I Am the Rabbi's Wife

My role comes with many privileges- and many responsibilities

This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.

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Photo by Samantha Gades on Unsplash

At 23 years old, I stood in front of an Office Depot with my hot new boyfriend, who had just told me—on our way to the car—that he wanted to become a rabbi. He was passionate about helping and leading the Jewish people. I thought for a moment and decided I loved the idea.

“You realize it’s a lifestyle choice though, right?” I asked him. This would change the way we lived our daily lives, how our children grew up, and it would be amazing—just different. He nodded.

“Of course,” he said, and we thought we knew what that meant.

But how could we? We were young and blinded by excitement, the potential of this adventure that we would embark on together. I quickly agreed—with one final stipulation. I would always wear tank tops and mini skirts, and he would just have to be okay with that. He laughed, agreed that was fair, and then kissed me while holding a bag of office supplies. 

Being The Rabbi’s Wife is a unique and special role. I have a backstage pass to High Holiday services. I know when the Rabbi has cried for your family. I have had hushed fights in a temple hallway, whispering so no one hears our personal drama.

My life is filled with the joy of celebrating other people’s simchas, the honor of listening to the most intimate struggles, sideways glances from members as I give an “angry mom” look to one of my kids for elbowing her sister during services, and receive tremendous gratitude from families who we are able to hold or lead. It is an honor, it is a heavy load, and it brings me joy.

We woke up, literally and figuratively, on October 7. It was the morning after a beautiful Simchat Torah Shabbat evening celebration. As the sun’s rays began to peek through our window, my husband checked his phone.

“Israel is under attack,” he said.

“Israel is always under attack,” I answered. I shook my head, bored.

“No. Really.” He looked at me sharply.

Before the images, the slogans, the encampments, the horror stories, we could feel that this was a whole new chapter. And it was. It is. We were shocked. We were frightened. We were awake.

Woken from a deep slumber, we sprung into action. Within a few days, a generous congregant had chartered a 747 to get desperately-needed supplies to Israel. Her home turned into a supply and packing center and hundreds of people showed up, hoping to help in some way. Within weeks, we had vigils, webinars with politicians in DC, missions to Israel. Within months, we had a new non-profit fighting antisemitism in K-12 schools, moms lobbying at our State Capital. This was more than an alarm clock. This was a serious call to action, and everyone has continued to answer in their own way—with time, with money, with ideas, with their presence.

My phone conversations have changed. There aren’t as many complaints about life’s regular inconveniences. When I ask people how they’re doing, they no longer say, “Good,” or “Fine.” They say, “As good as I can be.”

This is what it means to be Jewish post-October 7. I field calls from frightened adults who ask if they should take their mezuzah off the front door, and from parents who are alarmed by the armed guards and dogs at their children’s schools. I listen to stories of angry grandparents who arrived in this country as refugees, fleeing exactly what their descendants now confront. There has been deep sadness and confusion over how to handle the loss of friends we thought were allies, and tears of longing for the world we once knew. The world we once knew. It’s gone.

Next week, I will visit the Nova Exhibition in Los Angeles for the tenth time. My husband and I have led groups of executives, celebrities, students, allies and friends through the exhibit. I feel a responsibility to support and guide people as they bear witness. I watch them shudder at the tables of unclaimed shoes, cry in shock at the sight of burnt-out cars, and watch videos of victims’ final moments.

Sometimes, if the day has been too heavy, we go through a secret back door and meet people at the end of the exhibit. My husband may be a rabbi, but he’s also just a guy. Sometimes, I want to cry too. 

But not here. Instead, I turn to the visitors’ shocked and silent faces and say, “I know.” Then I offer a hug, and remind the Jews who need me that we will be okay. They need me to know something, to trust in our future, to offer what I cannot promise.

Everyone needs someone to believe that good will win over evil, that we will once again survive a horror, and I am that person. Instead of turning away, or allowing myself to be swallowed by the tragedy, I choose to look up and look in. This time, I can’t escape through a secret back door. My job is to have faith that our story does not end here. We must remember who we are. We are joy; terrorists are anti-joy. And Jewish joy always wins. 

I am The Rabbi’s Wife. It is a job, and it is also a calling. He may be the Rabbi but I am the one in his ear, holding his hand, sometimes even while wearing a tank top. I will stand with you, just as I stand with him. Always. Because the one thing Jews never do is give up.

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Julia Nickerson is “The Rabbi’s Wife” to Joel Nickerson, Senior Rabbi of Wilshire Boulevard Temple, a congregation of 10,000 members in Los Angeles. She is a writer, the mother of three daughters and co-founder of Jewish Leaders in Schools, a grassroots, parent-led organization with the support of the ADL started after 10/7 to fight antisemitism in K-12 schools. Julia is currently working on her first novel, loves stand up comedy, a good brisket and being Jewish. 

Instagram: @julnickerson

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This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.