Time, Memory, and the Fight Ahead

Me with my ninety-year-old father last weekend. He's a Holocaust refugee, Vietnam veteran, and my hero. At sixty, I'm more grateful than ever for the time we still have.

I just returned to my Northern Michigan home after my two college sons and I made a pilgrimage down to Houston to see my ninety-year-old father. His health has been in decline after two strokes over the past four years, but he was incredibly pleased to see me and, more importantly, his two tall, good-looking grandsons (yes, they take after their mother). I am happy my dad is still in our lives. He was a child Holocaust refugee, Vietnam veteran, former ultramarathon runner, and still my hero.

I’ve been thinking a great deal about the passage of time this past year as I turned sixty years old. Even when I was younger, I was always fascinated by stories that track people over time, and how they changed or stayed the same. In fact, one of my milestones in 2025 was the publication of my novel, Found and Lost: The Jake and Cait Story, in which time itself is a character. It follows two musicians in two timelines, 1985 and 2025, and how they navigate changes in their lives, relationships, music, faith, and one another. I’m proud of this work and thankful to my publisher, Vine Leaves Press, for believing in this story.

I wrote that book a year before October 7, 2023, when the world changed for me—and for many other Jews. I don’t know if I could have written this basically optimistic book after 10/7, which also happens to be my birthday. Now, as 2025 turns into 2026, I’m turning my attention back to what amounts to my life’s work, how to identify and fight antisemitism.

It’s been a long road for this book, and my approach, like time itself, has morphed and changed shape. I’ve settled on a way of telling the story that combines my story, that of my family (including my father, whose memories I’m still mining), and the various shapes antisemitism (and its modern incarnation, antizionism) has taken over time.

Most importantly, I’m writing a hopeful book because Jews around the world need a reason to hope during these dark times. I’ve spoken to many people who are fighting Jew-hate and winning.

It takes solidarity among ourselves, partnerships with other communities, and a steadfast commitment to fight no matter what the odds. Among the highlights of this year was my participation in a Jewish author’s forum in Los Angeles, and amid the pessimism, I found reason to hope. The Jewish author community is fighting back, launching our own initiatives (including Judith Magazine, where I am nonfiction editor), and continuing to produce amazing books despite the literary world’s blacklist against us.

Most importantly, it takes an awareness of the past as we look to the future. I am sixty years old and have been writing about these issues ever since I learned how to form sentences. I’ve decided to dedicate the final third of my life (optimistically) to this fight. I hope you will join me in 2026 and beyond.