There are some songs we learned as children that we still remember, cherish, and access for special moments

Songs are an integral part of our chinuch, building bridges and strengthening bonds. And sometimes they can transmit a message words alone can’t convey. There are some songs we learned as children that we still remember, cherish, and access for special moments.

WHICH SONG ARE YOU STILL SINGING?

Pay It Forward

“Do you know where Rebbi learned this tune from? From his first-grade rebbi!”

As a first grader in Yeshiva Darchei Torah of Far Rockaway, I was zocheh to be in Rabbi Moshe Mandel’s class. Over the course of the year, Rabbi Mandel taught us many things: Chumash, stories, even how to play chess! But the heilige songs and niggunim from the earlier generations that he taught us were the highlight. One song that has stayed with me is the tune Rabbi Mandel taught us for “Elokai neshamah,” which we sang during davening every morning. Ever since, I sing Elokai neshamah to that tune.

Now, many years later, I have the zechus of being a first grade rebbi myself, and on the first day of school, in the first tefillah of the year, I always sing Elokai neshamah with that special tune. I tell my talmidim, “Do you know where Rebbi learned this tune from? From his first-grade rebbi! And who knows? Maybe someday, you boys will be first-grade rebbeim, and you’ll teach it to your first-grade talmidim!”

—Yossi Keilson, Baltimore, MD

Still Longing

At random times, whether good or bad, I find myself humming those words

I vividly remember the dark evening in Camp Kol Torah of Cleveland, Ohio. It was my first color war as a camper and I was soaking in the spirit. I remember the words sung to the tune of the high part of “Pnei L’elbon,” the part that starts with “koli shema.”

“Spread far and wide, galus full of pain, ani ma’amin we say, by example we lead, together with CKT, to bring the Geulah one day!”

Something about the words spoke to me as a young impressionable boy. Maybe it was the longing for the Geulah or the achdus that was felt and verbalized. Either way, those words have stuck with me for all these years. At random times, whether good or bad, I find myself humming those words, bringing back memories, the feeling of achdus and that deep longing for geulah we all feel.

—Rabbi Moshe Dov Heber,  Waterbury, CT

Better than a Dream

I decided then and there that I wanted to walk down to my chuppah with that song

As a 13-year-old choir member in Camp Mogen Av’s cantata, I was taught Rabbi Shmuel Brazil’s “Kevakoras” (Regesh 5). This beautifully haunting, pure melody made a deep impression on me. I could feel that awesome day when we stand before the Creator, vulnerable to His judgement. Since one’s wedding day is comparable to Yom Kippur, I decided then and there that I wanted to walk down to my chuppah with that song. Almost ten years later, Hashem gave me the zechus of having my wish fulfilled as I stood under the chuppah with the composer’s daughter. To this day, I still sing my father-in-law’s tune when davening from the amud on the Yamim Noraim.

—Moshe Gelb, Jerusalem

Strength and Hope

Whenever I hear the song being played, I’m overcome with nostalgia

“Someday we will all be together….”

I have distinct memories of singing this song during Havdalah at many NCSY shabbatons over my high school years. It’s about the strength we draw from the past and our hopes and aspirations for the future. The song served as a source of inspiration for my spiritual growth during those formative years in high school. Twenty-five years later, whenever I hear the song being played, I’m overcome with nostalgia. Memories from my youth and inspiration for growth take over and I find myself davening with tears, as I feel that same unity that I felt at NCSY Havdalah.

—Rebecca Schochet, Passaic, NJ

Last-Minute Rush

You knew Shabbos was coming as soon as you saw the sponja water streaming out of the old buildings

It was a different world. As a bochur, I was fortunate to spend a year living in the Beis Yisrael neighborhood of Yerushalayim, learning in the Mir and hearing the shiurim of Rav Asher Arieli. You knew that Shabbos was coming as soon as you saw the soapy sponja water streaming out of the old buildings lining the narrow streets of the neighborhood. And in our bochurim dirah, as well, Shabbos was coming. We had an organized rotation, and each week, a different pair of bochurim were responsible for getting the dirah sparkling clean.

No matter who was on rotation, one thing remained the same every week: Michoel Schnitzler’s song “Lekovod Shabbos” (on his Birchas Habonim album) would be blasting from the speakers every Friday afternoon. The Yiddish lyrics describe the Erev Shabbos preparations, the last-minute rush to get to Shabbos before the zeman. But rather than conveying stress, the song radiates simchah. Instead of anxiety, the song expresses anticipation. And it spoke to us. Years later, as I help my own family prepare for Shabbos, I turn that song back on, transported together with the little people in my home, back to Yerushalayim, back to Beis Yisrael, and back to the simchah of those Erev Shabbos preparations.

—Shmuly Noe, London

It Was a Real Song!

With a catchy tune I assumed was made up, she tried to help us visualize the scene

When I was in elementary school, learning parshas Beshalach, as we got up to the pesukim describing Moshe holding up his hands up and bringing on victory for Bnei Yisrael in the war against Amalek, our teacher didn’t teach us the parshah, she sang it to us. With a catchy tune that I found funny at the time and assumed was made up, she tried to help us visualize the scene in this original and creative way.

I never forgot that song and through the years, whenever I heard a devar Torah on this parshah, that song always came to mind — with the words I had memorized from that elementary school class all those years ago.

I didn’t know it at the time, but later I discovered that this song, “Vechi Yadav shel Moshe” (London School of Jewish Song, 1973), was an actual song and not just something my teacher made up. It only made me love the song even more and internalize the lesson further. It also reminded me how impactful and memorable a teacher can be.

—Rebbetzin Yocheved Goldberg, Boca Raton, FL

Make Them Proud

We felt the burden of restoring the glory of past generations

As a young child of about seven or eight, I heard a song on Dov Dov and the Great Bicycle Race called “Someday I Will Be,” which at the time made a deep impression on me. The words that struck a chord were, “Mommy, Daddy, you will see, someday I will be a talmid chacham like Rabi Akiva, you’ll be proud of me.”

Many of us — children of the second generation of Holocaust survivors — worried about pleasing our parents and making them proud. We felt the burden of restoring the glory of past generations (of course this feeling was subconscious — as kids, we couldn’t possibly understand what it really was) and this song allowed us to dream of this possibility, even in a generation of such plenty.

Over the years I’ve found myself thinking of this song, giving me the hope that I could do more, be a better Yid, and bring nachas to the previous generations.

—Ari Reichman, Toronto

Our Theme Song

We still try to keep it a part of our family simchahs

I first heard the song “Lecha Ezbach” by Rabbi Baruch Chait on Kol Salonika many years ago, when the record came out. My father was a well-known baal tefillah who used to lead Mussaf on the Yamim Noraim. He would try to use some contemporary niggunim in his davening, and he took this niggun, slowed it down considerably, and used it for “Kevakaras ro’eh edro,” with my brother and me harmonizing. It was so powerful that it became the theme song of our extended family. My father was killed in a car crash in 1992, but 32 years later, we all still sing this together when we can, and try to keep it a part of our family simchahs.

—Rabbi Mordechai Besser, Kew Gardens Hills, NY

Still Connected

I remember singing it to my first child and feeling sleepy

My mother always sang “Oyfn Pripetchik” to us at bedtime. When we got older, we sang it to our kids. (I remember singing it to my first child and feeling sleepy because my association with that tune is bedtime.) Now my mother is no longer with us, but when I sing “Oyfen Pripitchik” to my granddaughter, I feel connected to my mom.

—Baila K., NJ

Lift Up My Eyes

My best friend through challenges, rough times, and better times

As an elementary student several decades ago, I learned the Carlebach classic “Esa Einai.” At the time, I didn’t know that it came from Tehillim, but I did know that the song and words were very special and meant so much to me. Fast forward many years. I heard the Shalsheles version of “Esa Einai,” and it sent shivers down my spine. It connected me straight to Hashem, and has continued to do so for decades.

The combination of the words, the meaning and the tune has been my best friend through challenges, rough times, and better times. I’ve had numerous MRIs during which I’ve quietly sung this song over and over again to get me through the anxiety and pounding noise. When I access this song, I truly feel, “ezri me’im Hashem, oseh Shamayim va’aretz.”

—Saretta Lazovsky, Skokie, IL

It’s All About Life

I couldn’t understand why the man would get his ticket but not know what it means

I must have been about eight or nine years old after Journeys 2 was released back in 1989. I remember listening to it in the car, together with my siblings and parents. But one song puzzled me: “Ride the Train.” I couldn’t understand why the man would get his ticket but not know what it means, why they didn’t know how long the train ride would be, why one car was more fun than the others....

When I asked my mother these questions, she explained how the song is a parable to life in this world and how people’s circumstances differ depending on what Hashem ordains for each one. It touched me very deeply. I’ve thought about how brilliant and accurate this song is for the last 30-plus years!

—N.T., Toronto

For Us Mothers

I remember learning it in first grade and singing it at our siddur play

I’ve always loved “Ima Tagidi Li” by Miriam Israeli. I remember learning it in first grade and singing it for our mothers at our siddur play. It always makes me emotional, and recently my five-year-old daughter came home singing it. I sang it with her, and I got a taste of what my mother felt when I sang it for her years ago. The song expresses my deepest desires for my own children, and my own little prayer that I’m making my mother proud.

—S.T., Jerusalem

Tell Me More

I would often think back to this song when I saw my mother daven for those same things

Growing up in Baltimore in the 1980s, I used to go with my mother to the Bais Yaakov High School concert every year. One year, they sang the song “Ima Tagidi Li” written by Miriam Israeli. It is sung by a daughter as she sees her mother daven at candlelighting time, bedtime, and before her wedding. The daughter asks her mother what she is davening for. The answer given at each stage is the same beautiful prayer about raising children and grandchildren who are G-d fearing and will fill the world with Torah and mitzvos.

Even as a young child, I was struck by the depth of the tune and its lyrics, and as I grew up, I would often think back to this song when I saw my mother daven for those same things. Many years have passed and now I am, baruch Hashem, a mother myself. I continue to daven for all these same things. And when my children ask me what I am davening for, I sing them the refrain: “Shetezakeini legadel banim uvnei vanim, ohavei Hashem, yirei Elokim, chachamim unevonim, zera kodesh baHashem dveikim....”

—Tsiona Cohen, Baltimore, MD

Raisins and Almonds

Later, I learned about the lesser-known second part

A song I loved as a child, and still tear up from is the old Yiddish lullaby “Ruzhinkes Mit Mandlen” (Raisins with Almonds). My mother, of blessed memory, sang it to me for years, and I sang it to all of my ten children, may they live and be well. Mom only sang the first stanza about a mother singing to her little yingele that when he grows up, he will be scattered across the world and become a seller of raisins and almonds, but for now it’s time to sleep. Later, I learned about the lesser-known second part, how the mother tells her yingele that he will learn Torah because that is the “beste schoirah.” The melody still pulls on my heartstrings.

—Nechama Naomi Safra, Beit Chilkiya

Story or Tale?

With this song’s origins still unknown, the debate remains unresolved

Seder night. We had just hidden the afikomen and were ready for “Maaseh b’Rabi Eliezer.” But first, Mum would lead us in our own hotly contested rendition of the tale.

Of Rabbi Eliezer, a story is told,

Of Rabbi Yehoshua, that scholar of old,

Elazar ben Azariah, Akiva the sage,

And Tarfon, for wisdom renowned in his age.

Whilst they were held rapt by the wondrous old story/tale,

Dark night passed away and dawn came in its glory/trail.

Then entered their pupils, “Our Rabbis” they say,

“’Tis time for Shema, for behold, it is day!”

My siblings and I gleefully took sides in the story/tale machlokes, singing our respective positions accordingly. With this song’s origins still unknown, the debate remains unresolved. But regardless, this tradition is among my fondest childhood musical memories.

—Ari Blum

Keep Soaring

My ten-year-old son at the time loved all things bird-related

When I was younger, I enjoyed listening to Yehuda! albums, especially the song “Higher and Higher” (on an album with the same name) which really spoke to me as a teenager. Over 20 years later, I introduced the song to my ten-year old son who, at the time, loved all things bird-related. He appreciated both the music and message of the song and has been playing it (and all of the other Yehuda! songs) on repeat since then. He is also taking drum lessons and enjoys learning how to play along. It’s been a really positive bonding experience for us.

—B.P., Baltimore

Mom’s Vision

I’ll often surprise myself when it suddenly bursts out of me in a wave of sweet nostalgia

For nine years, my mother was the principal of a fledgling school in Monsey, New York. I was a student there until she left, when I switched to another school. My mother poured her heart and soul into that special school. We learned in an assortment of trailers, one class per grade, each class taught by a star teacher handpicked by my mother, who knew that her daughters would eventually have them. The school was incredibly happy and warm, and my memories include the joy of wholesome fun, the comfort of knowing my mother was always there, and the limudim that are still very much a part of me today.

Early on, my mother wrote a song that poignantly captured her vision for our beloved school. She aptly put it to the tune of “Horeini Hashem,” with vocabulary that all of us elementary girls could relate to. It still echoes in my mind, and I’ll often surprise myself when it suddenly bursts out of me, in a wave of sweet nostalgia and a deep longing to live up to the goals my mother set out for all us lucky students who experienced her incredible chinuch.

—Sarah Sacks, Hewlett, NY

Faint of Heart

I find myself singing it whenever I head to the Kosel to tear kriah

Every year on Tishah B’Av, a song pops into my head from the end of Eichah, and I wind up singing it for weeks afterwards: “Al Zeh Haya Daveh Libeinu.” There are a few different niggunim to this, but this tune is an older version, although not as well known, from the 1971 Oorah – Awaken album by Neginah Orchestra. I think I first heard it in Camp Agudah in the late 1970s, but honestly, it was so long ago that it’s hard to remember. I also find myself singing it whenever I head to the Kosel, to tear kriah at the makom haMikdash.

—Micky Krull, Monsey, NY

Niggun of Comfort

I felt the need to sing the Yigdal of Lucerne right here

I grew up in Lucerne, Switzerland. In my youth, there was a Yekkishe community there with a beautiful synagogue, which filled up for Yom Tov. The older balabatim came to davening wearing top hats, and in the evening after Maariv, the whole community sang “Yigdal”. Even today, nearly 60 years later, I sing Lucerne’s Yigdal when I’m sad, and the memory of the festive Yom Tov atmosphere brings me comfort.

I once travelled to Mainz, Germany, and the hotel where I was staying was next to a Jewish cemetery. At the entrance of the cemetery, I discovered a small sign that said: “Rabbeinu Gershom of Mainz is buried here.” I was overwhelmed. Hashgachah had led me to the resting place of the great Rabbeinu Gershom, the light of the Diaspora. I felt the need to sing the Yigdal of Lucerne here as well. And as the niggun came out of my mouth, all the people who were buried here came back to life in my mind’s eye. Who knows, maybe they will sing this niggun again at techiyas hameisim?

—Peter S. Lichtenstein, Zurich, Switzerland

Sneak Preview

My uncle brought Shlomo home, and we had a little kumzitz

I was staying with relatives in Far Rockaway about 65 years ago, and in the middle of the night my cousin and I woke up to music. My uncle used to write about up-and-coming singers, and he brought the then-unknown Shlomo Carlebach to the White Shul to perform. After the performance, my uncle brought Shlomo home to his house. We had a little kumzitz, and he gave us his first album, which I still have. “Mimkomcha” from that album, Carlebach’s first “Mimkomcha” (not the one everyone knows) is a masterpiece. Unfortunately, not too many people still remember it. It brings out so many emotions, especially the beautiful words of Kedushah.

—M.G. Baltimore

Keep Believing

Together we chime in with its refrain, “Emes! Emes!”

The Yom Tov Ehrlich classic “Techiyas Hameisim,” written for a generation of survivors, vividly describes techiyas hameisim. It describes their parents coming back to life, with the same appearance and personalities that they had before their passing, and being introduced to their children. “Dos is di Tatteh, dos is di Mammeh, dos is Yitzchok unNechama….”

Avraham Fried’s Yiddish Gems collection of Yom Tov Ehrlich’s songs gifted this beautiful song to my generation and today, I play it for my children. Together we chime in with its refrain, “Emes! Emes! We believe, we believe!”

Eighty years later, the message of the song continues to comfort us as we live through the tragedies of galus. We continue to believe that Hashem will collect the bodies of our grandparents from the death pits of Eastern Europe and those of our brothers who were murdered and abandoned in the tunnels of Gaza and awaken them all with the “tal shel techiyah”.

—Tzippy, NJ

It Will Never Fall

My zeidy was one of those who valiantly fought to keep the walls of his succah standing

My American-born zeidy, Psachia Ackerman, born in Philadelphia in 1910, would sing the Yiddish “A Succaleh, A Kleineh.” The Ackermans’ commitment to Yiddishkeit never wavered, and Zeidy’s descendants are frum. I remember Zeidy building his succah on his deck in Boro Park. The highlight of the seudah was when he sang this song. Growing up, I thought it was our own song, the song of a child afraid that the succah would fall, and the father saying not to fear, that it will never fall and we Jews will prevail. My zeidy was one of those who valiantly kept Shabbos while fighting to keep the walls of his succah standing proudly as he was getting fired from job after job. He worked hard to ensure that our family’s succah will never fall down, until we are zocheh to eat in the succah of the livyasan.

—Mrs. Leah Saltzman, Boro Park

It Made Our Week

What kept our Shabbos so Shabbosdig was my father singing zemiros of old

My father sang “Kah Ribbon” to a tune that he brought with him from Poland, his birthplace. My parents moved to Eretz Yisrael in 1936, where I was born. In 1948, we moved to the United States, where we lived in very small Jewish communities. What kept our Shabbos so Shabbosdig was my father’s melodic voice singing the zemiros of old, especially Kah Ribbon and his tune for Atah Echad, which is sung at Minchah on Shabbos. Their memory lives on for me.

—Rabbi Shneur Aisenstark

Cherished Friendships

I would listen to the Journeys albums and they instantly evoked feelings of calm

As a child, I took the song “Joe DiMaggio’s Card” (Journeys 3) very much to heart, and I still get emotional when I sing it, even more so now that I have my own children and feel so much more what the song is about — cherished childhood friendships, wanting the best for each other and our families, and the love and connection that endures.

I had anxiety as a child. When I was around nine or ten, my parents bought the Journeys CD, and the music and the little booklet that came with it calmed me. I would listen to the Journeys albums over the years and they instantly evoked feelings of calm, a connection that’s stayed with me through my life until now.

—Nechama Benyowitz, Baltimore

Lost Art

Using a 40-plus-year-old niggun at the amud can be hit or miss

The depth, the sincerity, and the hisorerus expressed in many older songs is sadly becoming a lost art, but is so dear to those of us who experienced it. One such song that I first heard in ninth or tenth grade and can’t stop singing is “Mimkomcha” from Regesh 2. I am a fan of all of Rabbi Shmuel Brazil’s compositions, but “Mimkomcha” is really something special. Every strain in the song brings out the words we say every Shabbos Shacharis, yearning for the Ribbono shel Olam to reveal Himself once and for all, so that everyone can see that only He is the True King of the entire world, and to glorify and sanctify His Name within Yerushalayim, His Holy City.

Using a 40-plus-year-old niggun at the amud can be hit or miss. But I have dared on more than one occasion to use this niggun, and there’s always someone in the crowd who knows it.

—Moishey Ney, Jackson, NJ

When Will Come the Eagle?

Like the vulnerable little bird crying for salvation, we, too, long for redemption

I vividly recall a Shabbos afternoon when I was eight years old, sitting with 30 other girls at our local youth movement. Dressed in our Shabbos best — a flurry of taffeta and lace, hairbands and frilly socks — we sang together from the soul, contemporary favorites like “Daddy Dear” and “Don’t Hide From Me.” Yet the song that touched my heart most was “The Little Bird Is Calling,” which was actually written by a Bais Yaakov girl in 1947 and remade over the decades by other singers. That simple melody helped my young mind grasp the concept of galus. Like the vulnerable little bird crying for salvation, we, too, long for redemption from this long, dark exile. Years later, as a mother, I now sing this song with my children at bedtime after Shema. My three-year-old belts out the cryptic yet heartfelt words: “It’s captured by the vultures, crying bitterly... when will come the eagle and set the little bird free?” I pray that her pure voice pierces the heavens, as she begs our Father Above to bring salvation speedily in our days.

—Rochel Rina S., Gibraltar

Let the Sun Shine In

My grandmother’s Yiddish jingle still rings on rainy days

My grandmother’s rainy-day Yiddish jingle that we sang over and over again still rings on rainy days, and her jingle for the sun to shine always comes to mind when I stare out the window on a prayed-for rainy day in Israel.

“Zinnaleh Zinnelah Shein Arois…” Loosely translated: “Sun sun, shine your rays / Three angels are out today / The first one learns Torah / The second handles the schoirah / The third one opens the little door / And the holy sun shines bright again.”

—Faigie Heiman, Eretz Yisrael

Underneath the Pain

That image of him singing about the joy of Shabbos stays with me

My brother, who is my only sibling, left to yeshivah when I was eight. He would bring friends on an off-Shabbos and that was the first time we ever had Shabbos zemiros at our table. Whenever I hear “Mah Yedidus” I see my 15-year-old brother and his friend standing in our dining room, belting it out, happy to be Jewish and keeping Shabbos. Twenty-five years, three expulsions, an Adderall addiction, and an abusive wife later, my brother has lost his happy attitude, and is now not frum. But still, that image of him singing about the joy of Shabbos stays with me, reminding me of who he is underneath his pain.

—N.T., Brooklyn

What Will Be with My Life?

Esther certainly was looking for a spouse well before the era of the freezer in Lakewood

Uncle Mordechai please help me hide / Oh Hashem Yisbarach I’m so petrified / I’m a Yiddishe Bais Yaakov meidel / I’ve been ehrlich since the cradle / Could it be that a girl like me could become the king’s wife?/ I always hoped that someday / A chashuveh yeshivah boy would come my way / I’d work hard, money I’d earn / So that my husband could sit and learn/ Now what’s going to happen to my life?

This plaintive prayer from Esther, soon to be Esther Hamalkah, is one song that has stuck with me since childhood. I’m honestly not sure which Purim cassette that was, but it was on every Adar in my house when I was a kid. It has a mirthful quality, because Esther certainly was looking for a spouse well before the era of the freezer in Lakewood. But I think that in spite of the fact that it is really tongue-in-cheek, it reflected my own hope that someday, “I’d work hard, money I’d earn, so that my husband could sit and learn.”

As an adult, I can laugh at the idea of Esther describing herself as a Bais Yaakov meidel. At the same time, my she’ifos really haven’t changed. I still work hard so that my husband has time to sit and learn.

—Brachi Rubin

The Greatest Simchah

When we daven this part of the avodah, I always sing this song to myself

I first heard the song “Mareh Kohein” in the early 70s, from Yigal Calek’s London School of Jewish Song. When Yom Kippur comes around and we daven this part of the avodah of the Kohein Gadol in shul, I always sing this song to myself. I can almost feel the tremendous simchah that the Kohein Gadol must have felt when he left the Kodesh Hakodoshim safely, having secured a kapparah for Klal Yisrael.

—D.S.

We Will Live

I was mesmerized by their passion to learn more about Torah and mitzvos

From 1969 to 1971, when I was a student at Stern College for Women in New York, I attended many Soviet Jewry rallies where I heard Shlomo Carlebach’s famous song “Am Yisrael Chai,” which became the unofficial theme song of the Soviet Jewry movement. Years later, in 1982, I traveled to Moscow, Vilna, and Leningrad as part of a mission to give chizuk to refuseniks who were not allowed to leave the Soviet Union. I was mesmerized by their passion to learn more about Torah and mitzvos as they yearned for a life of religious freedom. What kept their souls alive when they were being held prisoners in Soviet Russia was their firm belief that “Am Yisrael Chai.”

Fast-forward to 2024 in Baltimore, Maryland, where I now live. I cry as I daven for the release of the hostages who are cruelly being held captive in Gaza by Hamas. Yet, I am uplifted with the hope and faith that, like the Russian Jews for whom we davened decades ago, the remaining hostages will also b’ezras Hashem be freed, physically, emotionally and spiritually to live a life of Torah. Am Yisrael Chai!

—Leah Schwartz, Baltimore

Zemiros of My Childhood

I became a widow a year ago, and I very often spend Shabbos by myself

I was born and raised in Switzerland, where singing zemiros was an integral part of our Shabbos meals. One Shabbos — this must have been around 70 years ago (!) — we had a guest from Gibraltar. I even remember his name, Mr. Pacifici. He taught us “Yom Zeh LeYisrael” with the Sephardic pronunciation in a beautiful niggun, and from that time onward, we always sang it that way. I grew up, moved to the States, and married a chassidish man who always brought guests home, so I could no longer sing at the Shabbos table. I became a widow a year ago, and I very often spend Shabbos by myself. Now I can sing all the zemiros out loud, including “Yom Ze LeYisrael” in the Sephardic niggun I learned as a young girl.

—Mrs. Shulamis Katz, Lakewood

Never Hurts to Dream

I would listen to it on repeat for weeks

I was around ten years old, dreaming that I would be the next producer of children’s tapes, and my father would sing the song “V’liYerushalayim Ircha” as a “guest singer” on my album. I would listen to it on repeat for weeks, until I regretfully recorded over it. That song still evokes memories of a simple and loving connection with my father.

—Y.S., Lakewood

My Special Job

Growing up with a special needs sibling, I felt alone and unique

I was blessed with a brother who has cerebral palsy. From the time he was born he needed a lot of intervention and attention, and I credit my parents for instilling in our family a true sense of pride in our brother. Growing up with a special-needs sibling is a challenge often overlooked. I felt alone and unique. As a teen, I came across Chanale Felig’s “Special Child” on the Crown of Creation album and it really spoke to me. I wrote the words down in the front page of my diary and played the song on repeat for inspiration and chizuk. Today, baruch Hashem, I am blessed with a growing family, and obviously, challenges arise. I still love to listen to this song, as it reminds me that Hashem chose me to parent my children through their struggles and growth. I am that “someone who will do this very special job for You.”

—S.R., Williamsburg

Timeless Messages

On a family trip, he requested Journeys so we could sing together

I am a baalas teshuvah so I wasn’t raised with Jewish music, but I happily raised my kids with Jewish music. I played every Journeys album on a constant loop throughout my children’s childhood. I appreciated the messages of the songs in a language that I could absorb and understand. My oldest child, now 23, probably hasn’t heard Journeys in ten years. He is on his own derech and doesn’t listen to Torah-based music anymore. But recently he was visiting home, and when he asked for music when we were on a family trip in the car, he requested Journeys so we could sing together. He knew every word to “Atheist Convention in L.A.” by heart and we happily belted it out in the car together. Maybe those timeless messages will bear fruit within him again someday.

—Liz Rothstein, Baltimore

The Verses We Don’t Yet Know

I’ve always felt that Chanukah was a time of brachah for our family

I grew up in a traditional household where we sang holiday songs, including “Maoz Tzur” for Chanukah. I always liked the melody and sang along with my family. When I got to college and became more affiliated with the frum community, I learned that “Maoz Tzur” had more than one stanza! I quickly learned the rest of it, and looked forward to singing it every year on Chanukah. (It didn’t hurt that I played Shwekey’s “Chasof” on repeat when that came out.) I was thrilled when my husband and I got married and we could light the menorah together and sing “Maoz Tzur” in our own home. Twelve years ago, shortly before our third anniversary, our oldest child was born right before Shabbos on the sixth day of Chanukah. She was born a month early and whisked away to the NICU. I had complications and wasn’t able to see her until the middle of the night on Friday night. I was wheeled to the NICU and was able to hold her for the first time. I sang “Maoz Tzur” to her there, in her private room.

A year later, right before Chanukah, we found out that she would be getting a sibling. I’ve always felt that Chanukah was a time of brachah for our family. This year, as we celebrate my daughter’s bas mitzvah on Chanukah, I’m even more grateful to Hashem, remembering that every song may have verses we don’t even know about yet.

—Lani Harrison, Scottsdale, AZ

Kosher Lullaby

I venture to say that there are lots of young mommies out there singing this

As a young mother just a little past my teen years, I vividly remember being fascinated by Eva Vogiel and Ruth Steinberg’s charming book, A Light for Greytowers. I would constantly imagine myself in the story, mostly singing my own composed tunes for the words of the lullaby written in the book. Also fresh in my mind is the excitement of finding out that there was a film produced on the story, masterfully done by Robin Garbose. The film introduced an original variation of the lullaby “Hush, My Darling”: Hush my darling / don’t you cry / Hashem will guide us through the night /Sleep and dream peaceful dreams /Emunah in the one G-d above / Bitachon in His eternal love….

It was a lovely melody that my friends and I soon learned and loved singing again and again. Today there’s nothing cuter to me than my toddler son sleepily saying, “Mommy, sing ’uss my dahling!” As far as I know, this is one of the only Jewish-themed good night songs, so I venture to say my little story is actually not that unique and that there are lots of young mommies out there singing to their children “Hush, My Darling.”

—Raizy, Brooklyn

Cradled

When I first learned the song, I was too young to understand my pain

As a sensitive child, Anya’s lullaby, “Hush My Darling,” from the Jewish film Light for Greytowers, always tugged at my soul. It touched a heart in pain — a child who intuited her suffering was connected to a pain older and deeper than she.

My childhood home was emotionally unstable. When I first learned the song, I was too young to understand my pain. But singing it calmed me, soothing my broken soul, which longed for a mother’s love. I mothered myself to sleep with an inherited strength, securely attached to the timeless faith I found in its melody.

Years later, I sang this song to my unborn child. Preparing to welcome him into a world both beautiful and harsh, the simplicity of the familiar melody soothes us both, reaffirming the eternal love and faith that have sustained our people for generations.

—Anonymous, NY

Bridge to My Past

These were songs that I had grown up on, and now my family was doing the same

On a Thursday night soon after one of my boys began fifth grade, we were cooking together for Shabbos and he began to sing a song his rebbi had taught that week. It was “Rabbos Machshavos” from The Rabbis’ Sons. Something in my heart fluttered as my son sang — I hadn’t heard this song in years.

Subsequently, every week as we prepared for Shabbos in the kitchen, my son would share the “Song of the Week” from his rebbi, and we’d sing it together. “Sali U’Mitzudasi,” “Kol B’Ramah,” “Tefillah L’ani” and other hartzig niggunim from the London School of Jewish Song, Dveykus and more.

These were songs that I had grown up on, and now my family was doing the same. These songs bridged the generations, and this special connection we now share make Shabbos preparations so much more meaningful.

—Anonymous, Passaic, NJ

Bubbie’s Song

She said they would sense our excitement

When I was in the girls’ choir of Arie Crown Hebrew Day School in Chicago, our choir leader, Mrs. Devorah Kiefer, taught us “Keili Atah” and always made our weekly choir practice fun. One lesson she taught us when we were scheduled to perform for the Jewish Home for the Blind was to give it our all, even though the residents couldn’t see us. For that, she brought in blue satin sashes with glitter and paint and had us each decorate our sash. She said they would sense our excitement and the staff would describe how beautiful we look.

She also gave me the opportunity to sing a duet with my classmate, Esther, for the chorus of “Keili Atah” at performances and on a record she arranged for us to make. I still have that record and my children and grandchildren know that “Keili Atah” is Bubbie’s song and we’ve even marched to it at grandchildren’s weddings.

—Chanita Teitz, Kew Gardens Hills, Queens

Nachas to His Soul

In absence of a proper Shabbos seudah, the pair would sing Shabbos zemiros

When my parents were newly married and living on a moshav called Ramat Magshimim on the Syrian border of Israel, the residents were assigned a shift of guard duty with a partner, as part of their miluim (reserve service). Occasionally, my father’s shift would come out on a Friday night, and in absence of a proper Shabbos seudah, the pair would sing Shabbos zemiros. There, my father learned an unfamiliar, yet beautiful, tune for “Kah Ribbon” from his partner. At the Shabbos table at home, my father began to sing this tune, starting a new tradition. What makes this niggun extra special for our family is what happened a number of weeks following my father’s passing, early last year. My brother had a dream where somebody appeared to him, and told him that singing this “Kah Ribbon” brings nachas to my father in Gan Eden. Since then, my brothers and I have started singing this tune every Friday night, keeping a family tradition strong.

—Shai Markowitz, Brooklyn

Journey to Life

I couldn’t bring myself to play the song again

As a teenage girl who loved playing the piano, I would play Abie Rotenberg’s “Neshomele” for hours. At the time, my aunt was very unwell, and this song became a heartfelt prayer beseeching Hashem to heal her. Sadly, she passed away shortly after, and for two years, I couldn’t bring myself to play the song again — the memories it carried were too overwhelming. As the years passed, I started playing this beloved song again. When I recently gave birth to my son, I played and sang this song during labor, before heading to the hospital, a prayer for my “little boy, waiting to be born today….”

—C.W., London

Taste of a Higher World

I remind myself how my father faced his challenges with immense fortitude

Ever since I was a small child, my father would come home from shul glowing in his Shabbos attire, make Kiddush, and right after we ate our fish and challah, he would sing this beautiful song, “Me’ein Olam Haba,” closing his eyes as if he were actually feeling Olam Haba. He was connecting to Hashem as he sang, forgetting his own physicality. I was in awe as I watched. And now, many years later, every Friday night, I sing his song because it became my song as well. As I sing, I feel his presence. I sing this song when I take my Shabbos walk, infusing the walk with spirituality, and I sing this song when life gets tough. It gives me hope and courage. I remind myself how my father faced all his challenges with immense fortitude, and I try to emulate his noble life. It gives me immense comfort even in his physical absence.

—Razey Segal, Brooklyn

My Dream Family

With three little kids at my feet, it all felt like too much

When I was a child, building a family of my own was my dream. My mother, unfortunately challenged in many ways, was unable to meet my basic emotional needs. I dreamed of raising my own kids and showering them with all the love that I possibly could.

When Yaakov Shwekey released his album Kolot, the song “Tefilat Kallah” deeply touched me. I felt like it was written for me, as a personal tefillah to Hashem: “Tezakeinu l’hakim bayit ne’eman bikedushah u’vetaharah....” Each time I listened to the song, I davened. I begged Hashem to bless me with a family I could love and cherish.

Baruch Hashem, I married a wonderful man and started building the family I’ve always dreamed of. Recently, amid a difficult and hectic day, with three little kids at my feet, it all felt like too much. Music was on, and suddenly, “Tefilat Kallah” started playing. It felt like it was a personal message from Hashem awakening me to recognize and appreciate that I’m living my dream.

—Anonymous, NJ

Messages of Redemption

The Rebbe purchased the song from the shepherd, who then forgot it

I learned the song “Szol a Kokosh Mar” from my mother, a Hungarian Holocaust survivor. The story I heard from her is that the Kaliver Rebbe heard a shepherd boy, accompanied by a flute, sing the song in Hungarian. The Rebbe understood its deep mystical message of redemption, and purchased the song from the shepherd at which point, the boy totally forgot it. The second song I learned from my mother is also in Hungarian, about yearning for our Land, Eretz Yisrael: “Az en hazam egy gyonyoru Orszag [My home is a gorgeous country]....”

I included both these songs in my book of aliyah poems book entitled Carved from Jerusalem Stone.

—Esther Malka Fein

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1042)