As many of you know, I am firmly in the “cats are family” camp. Our two boys, Castor and Pollux, have been with us for almost six years now. Brothers from the same litter, they are the sweetest, most dog-like cats you could ever meet. They sleep with me every night, greet me enthusiastically when I come home, follow me from room to room, and seem convinced that every person they encounter is simply a friend they have not met yet. Survival instincts?
Virtually none. If a burglar broke into the house, I suspect they would ask for belly rubs.
A few weeks ago, our cat sitter — who also works in animal rescue — asked if we would take in another cat. Thea is about five years old and spent the first several years of her life outside. Unlike Castor and Pollux, she learned early that trust could not be assumed. Survival depended on caution. Every sound, movement, and unfamiliar creature had to be evaluated carefully.
The adjustment has been… educational.
Castor and Pollux have remained remarkably calm about their new housemate. Thea, however, was less enthusiastic about the arrangement. At first there was hissing, suspicion, and the unmistakable feline equivalent of, “Who approved this committee merger?”
Slowly, though, things are changing. Thea now lets me pet her and rewards me with loud purrs. She is beginning to trust that she is safe here, even if she still is not quite ready to curl up in bed with the rest of the family. With Castor and Pollux, progress comes in small moments. One minute she rubs against them affectionately; the next she swipes at them for standing too close. Harmony remains a work in progress.
And honestly, it reminds me a lot of community.
Some people enter synagogue life like Castor and Pollux: immediately comfortable, eager to connect, assuming they belong. Others arrive more like Thea. Perhaps they have been hurt before. Perhaps they spent years on the outside of Jewish life. Perhaps they are unsure whether this community will truly welcome them as they are. Trust takes longer. Connection develops slowly and unevenly. One day they lean in; the next day they pull back.
At Congregation B’nai Israel, we work hard to create opportunities for those connections to happen. Sometimes it starts in our preschool classrooms or religious school hallways, where children and parents alike begin building lifelong Jewish relationships. Sometimes it develops through ACES, our programming for members aged 65 and older, where friendships continue to
deepen and new ones are formed. Sometimes community begins at our monthly Erev Shabbat Live! dinners, where conversation flows as easily as the challah is passed around. Community grows through Sisterhood and Men’s Club, marching together in the Israel Day Parade, praying together at Shabbat and holiday services, and lingering afterward at kiddush luncheons long after
the kugel should have sent everyone home. These moments may seem ordinary, but they are the small, steady acts that transform a building into a congregation and acquaintances into family.
The beautiful thing about Castor and Pollux is that they never stop trying. They do not take Thea’s hissing personally. They simply keep showing up calmly, day after day, as if to say, “There is room for you here whenever you are ready.”
That may be one of the most important lessons a synagogue community can learn as well.
Not every new relationship begins in perfect harmony. Sometimes community is built slowly, through patience, trust, and the willingness to keep making space for one another. And sometimes progress looks less like instant friendship and more like fewer hisses this week than last week.
Slow and steady purr-gress still counts as progress.
