Baruch Mateer Assurim; Baruch Dayan Ha-Emet

This is the crazy jumble of life:

While gathering yesterday afternoon at a New Jersey cemetery for the funeral of my friend Judy's father, Michael, a Hungarian Holocaust survivor, two calls came through.

The first, on HOBB's iPhone, informed him that his elderly Aunt Sylvia had just died.

The second, on my BlackBerry, informed me that Gilad Shalit would be coming home.

This is the crazy jumble of life:

Aunt Sylvia is the older sister of Marvin, HOBB's father, whose yahrzeit is today.We are leaving for her funeral in Queens right after my husband returns from minyan at Congregation Ramath Orah, where he will have recited kaddish in memory of his father.

Tonight is the start of the joyous festival of Sukkot, mere days after the solemn introspection of Yom Kippur.

For the next week, we are commanded to celebrate and build beautiful, if temporary huts where we will take our meals. The huts -- called Sukkot, the plural form of Sukkah -- commemorate the temporary dwellings built by the Israelites as they fled the captivity of Egypt on their way to the Promised Land.

Yesterday, a deal was brokered. It might be a terrible deal but the impetus is the release of a young Israeli held captive for five long years. Yom Kippur is over and Sukkot is upon us. Gilad Shalit has been in a terrible Sukkah, He is on his way to the Promised Land. There is joy. There is skepticism. We are on our way to Aunt Sylvia's funeral. It is HOBB's father's yahrzeit. My friend Judy is sitting shiva today for her father, just one day before the holiday begins and mourning must cease. Aunt Sylvia's family will have only two hours of shiva before they must get up.

This is the crazy jumble of life.