me, the message was about pushing myself to play the “real chords”, and to trust my instincts. I’m certain that her message was personal to each individual student. She was an exceptional teacher, an extraordinary friend, and an incredible blessing to the HUC community and to each of us; her students and her colleagues.

I must admit, it is difficult to think of engaging fully in Jewish music without Debbie’s driving enthusiasm and quiet support. I miss my friend and my teacher. Yet I am certain that Debbie’s legacy is our responsibility. We must continue, as her songs teach us, to ‘arise and sing a new song to God’, for it is in doing so that we will continue to ‘make our lives a blessing’.

Coming of age in NFTY in the early 70s, Debbie's music was part of my Jewish journey.  To me, she had "rock star" status. Later in my life, especially in my work as a congregational rabbi, her music was integral to worship that I found to be spiritual, to the various groups of women who studied and prayed together, and, of course, to the healing services we created.  Although I first got to know Debbie as a person when my congregation worked with her and Ma'yan in crafting a Bat Mitzvah workshop for mothers and daughters (and I was introduced to her very dry and wicked sense of humor), it was not until I came to HUC-JIR that I had the privilege to begin to get to know the person behind the music. 

Three especially touching images come to mind:

Debbie always thanked me when I sent out good and welfare announcements to the community for being such a caring person.  (She also liked to entrap me with her jokes because I found it difficult to tell if she was serious; she said I was "teasable".)

The daughter of a dear friend of my husband's was born with a facial disformity and had to undergo numerous surgeries.  Debbie's music -- especially Mi Sheberach -- sustained her from the time she was a litte girl.  Her mother contacted Debbie when she was coming up to NYC for more surgery.  Debbie called the hospital and this young girl was ecstatic.  When I told Debbie how much that phone call had meant to the girl and her mother, she had tears in her eyes.

Finally, and most poignantly, at the 2008 Kallah (my first and, as it turns out, the last one Debbie was to attend), during tefillah one morning, we were singing one of Debbie's pieces (maybe it was Elohai Neshama).  I've always wondered what it felt like for composers to hear their music played and I looked over at Debbie -- tears were streaming down her face.  When I asked her about it afterwards, she said that she had never heard it sung quite so beautifully.  I could hardly imagine the joy in her heart to experience her creations coming alive in this way.

These and so many more are the gifts that Debbie gave to us -- through her music, through her very being.  Our sadness is without limit in this overwhelming loss of what was and what could have been.  Yet, we know that it is Debbie, through her words and music, who will continue to comfort and sustain us in the days ahead.   

Y'hi Zichrona livracha- may her memory abide among us always as a blessing.

While Debbie was teaching at the SSM, my rule for deciding which classes I should take with Debbie was to take everything she was teaching that would fit into my schedule in any possible way: I felt with Debbie, as I did with a few other faculty members, that I could only gain by being in her presence and absorbing anything she was offering to teach. This led me to take a class in Composition with my good friend Rollin Simmons. In that class, under Debbie's guidance, we studied the traditional bed-time Shema and Hashkiveinu texts, including the line 'the souls of the living and the dead are in Your hands'. Debbie encouraged us to engage with the idea of death, but also to reflect on the legacy of life. From that class, we penned a verse reminding ourselves to hold on to the lessons learned from our teachers and strive to leave a positive legacy for those yet to come.
 
We see so clearly in Debbie's passing how many people were affected by her teaching, her infectious enthusiasm, and good humored coercing. For me, the message was about pushing myself to play the “real chords”, and to trust my instincts. I’m certain that her message was personal to each individual student. She was an exceptional teacher, an extraordinary friend, and an incredible blessing to the HUC community and to each of us; her students and her colleagues.

I must admit, it is difficult to think of engaging fully in Jewish music without Debbie’s driving enthusiasm and quiet support. I miss my friend and my teacher. Yet I am certain that Debbie’s legacy is our responsibility. We must continue, as her songs teach us, to ‘arise and sing a new song to God’, for it is in doing so that we will continue to ‘make our lives a blessing’.

One of my very last conversations with Debbie was about the SSM Composers Showcase. We talked about how very, very honored she was to be teaching our students at HUC-JIR and how very proud she was of what our students have composed. She wanted everyone to hear these pieces and let our students shine and I know she was so longing forward to being at this past one.

I believe that as much as she taught us, she learned from us as well.  That was her gift to us.

I shall miss her terribly. My prayers will never be the same. I will now always hear her voice and feel her presence and know that she is always be with me.

Following Debbie’s death there was a good deal of controversy about whether or not Debbie was sufficiently “out” as a lesbian. Some of that debate appeared in blogs and even in the press.

Her sexual orientation was not mentioned at her funeral. And though one of her former lovers did speak, Tamara Cohen was not identified as such.

There were some who imagined the positive effect upon closeted or tortured gay kids that Debbie might have had  had she been more open about being a lesbian and these bloggers bemoaned the fact that Debbie didn’t serve as a gay role model to those kids.

For those of you who do not know, it will tell you something about Debbie to learn that, in the ‘80s, Debbie was an organizer of Aaron haKokesh later known as Ameinu, a very secret group of gay men and lesbians working in the Jewish community. This group met in absolute secrecy, knowing that its members would all lose their jobs were their sexual orientations to become known. Additionally, though Debbie did not “march in gay-pride parades,” as one blogger lamented, she did sing at both BCC and CBST, GLBT synagogues in LA and New York, where everyone knew she was a lesbian.

Debbie was fairly private about her personal life for many reasons. But among them was her, quite legitimate, concern – at least in the ‘80s -that her influence would be curtailed were she to come out. After her death, the journalist Jonathan Marx quoted an ex-lover of Debbie’s to whom a rabbi had said that he would not allow any of Debbie’s music to be played in his synagogue because he knew she was a lesbian. Moreover, remember that Debbie was often singing for and with children. And in the ‘80s no rabbi, cantor or educator anywhere in the Jewish world could afford to come out of the closet. In the late ‘80s, rabbis who were outed lost their jobs. (Two of my close friends lost their rabbinic jobs after being discovered to be gay.) The risks that GLBT professionals in the Jewish community faced were mirrored in the rest of the country:  teachers, day care workers, camp counselors and youth group leaders in any religious denomination or secular setting, who were discovered to be gay, could be fired and barred from contact with kids. Debbie was afraid this would happen to her.

Though Debbie was not remembered primarily as an outspoken champion of gay rights, she was a significant support to many gay and lesbian Jewish professionals at a time when that was a courageous, not a hip, thing to do. This too is part of the blessing she imparted to us.

Rabbi Margaret Moers Wenig

(This has been copies and pasted from a Word document. I hope that no errers appeared as a result.)

I did not know Debbie well, but that did not stop her from saying hello to me in the hall or starting a conversation with me in the elevator. She may not have remembered or even known my name, but I will never forget how kind and friendly she was with me, or how loved she was by her students.

Some 15 years ago members of the faculty and senior administration were asked to write our thoughts on “spirituality,” which later appeared in a book.

In my essay, which defended Classical Reform, I wrote, “Lewandowski gives me a frisson; Debbie Friedman gives me a head-ache.”

A very short time later I received a small package in the mail from Debbie. It contained a bottle of aspirin (1,000 tablets), a tape of “healing music” and a note from her, “hoping your head-ache is better.”

We had not seen one another in perhaps ten years when she started teaching here, and that first time she came running up to me with a big hug and a kiss, and a challenge: I’ll bet you don’t think I remember who you are.”

Come to think of it, whenever she saw me in the CL, she would always greet me with a hug and a kiss.

Remembering Debbie Friedman, z"l

From the moment I heard Debbie would be teaching a course during winter break - I quietly began ramping up my excitement about seeing her.  Then as soon as I heard she had been hospitalized that week prior, I knew she would not be here to teach.  Clearly I never anticipated the ultimate outcome.

These past few weeks I have listened and read what others have shared about the Debbie they knew and the loss we all share.  It is still hard to compute that she will not be passing this way again.

The Debbie I first met was no different than many others - as a joiner and sharer of her music and her space.  It is very easy to conjure up the memories of participating at a May'an seder and then attempting to replicate that feeling by inaugurating a women's seder at my own synagogue.  Imitation - the best form of flattery.
But then I heard she was coming to teach at HUC-JIR/NY - wow - hard for me to believe.  She was still someone I knew and admired from afar…and then all that changed.

It just happened one day.  She came into my office asking a question about something and that was that.  Our friendship had begun.  Our relationship was small - contained within our times together.  She would sit in my office and she would ask me questions, about the College-Institute, seek my advise, we would review a particular situation, discuss a silly possibility, share puns.  Simple - nothing big.  Our e-mail exchanges, beginning after a general one I would send to all, could go on for quite some time - each getting sillier than the last.

I just expected these moments would go on.  We would continue to pick up where we left off last time.  Not anymore.

When I sat at Central Synagogue a week ago for her memorial tribute, I looked around at all who had come.  It appeared to me that each of us was remembering their private Debbie moments.  That everyone there had a personal relationship/connection with Debbie.  It wasn't just those who spoke or sang or presented - but all who sat in the pews, shed a tear and remembered, wished for more of her, and mourned their personal loss.

A SONG TO DEBBIE FRIEDMAN

She infused and flavored it with song,
Unbabbled the murmurs in our throng,
Air that we inhale,
Air that wafts as prayers set sail.
So piquant is her poetry.

She spun a caroling and vibrant net.
Enobled the Woman,her role reset.
Musical integuments, and a worship switch
Prodded us into community,in which
We journey to our Deity.

Her perfumed presence, we cannot retain.
We’ll  never see her likes again.
Etched is her legacy, though she left too soon,
Leaving us yearning for a timeless tune.
Generations will worship joyfully.

Debbie and her music were an incredible addition to the second cohort of the Leadership Institute. On several occasions, Debbie helped us to join in prayer and in song. Whenever she was there, the energy in the room was so incredible. Watching her teach us and sing with us is something I will never forget. I am so grateful that I had a chance to get to know and work with her.

Each sustained interaction I had with Debbie struck me as intimate and unique. I felt that her loss was deeply personal in my life. And  yet, I did not know Debbie that well. We joined the HUC faculty in NY at the same time. Why then did I feel that I knew her so well?  It was not her music, as much as I appreciate her songs.  I realized that it was her  stunning ability to be utterly present in conversation. She was a sensitve and engaged listener. But she never sat back and only listened. She also ventured so much of her self in the conversation. She did so with grace, compassion and humor. I knew both before and in the weeks that followed her death that  her personal presence also touched the lives of so many others. But it still felt intimate and unique to have been her friend. It is the person behind the beloved music I most grieve at this  juncture.  May her memory be a blessing.  Adriane Leveen

Debbie was a part of my family, of this beautiful family we had created – that loved and laughed and celebrated and mourned together, and now she is gone. 

It started out that it was the songs that changed my life, but then it was Debbie herself.

As I began to grow into myself as a cantor, as a teacher – I can recall the many times Debbie would come up behind me while I was teaching, leading – and stand right up against my back, whisper something in my ear – which in her own way, gave me permission not only to give even more of myself, to share with the group, be open to mistakes and hurt and pain – to really share my soul – but at the same time remind me that the community wanted to give me so much as well, and to let them in. 

To me, she is just Deb.  While she continues to inspire and amaze, speak my heart in ways I could never articulate or give voice, she also was someone whom I loved, and who loved me. 

I can’t tell her how much she means to me, how much I need her, and how truly important she was to me.  And yet I still feel her, pushing me gently, whispering in my ear.  I can still try to do what she taught me – to love.  To really, truly love.  To love Torah and learning, to love friends and family and community – and to show that love as often as I can.  That even as a shaliach tzibur or as a teacher and mentor, I can continue to break down walls the separate us from our people, that protect us from vulnerability – when I believe that it’s that connection, that open-ness that creates the space for the Divine. 

I am a cantor because of Debbie.  Because her music long ago created in me a love of giving voice, loud voice, to the tapestry of our lives through text and lyric.  And because she believed deeply in our people, our tradition and our community.  And because she believed in me.  I hope she knows that I believed in her.

When I was a little kid, we used to play tapes of Debbie's music on this little plastic tape player I would carry around the house. It wasn't long before I knew all of those tapes by heart, long before I could cook a latke or spell Afikomen. Her music has been with me my whole life, helping me find something special before I even knew I was looking for it. So thanks, Debbie, for everything.

We sit side by side, staring up at the power point screen, the newest innovation in summer camp songleading.  It’s a hot summer evening in Warwick, New York, and yet she wears jeans and a long sleeved shirt, sweating maybe, but looking calm and cooled by, I can only guess, the youthful voices around us.  A throat lozenge is, naturally, protruding slightly from her cheek.  You can’t see it, but the Perrier is there, too, somewhere within reach. 

My hands are pressed tightly against the frets of my guitar. In one hand she holds a pick; the other hand calmly rests on her leg.  In all other photos that follow, I play and she sits next to me. 

“Want to start the next song, Debbie?”   

“No, no.  It’s okay.  You start.  I’ll play back up,” she says warmly. 

I don’t think she played much that evening.  Rather most of the time, she just sat next to me, singing quietly, sensitively, and supportively.

Did I ever tell her that her music served as the soundtrack of my Jewish experience? Singing Unto God on repeat at the top of our lungs; Lechi Lach accompanying us on so many journeys; feeling safe with the sense of angels by our side; ensured that Hey always came after Dalet and Gimel; relieved and glad that I was not a turkey on this Thanksgiving day; and passionate that I was to see visions; and comforted with a sense of renewing my body and spirit in the most difficult of times.

And that summer, as I found my voice, we sat side by side, in that sweltering summer heat, Debbie and me, and all that I never told her, I sense that she knew.

Debbie left a wonderful legacy of Jewish music to this generation and generations to come.  Her compositions will be sung and remembered always.

Zelda and Sheldon Goldsmith

In each instance whenever we saw Debbie her greeting was threefold - she said hello; she had a broad smile; and she had a beautiful twinkle in her eyes!  We will miss all of this and so much more.

Sylvia and David Posner

Through her music and her teaching, Debbie taught me just how powerful a song can be: how it can say so much all at once, how it can speak to everyone individually, how it can take on a life of its own. She showed me how to make my own songs come to life. Forever I will thank her.

Debbie always started off a conversation asking "What have you written", "Are you writing"? At first I thought it was her sweet way of greeting me because she was too polite to admit she had forgotten my name. But no, it wasn't that she didn't know my name--it was that she felt so powerfully that I, and each one of us has a song inside us that needs to be written--that is waiting to be written. 

She could look you straight in the eye, over the guitar sitting in her lap, and tell you there was music to express inside you, and no matter what you felt about yourself outside the room--inside the room you too were an artist, capable of stretching to the highest, deepest, and most profound places, and you believed her. Courage, heart, truth, and sincerity poured from that place--and she is right, we do have a song to write. 

Debbie had a way of making everyone around her feel truly special and the generosity of her spirit never siezed to amaze me.  She always encouraged the Cantorial students, reminding each of us how gifted we are and how much each of us has to contribute to each other, our congregants, and Judaism.  Watching Debbie sing her music was akin to sitting at the feet of a great Rebbe during a tisch.  Through her music, she reached incredible depth and created true holiness, allowing those in her presence - each of us - to access and experience God. 

For the culmination of our class with her, Debbie encouraged each of the students to write a piece of music.  For our final, we assembled in Debbie's living room in Manhattan and following a "Shabbos dinner" on a Thursday afternoon, each of us played the piece that we had composed.  It was truly exhilirating to watch each of my classmates play their musical creations and incredible to see how proud Debbie was of each of us.  After everyone left, Debbie and I sat on her couch and talked about the piece that I had written, about her family and various adventures, about life... 

In the week following Debbie's passing, I led a Ma'ariv Memorial Service in her honor in a multi-denomenational setting.  The room was packed with people - Reform, Conservative, Renewal, Orthodox, unaffiliated, atheist - people from all different walks of life, who normally would never pray together.  But, brought together by the power of Debbie's music and the sadness and shock of her loss, we prayed together, we shared stories about Debbie and about the impact her music has had on us, we danced, we sang, we cried, we remembered.

I am immensely grateful to have had the chance to get to know Debbie, to experience first-hand the depth of her music and spirit, to learn from her, and to be able to call her my teacher.  I am sad as I think of how much more love, music, and passion for Judaism she had yet to give to the world. I am humbled by her tremendous contribution to Jewish music, her students, her fans, and Judaism.  Zichronah livracha.

Many have already expressed the incredible and indelible mark that Debbie has made on Jewish music, Jewish education, Jewish worship, and most importantly on Jewish souls. What I can add are some of my own personal learnings from my very close friend.

Deb encouraged me to lead and to teach from my heart.

She taught me that if I expect more from the people I lead in worship and song, they will give me more. 

She modeled straight-shooting, courageous honesty in her relationships, and taught me that as long as this came from a place of love, people could usually hear what you had to say.

She worked ceaselessly and tirelessly to help me believe in myself.

I will miss her caring, her phone calls, her hysterical sense of humor, and her ability to truly be “in the moment.” She was and will continue to be a powerful presence in my life.

And for this, I am deeply grateful.

Debbie Friedman was not afraid to talk to God. Her honesty and urgency were deeply inspiring.

Debbie linked sacred texts to gain meaning and deliver a powerful message.

My first memory of Debbie Friedman: Tears, as her sweet voice sang through my old car's cassette deck, as she posed Hillel's questions of personal commitment and communal responsibility,and then linked those questions to Jewish identity: "Im Ein Ani Li, Mi Li? Uch'sheani l'atsmi ma ani? V'im lo achshav eimatai? B'chol dor vador chayav adam lirot et atsmo k'ilu hu yatsa mimitsrayim." (Hillel: "If I am not for myself, who will be for me?  And if I am for myself alone, what am I?  And if not now, when?"  Passover Haggadah: "In every generation each of us must see ourselves as if we have personally been brought out of Egypt.")

A more recent memory of Debbie Friedman: Tears of naches, extreme joy, which poured from both of us, in HUC's Petrie Chapel, as we hugged and kvelled over the achievements, accomplishments and budding creativity of SSM students, so many of whom she encouraged and supported. (The children sing... and another song will rise!)

She gave of herself so generously. Her humility was genuine. She was a bright spirit whose memory will illuminate our lives. Todah rabbah.