CBI Leadership Journal

When I volunteered to repair the tallit cart, I assumed it would be a simple, practical mitzvah—tighten a few screws, reinforce a wobbly wheel, give the whole thing a little more life. What I didn’t expect was how much life it had already witnessed.

As I emptied the cart to begin the repair, I came across a small cascade of yarmulkes—some embroidered, some creased from years of pockets and hands, some still stiff as if barely worn. Each one was a remnant of a moment: a wedding, a bar or bat mitzvah, a conversion, a baby naming, a funeral. Joy and sorrow, celebration and remembrance, all quietly tucked into the corners of this humble cart. It struck me that these weren’t just leftover head-coverings—they were echoes of our community’s story.

And then the tallitot. To hold them—one by one—was to feel the weight of generations resting on my fingertips. Each tallit had draped shoulders lifted high in song and pride, or drooped low in grief and heaviness. Some have wrapped around new Jews taking on the mitzvot for the first time. Some have been clutched tightly by mourners seeking comfort. Some have been kissed by sunlight during Shabbat morning, and others dampened by tears during Yizkor.

All of them returned to the same resting place: our tallit cart, our silent sentinel.

It stands there every Shabbat and every holiday, without fanfare or attention. It doesn’t ask to be noticed, yet it carries the evidence of everything we live through as a community. It holds our traditions quite literally on its racks. It waits patiently for the next chuppah, the next aliyah, the next moment when someone will reach for something sacred—something that connects them to those who stood in that same spot long before, and to those who will stand there long after.

Repairing it felt less like fixing furniture and more like tending to a guardian—one that has quietly accompanied us through countless chapters. And as I tightened the last bolt, I realized: this isn’t just a cart. It’s an archive of our congregation’s joys, losses, celebrations, and resilience. It’s a reminder that Judaism lives not only in our prayers, but in the objects that support our rituals—objects that, like us, grow worn through service and strengthened through care.

My hope in sharing this small story is simple: that the next time you walk by the tallit cart, you’ll pause for a moment. Notice it. Honor it. Let it remind you of the legacy we are all carrying together. And may it inspire us—each in our own way—to be stewards of the tradition, keeping it strong for the next generation who will reach for a tallit, place a yarmulke on their head, and add their own chapter to the cart’s quiet witness.

May we all continue to repair, uphold, and pass forward what has been entrusted to us. After all, even a silent sentinel deserves to be seen.