When I was 19 years old, I moved out of my parents' house in what might politely be called a storm but more aptly might be categorized as a tornado. My mom and dad had commuted to Northwestern University from their parents' homes on the North Side of Chicago. When I decided to attend Northwestern, it was assumed that I would do the same. Every day of freshman year I drove the second-hand silver Mercury I had purchased with the money from my summer job to the scenic lakeside campus no more than five miles from my childhood home. Every night, I studied--as I had during high school--at the kitchen table or in front of the television in the den.

The summer after my freshman year, the Mercury carried me to Oconomowoc, Wisc., where I spent 10 incredibly independent weeks with a bunch of likeminded Jewish college students sitting in the sun, gossiping until the wee hours of the morning, and nominally looking after the health and welfare of the campers in our charge.

When I returned to Chicago, it quickly became abundantly clear that--after a summer of independence--an autumn full of dinners at the family table and inquiries as to my whereabouts was not the recipe for blissful family relations.

After a month of searching, I found myself on the doorstep of two Jewish communal professionals in their thirties who were looking for a caregiver for their two daughters, then aged two and six. I moved in for a year and stayed for three. Since that time, nearly 1 years ago, we have remained steadfast friends, consoling each other in times of sadness and celebrating with one another in times of joy.

We are currently celebrating one of those joyous times. Molly, the oldest, is receiving her master's degree as I write. My rabbinic schedule has kept me away from that celebration. Molly, more than anyone, understands. Eighteen years after I set out for Jerusalem to begin my first year of rabbinical school, Molly will do the same.

Eighteen is, of course, the numerical equivalent of the Hebrew word chai, which means life. Our lives intertwined, we have certainly influenced one another to follow the same path. It goes without saying that I cried when I read her application essay, cried when she was accepted and when she led part of the Passover Seder this year. When she asked if I was going to cry every time she opened her mouth, I said, "Yes, at least for the next little while."

The day that has been chosen to celebrate Molly's accomplishments and to set her off on a course toward her future is the 13th anniversary of my ordination --my bat mitzvah year.

And what a year it has been.

The old joke talks about a young man who, so flustered, stands in front of the congregation on the day he is to become bar mitzvah and declares--referring to all the gifts he has been given-- "today I am a fountain pen." Bar or bat mitzvah is about transformation (though not necessarily into an inanimate object). It is about becoming a member of a community, about self actualization, about being--if only momentarily--your best self.

Having taken my place in the Temple Micah community, like the boy in the joke, I am overwhelmed by the gifts I have been given. Every day I am greeted with warmth and humor and spirit. Every day I am struck by your deep caring, your generosity and your thirst for knowledge.

This bat mitzvah year has been transformative for me. I feel as though I have come to be who I was meant to be. As we finish our first year together, I could not feel more blessed than I am with the ability to call myself your rabbi.

When Molly takes her place as a rabbi five years from now, I can only wish that she is similarly blessed.