By Heather Friedman Rivera, Ph.D.
Welcome to the Jewish Joy Corner — a space for us to share our personal stories of Jewish joy.
Since October 7, 2023, many of us have carried an extra layer of stress and heartache. That’s part of what inspired this project — to help create a little more balance in what we take in and share.
Let’s lift each other up through the power of joy. Share your cherished childhood memories with your bubbe or other beloved family members … your favorite Jewish recipes … a funny story from your bar or bat mitzvah … a meaningful Jewish experience. This is your space, so let your light shine here.
If you have something to share, please email me at president@konabethshalom.org. We’d be honored to feature your story.
Many days, my heart drifts back to my grandma’s kitchen — watching, helping, and of course, sampling whatever she was cooking. She’s been gone for over twenty years, but her presence still feels strong in my heart and memory.
My sister and I saw her almost daily; she lived close to both our home and school and was such a central part of our childhood. Her brisket was legendary, her honey cake divine — honestly, everything she made was delicious. But there are certain dishes I especially miss, the kind no one else’s version quite measures up to.
She always made two batches of matzo balls: one light and fluffy, the other dense and chewy. I always went for the dense ones.
When I was young, I sometimes got confused at school because Grandma blended Yiddish into her English sentences. I didn’t realize those special words weren’t “standard English” until they confused my classmates.
One memory that always makes me laugh: she’d challenge my sister and me to see how fast we could finish our ice cream cones. “You’re too slow!” she’dtease as she finished hers first, grinning from ear to ear.
She was the perfect grandmother to us. I miss her dearly, and I carry her lessons and love with me always.
May her memory be a blessing.
Gratitude
I continue to be in awe of our board members and volunteers. Most of us who contribute to Kona Beth Shalom are retired, and yet, the time, energy, and talent that everyone pours into our congregation is simply remarkable.
From musical offerings at services to leading Torah study and Shabbat services, preparing kiddush with homemade bagels and challah, setting up and cleaning up at New Thought Center, managing all the technical logistics—Zoom, YouTube, Facebook streaming, website maintenance—and organizing events like our challah works
hop, Passover seders, Simchat Torah celebrations, Hanukkah parties, hikes, and snorkeling outings… Wow. Just wow.
It’s truly astounding that a small congregation like ours has attracted such a generous and gifted community. None of us are paid for our time or efforts. We give from the heart—out of love for our congregation, our sacred Torah scroll, for Judaism, and for each other.
So next time you see one of these dedicated souls, please take a moment to say thank you. A few kind words go a long way—and I promise you, they will mean the world.
With gratitude,
Heather Friedman Rivera, Ph.D.
President, Board of Trustees
Kona Beth Shalom
A Pure Moment of Jewish Joy
This Rosh Hashanah, I experienced a moment of pure Jewish joy. After a year of learning Hebrew letters, I read from the Torah for the very first time.
Dear Aviva was an incredible blessing along the way. She worked with me patiently and diligently for months, never pressuring me to be ready for this Rosh Hashanah. Instead, she said, “Let’s just keep learning — it can be for next year.” Meeting with her three times a week on FaceTime helped me persevere and stay committed.
And then the day arrived. I reminded myself it was okay if I made a mistake because Aviva would be right beside me. But miraculously, I didn’t stumble. I read Genesis 22:15–19 smoothly and with confidence.
When I finished, the congregation broke into song and applause. I became emotional, overwhelmed by the love and encouragement surrounding me. In that moment, I felt embraced by a warm, supportive family — and filled with profound joy.
Thank you, Aviva, for your steadfast support. And thank you, dear community, for lifting me up and sharing one of the most meaningful milestones of my life – Heather
October 13, 2025
“There is a time to sob and a time to dance, and we have to do both right now.”
— Rachel Goldberg-Polin
Today we breathe a little easier knowing our hostages are home.
Our hearts remain heavy for those we have lost, yet today we allow ourselves a moment of release — the long-awaited breath of hope after two difficult years.
May this new day bring comfort, healing, and peace.
November 3, 2025
A Day of Jewish Joy at the Skirball Cultural Center
Last week, I experienced a true day of Jewish joy when I visited the Skirball Cultural Center in Los Angeles with my mom and aunt. We enjoyed a delicious lunch in the café before wandering through the exhibits, where every corner seemed to spark a memory or emotion. I could have spent an entire day in the gift shop alone — surrounded by beautiful Judaica that felt both familiar and comforting.
As we walked, my mom and aunt shared their Jewish childhood memories — walking to synagogue on Yom Kippur, my mom’s confirmation ceremony, and stories that stitched together our shared heritage. Together, we reflected on the beauty and resilience of Jewish life.
The exhibits were stunning and deeply meaningful. We explored Jack Kirby’s art, admired a glass sukkah, and paused for reflection in the Holocaust and October 7th memorial sections. One exhibit that especially moved me was The Torn Project by artist Susan Lerner, who transformed the torn-down hostage posters into works of art — one piece for each of the 251 hostages. The effect was powerful and tender, capturing grief, memory, and hope in equal measure.
If you find yourself in Los Angeles, I highly recommend spending a day at the Skirball Cultural Center. It’s a reminder of how art, memory, and family stories keep our Jewish spirit vibrant and alive.
With gratitude,
Heather Friedman Rivera, Ph.D.
President, Kona Beth Shalom
After 843 Days: Coming Home and Beginning to Heal
On January 26, 2026, the body of the last hostage was returned to Israel.
For 843 days, we wore our Bring Them Home dog tags. We posted. We prayed. We supported one another. We held onto hope that this nightmare would end.
There were many moments when the weight of collective despair felt overwhelming. Yet, again and again, I was lifted and sustained by the strength and compassion of our Jewish community.
Now, at last, we can breathe a sigh of relief knowing that everyone is home. Perhaps now we can begin the long and tender process of healing—never forgetting, yet choosing to live fully and meaningfully.
Recently, I buried my Bring Them Home dog tag and recited a prayer that I found in The Times of Israel. It was a deeply moving moment of closure, reflection, and hope.
You can read the prayer here: https://blogs.timesofisrael.com/a-prayer-for-burying-bring-them-home-now-dog-tags/
The Sacred in the Ordinary
There are moments when the familiar world suddenly feels different—when an ordinary place becomes illuminated with meaning. This reflection grew out of one such moment, inspired by a single line from Torah that has echoed in my heart for years.
There is a line in the Torah that has stayed with me for years — Jacob’s words when he wakes from his dream of the ladder:
“Surely G-d was in this place, and I did not know it.” (Genesis 28:16)
Jacob is alone when he says this. He is between one life and the next. He has left home, unsure what awaits him, and lies down with only a stone for a pillow. And yet in that ordinary place — a place that didn’t look holy at all — he discovers that the Divine had been with him the whole time. His awareness, not G-d’s presence, was what had been missing.
That moment has echoed in my life more times than I can count.
In 2019, I took a solo trip to California and house-sat for someone in Ventura County. It was the first time in a long while that I had real solitude. I had no schedule, no responsibilities, no one to answer to. And so I made a quiet decision: for those two weeks, I would follow what I felt to be G-d’s nudges.
On my morning and evening walks through the countryside, I tried something I don’t often allow myself to do — I slowed down enough to listen. I felt a tug in a direction, and I followed it without questioning. This is not how I normally live. In my regular life, if I feel an inner pull, I’m quick to label it silly, irrational, or impractical.
But on this trip, I resisted that internal critic. I trusted the tug.
And the experience became the most magical, soul-filling time I have ever had.
Every turn brought a surprise. Every day felt spontaneous. Every moment felt intentional. One path led me to a secluded beach — a place I never would have discovered. In that quiet stretch of sand, I understood something simple and profound: the more I seek G-d, the more G-d reveals Himself.
And there was another insight, one that startled me with its softness. As I walked, I began to wonder if G-d created us to experience life in a body fully — as if G-d delights in our delight, experiences the world through our senses, shares in our awe.
One afternoon, I bit into a perfectly ripe peach — the kind that melts in your hands and runs down your wrist. And I found myself whispering, “This is for You, G-d.”
Each bite became an act of awareness. A way of saying: I am here. You are here. Let me not miss this moment.
By the time I returned home, I thought the revelation would have changed me permanently. I even wrote a short book draft about the experience. But slowly, as life resumed its normal pace, I fell back into old patterns. The stillness faded. The awareness dimmed. I slipped back into a kind of spiritual sleep.
And yet… every so often, something wakes me again:
walking along the coastline near my home,
seeing the waves crash over the black sand,
or hiking through Volcanoes National Park with the sky and clouds so immense, I wonder if I could reach up and touch G-d.
In those moments, Jacob’s line returns:
“Surely G-d was in this place — and I did not know.”
Maybe the task of a spiritual life isn’t to stay awake all the time.
Maybe it’s simply to remember — again and again — that the Holy is already here.
Already in the quiet places.
Already in the ordinary ones.
Already in us.
This practice of remembering has shaped not only my spiritual life, but my writing as well.
My hope — for myself and for all of us — is that we notice.
That we allow ourselves to be tugged toward wonder.
That we slow down enough to say:
“G-d is in this place. I just forgot to look.”