A wonderful part of my work as a rabbi is meeting with couples planning to get married. Each couple frequently has what I call the countdown. One hundred days until the wedding. Two weeks until the big day. This phenomenon of counting down is not limited to engaged couples. We all do it. Some of us might be counting down the days or months until retirement. Stores and shopping malls count the days until Christmas. Football fans count the days until the Superbowl. We all count time in some way or another.

Our Jewish tradition offers us a particular perspective for counting time. “Teach us” writes the psalmist, “to number our days with wisdom.” What does this mean? How can I number my days with wisdom? Responding to this charge is what the great Jewish philosopher Franz Rosenzweig had in mind when he wrote that on Yom Kippur, each of us is given the unique opportunity to look at our life through the eyes of eternity. We ask ourselves, “From this vantage point of eternity, what in my life matters? What is real? What is important? How do I number my days with wisdom?” 

Allow me to suggest four ways taught by our tradition. First, we number our days by realizing that each of them counts. Every day has the potential for holiness. Every day, as the metaphor for our High Holy Days suggest, is a page in the Book of Life. Rabbi Herbert Bronstein tells the story of a man who came to him. Rabbi, he said, I have always been a very good person, always on the straight and narrow. But now a business deal has come my way that I know is not in accordance with the teachings of our faith. But if I can do this one deal, I will be able to do so much good for my family, for the synagogue, Rabbi, for charities and once I get past this one deal, I will never do anything like it again."

Though the man’s intentions and ultimate ends seemed good, Rabbi Bronstein responded with words from the book of Deuteronomy. “And you shall take these words which I command you hayom, this day, upon your heart [and teach them diligently unto your children].” Hayom, this day, refers to today, and to every other day. We cannot wipe away any days of our life and pretend that our actions on them don’t count. We cannot live in the way the frequent commercials about Las Vegas tell us we can. In these commercials, we usually see a couple of seemingly normal and upstanding people vacationing in Las Vegas and doing some outrageous thing. Then, as they are returning home, the message flashes across the screen; What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. In Judaism, there is no Vegas. Every day counts. As the eleventh-century sage Bachya Ibn Pakuda said, “Each of your days is like a sacred scroll. Inscribe on it by your actions only what you want to be remembered.” To number our days with wisdom is to realize that each one of them is of enduring importance.

A second way we number our days with wisdom is by filling them with gratitude. I came across an article recently in which a humanities professor pointed out that gratitude is essentially, and uniquely, a religious imperative. As he writes, “Gratitude, central to Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, is virtually absent from our secular culture, except in relation to the “oughts” of individual interactions.” In other words, we are taught to say thank you in order to be polite. But we don’t live our lives with a constant feeling of how lucky we are to have what we have, to be who we are.

Judaism urges us to cultivate this sense of gratitude. Our tradition teaches us that the first words that leave our mouths each morning should be Modeh Ani Lefanecha, “I give thanks to You, O God.” Expressing gratitude pushes us away from the destructive feelings of resentment and self-pity. It is extraordinarily powerful and can help us through every phase of life. The physician and writer Richard Selzer tells the story of a young woman who had just been wheeled out of surgery. Her husband is waiting in the corridor, and the surgeon goes to speak with him. “We removed the tumor,” he says. “The surgery went well.”

Something in the surgeon’s eyes suggests that it did not go so well. “We had to sever a facial nerve to get at the growth. The nerve controls the muscles of the mouth.” There is a pause. The husband asks, “But otherwise she’ll be okay?”

“Oh yes,” says the surgeon. “Other than that, she’ll be fine.” The husband’s eyes light up with joy. “Thank God!” he cries. “I was afraid she….Thank God! Later the nurses wheel her into the room. She is awake. Her husband gazes down at her. He sees that her mouth is twisted into a palsy. She leans forward and asks him “Will my mouth always be like this?” He leans toward her and says very gently, “To remove the tumor in your cheek, they had to cut the nerve.”

She nods and is silent. Tears well up in her eyes. But he smiles. “I like it,” he says. Then, unmindful, he bends down to kiss her crooked mouth, and the physician who witnesses this sees how the young man twists his own lips to accommodate hers. To show her that their kiss still works. (See Richard Selzer, Mortal Lessons, 1996)

Here is the power of gratitude; his for her life; hers for his love. Filling our days with gratitude is another way we make them count.

A third way we wisely number our days is by sharing them with family. The words “number our days with wisdom” are taken from Psalm 90, which is often read at a funeral service. Reading its words often leads me to reflect on what is inscribed on the headstone. Almost invariably, under the person’s name are not inscribed the words “store owner” or “attorney.” Rather, it says “mother, father, daughter, sister, brother, aunt, uncle, nephew, or niece.”  We choose to be remembered through our families. Why? Well, I think each of us realizes at our cores how much they mean to us. At some level, each of us understands, as Robert Kirschner has written, that they “are the thread on which our own lives are strung.”

Sometimes sharing our days with family is not easy. No families are the like the ones depicted on Leave It to Beaver or Ozzie and Harriet. Work makes it hard to spend the time we would like with our loved ones. We may have been hurt by a sibling or parent. We may have difficulty finding a partner or building a family. Whatever our situation, Judaism urges us to make it one of shalom, of wholeness and peace. Shalom Bayit, or peace within the family, is a central Jewish value. Even when our relations are fraught with tensions and baggage, every step we take to build connections with our parents, our siblings, our children, is a step toward shalom. Every moment we share with those we love is one of significance.

Consider Samuel Beckett’s final play, Krapp’s Last Tape. It is about a self-absorbed artist who celebrates the end of every year by dictating his accomplishments and successes on tape. At the end of his 69th year, Krapp tries something different. He listens to his tapes all over again. While doing so, he discovers something about his life he hadn’t noticed before. The memories that stand out—those that gave him the greatest pleasure—are not his professional achievements or personal triumphs. These are not unimportant, but they are not what ultimately bring him joy and a sense of significance. Rather, what do are the moments of connection he spent with his family, with those who loved him and whom he loved. Even Beckett, one of the twentieth century’s quintessential cynics about life’s meaning, found that sharing our days with those we love is a way of living them with wisdom. 

A final way we wisely number our days is by filling them with gemilut chasadim, acts of loving kindness. Doing so will make each of our days successful. We are often taught to measure success by the number of awards we receive; or by the university we attended, by our titles, by the value of our stock portfolio. Judaism urges us to measure our days differently. We measure our days by the good deeds we do on them.

Seen in this light, each of us can be enormously successful. There is hardly anything in the world that can stop us from giving a smile, a word of encouragement, or a helping hand to someone in need. Each act can make a world of difference in another’s life and in our own.

I have shared the following story once before, and I share it once again because it conveys this truth poignantly. It is by a daughter, Anne Carter, about her father and the difference one act can make. She writes: “My father was an avid baseball fan. I grew up in New York City and was able to see the greats play at the Polo Grounds, Ebbets Field and Yankee Stadium.  Many a Saturday was spent with my dad cheering on our favorite team…. I was born female at a time when girls watched more than they played. Whenever he could, Dad took me out to the park where the neighborhood Little League played and pitched balls for me to hit. We played together for hours, and baseball became a big part of my life.

One day at the park, a woman pushing a young boy in a wheelchair stopped to watch us play. My dad…ask(ed) if the child could join our game. The woman explained that….her son…. had polio and wouldn't be able to get out of the chair. …My dad…. placed the bat in the youngster's hand, pushed him out to home plate and assisted him holding the bat….. ‘Anne, pitch one in to us,’ he said. I was nervous that I might hit the child but I complied… With an assist from my dad, the ball made contact with the bat, and the child screamed with joy. The ball flew over my head and headed for right field. I ran to catch up with it and, as I turned, I heard my dad singing ‘Take Me Out to the Ball Game’ while he pushed the wheelchair around the bases. The mother clapped and the boy begged to continue… 

After an hour we all left the field, very tired but very happy. The boy's mother had tears in her eyes…Dad smiled that wonderful grin…and told the mother to bring the boy back next Saturday...we would play another game…Dad and I played many more games…but we never saw the two again.

Twenty years passed and my beloved father died at the tender age of fifty-nine…the family decided to move too…… I stopped at the baseball field where we played our Saturday games. Two Little League teams were on the field just about to start…I sat down to watch for a while. I felt the sting of tears in my eyes…I missed my dad so much…I cheered the runner on when the ball was hit…. One coach turned and smiled and said, ‘The kids sure love a rooting section, Miss.’ He continued, ‘I never thought I'd ever be a coach playing on this field…I had polio as a child…’

‘One day my mother pushed me to the park and a man was playing baseball with his daughter. He … asked my mother if I could join… in their game. He helped me…I was able to hit the ball with the man's assistance and he ran me around the bases in my wheelchair singing …Take Me Out to the Ball Game. …I believe that experience gave me the desire to walk again.’ He continued, ‘… I dreamed about running around the bases… and with a lot of hard work, (it) came true…. I've been coaching Little League …I guess I hope that some day I'll look up in the stands and see that man and his daughter again….I sure would like to thank him.’  

As the tears ran down my face I knew that my dad had just been thanked. And even more, I knew every time I heard ‘Batter up!’ my dad would be right beside me…. That simple act of kindness that spring day had changed a life forever, and now twenty years later the memory of that day had changed my life forever…” (See “Batter Up Dad!” by Anne Carter, Chicken Soup for the Baseball Fan’s Soul. I am grateful to Rabbi David Gelfand for bringing this story to my attention.) One act can make a world of difference.

Yom Kippur is the day of atonement. It is a time for fasting, for solemn vows, for forgiveness. Yet, in the Talmud, our rabbis called Yom Kippur the happiest day of year. Why? It is a day we open ourselves up for change. It is a day we let our souls soar and our hearts widen. It is a day we reflect on what truly matters in our lives, and we resolve to make that our legacy. If we do so, we will answer the call of this day. We will respond to the psalmist’s charge to number our days with wisdom. And we will make our lives an echo of that prayer we say: “Remember us unto life, O Sovereign who delights in life, and inscribe us in the Book of Life, for Your sake, O God of life.”