Twenty years ago this month, our Seattle Jewish community experienced one of its darkest days.
On July 28, 2006, a gunman entered the offices of the Jewish Federation of Greater Seattle, killing Pamela Waechter and injuring several others. Pamela was a beloved member of our community. Like me, she had chosen to join the Jewish people.
Her death took on a deeply personal meaning for me because, just days later, my children and I were scheduled to celebrate our own conversion during Shabbat services at Congregation Beth Shalom.
The timing suddenly felt surreal.
After two years of study preparing for my conversion, I was filled with joy at finally coming home to the Jewish people. Yet Pamela’s murder forced me to grapple with a question in a new way: What did it mean to willingly join a people whose story has always included both extraordinary resilience and profound vulnerability?
The day after the Federation shooting, one local synagogue canceled Shabbat services out of security concerns. Congregation Beth Shalom remained open.
None of us at Beth Shalom knew, in the wake of the tragedy a day before, whether anyone would come.
But they came—in numbers far beyond what anyone expected for a summer Shabbat. Because CBS had scheduled this Shabbat for a community celebration of my conversion, my family was responsible for providing the Shabbat lunch for all who might attend.
Being Chinese—and raised to make absolutely certain there would be enough food for every guest—I had carefully planned the celebration lunch according to the number of guests who had RSVP’d and the typical summer Shabbat attendance. But as dozens of community members from other synagogues arrived during the early parts of the service, I wondered how we would possibly feed everyone.
Then an unexpected gift appeared. The synagogue had forgotten to cancel its own kiddush lunch that day even though they knew I had hired my own.
Suddenly there was enough food for everyone.
Some might call it coincidence. I still think of it as a small miracle. That weekend, I learned something no class could have taught me. Being Jewish means never facing either celebration or sorrow alone.
Twenty years later, I continue to see that same spirit through my work at the Hebrew Free Loan Association of Washington State. Borrowers are often deeply moved that the Jewish community believes in them enough to provide an interest-free loan, knowing their repayments will help the next person. I have also come to know donors whose quiet generosity makes that cycle of care possible.
Whether through synagogues, community organizations, or friendships, I have seen the same truth repeated time and again: when one member of our community struggles, others step forward.
Looking back, I realize that my conversion was never just about embracing Jewish beliefs or traditions. It was about joining a people bound together by shared responsibility, compassion, and hope.
Twenty years ago, I wondered what it truly meant to become Jewish.
That Shabbat, I received my answer.
