Featuring Dawn Heyman

Some of her earliest memories are rooted in the tenderness of her family. “Aunt Betty was my favorite aunt. She used to make jello especially for me because I just loved the color of jello. Not only is it pretty, it tastes pretty! She lived in New Jersey, and we used to go out to the seashore. I’d go swimming in the ocean, which was fun and scary. One minute your feet are on the ground, the next minute you’re ten feet up in the air. I’d stay in the water until I was blue.”

For Dawn, school began unevenly but would eventually become her calling. She loved learning, but her first classroom experience shook her sense of safety. It taught her something lasting about children, how vulnerable they are and how easily a single adult can shape their confidence. What steadied her was another teacher later on. “Mrs. Thorpe is the reason I became a teacher. She was tough,” says Dawn. “She was my role model, and actually my friend as a grownup.” Mrs. Thorpe showed her that rigor and care can coexist, and that simply believing in students can alter the course of their lives.

That belief would guide Dawn through decades in the classroom.

As a Jewish child, Dawn often felt isolated. Being the only Jewish student meant living inside someone else’s calendar and customs. “I was sometimes the only Jewish kid in the classroom. You feel very lonely. It’s always Christmas or Easter, and who you are doesn’t seem to matter.”

Holidays passed without recognition. Identity went unseen. The loneliness was real, but so was her resolve. Over time, she learned to speak clearly and calmly about who she was. She did not aim to persuade, but to stand her ground. Judaism, for Dawn, was never a question; she felt it early and unmistakably. “My soul just knew it was Jewish,” she says.

That sense of belonging eventually led her to her second home: Beth Tikvah. “Beth Tikvah was in a little house on the corner, and I just decided one Friday to go in and see what it was like.” The community, the shared responsibility, the openness…all of it resonated. She didn’t just participate; she led. She taught. She stood at the bimah. She felt at home.

Teaching became the central thread of her life. As a teacher, Dawn loved the process of helping children learn and understand, especially those who struggled. She watched for the moment when comprehension arrived, and frustration softened into clarity. She made room for humor, creativity, and for current events turned into mock broadcasts and commercials. She believed learning should be engaging. It should feel alive.

Dawn was especially drawn to children others found difficult. The ones who tested boundaries; the ones who carried something heavier. Dawn noticed them. She remembered what it felt like to be different, and she made sure those students were seen.

he values that have shaped her came from home. “My mother always said to be kind. Always be kind.” Her father brought humor and creativity into the house, filling it with music. He played the cello, loved classical pieces, and passed on an appreciation for beauty that has stayed with her long after her father’s sound faded.

Even now, art remains a large part of Dawn’s life. She writes poetry inspired by nature and animals. She draws. She notices. She talks to God honestly, and sometimes argumentatively, because for her, faith is about building an authentic relationship.

“I have a need to talk to God and I do. Judaism doesn’t try to make God be anything. You have freedom to love God in your own way.”

Looking back, Dawn measures her life by the moments when kindness mattered. By noticing who was overlooked. By staying curious, creative, and willing to stand in her truth. She speaks plainly about who she is and how she lives. “I’m alive and well. I still drive people crazy! You have to be a little naughty; have a little fun. That’s important.”

In the story of the carob tree, one plants knowing they may never sit in its shade. Dawn has lived that story. Through teaching, through leadership, through faith practiced honestly, she has planted seeds she may never fully see. They live on in the students who felt understood, in the communities that felt like home, in the quiet confidence of being Jewish without apology, and in the simple, enduring command to always be kind.

Her story is a carob tree: planted long ago, still bearing fruit.

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Written by Hannah Karr

Director of Marketing & Community Engagement

Congregation Beth Tikvah

Reflections by Rabbi Karen Martin

“When Life Seems a To-Do List” by Marjorie Saiser in How to Love the World, edited by James Crews

Much like a flower, I am solar-powered and not made to withstand the cold. In nicer weather, I can stay outside for hours, but in this season, being outdoors is something to be endured, head down, shoulders hunched against the wind.

January is a hard month. The joy of Hanukkah has passed, and although we have moved beyond the darkest nights of the year, we must still slog through long stretches of dreary gray cold before we get to feel the heat of the sun. With the holidays behind us, we scramble to catch up on missed work, plan for what’s to come, and tend to all that must be done week in and week out.

In the winter, it’s easy to give in to the temptation to curl into ourselves, protecting our warmth from the cutting cold. It is easier to stay indoors, weighed down by the pressure of what must get done, or what we should be doing. For me, that includes laundry and dishes, teaching and learning, the minutiae of parenting, and doing what I can to stand up for what I believe in. These things are necessary and urgent, demanding attention, but they are not everything.

This poem, “When Life Seems a To-Do List,” feels like a gentle reminder of the other things—the small moments that fill me up and carry me through this season and every other. In the poem, the speaker looks up at the early morning sky, perhaps on a morning like this one as Rosh Hodesh Tevet approaches, the moon only a sliver on the horizon, with Venus resting at the cusp of the moon’s crescent. There is something both stark and warm in the language, in the image of the moon as a slice of white bone—as though it cuts through the noise and leaves the speaker picked clean. Yet it is not a painful cleansing; it is more like a mikvah, where one emerges pure from living water and takes the first breath after immersion, or like the way the world is blanketed and pristine after a heavy snowfall.

The warmth comes with these words, “and with luck I will have you / to see it with.” The speaker hopes to share this simple, poignant moment. There’s a gentle, self-deprecating humor in the imagined interaction, both in their pajamas as they guess at the star or planet, no cell phones intruding to give them the answer. It’s a moment of imagined connection; a pause made better because it is shared.

I am struck by the image the speaker paints of choosing. They choose to look up, to see the sky in the early hours, to bask not in the light of the sun, but in the quiet glow of the moon and stars. I find myself wondering what it would feel like to choose that particular light, to breathe into an intimate darkness and find companionship there before the chaos that comes with daylight.

The poem calls me to look up and around when I want to huddle into myself. It’s a reminder of the simple wonder found in connection and stillness, and that they are not mutually exclusive, but rather they are richer for being shared. As we enter the cold slog of January, may we be blessed with wonder, rejuvenating pauses, and connection.

If you’ve ever stepped into Beth Tikvah on a Sunday morning, you’ve likely been greeted by a smile, a joke, or a helping hand from Enos Wisniewski. For ten years, Enos has been a constant presence behind the scenes, tending not just to our building but to the spirit of our community.

This January, Enos will retire after a decade of service as Beth Tikvah’s beloved custodian — though for so many, he has been much more than that. Children know him as “Grandpa Enos,” and generations of families have seen his care and kindness in every corner of our building.

“I try to make people laugh every day,” Enos shared, “regardless of who they are.” It’s that simple joy and connection that has made him such a beloved part of our Beth Tikvah family.

Enos joined our staff in 2015 and has become part of countless moments of life at Beth Tikvah—setting up classrooms, fixing things before they’re noticed, and sharing his signature humor and optimism. “Life’s really short,” he reflected. “I always say, try to treat people right, and try to enjoy it while you’re here.”

Over the years, Enos has seen our community through everything—High Holy Days and Hanukkah celebrations, Sunday mornings filled with laughter, late-night event cleanups, and the moments of quiet between it all. He has watched generations grow, cheering on students who once toddled through the halls. “I’m gonna miss everybody,” he said softly. “I built great relationships with everyone… I hope everybody keeps me in their heart, because you will all be in my heart forever.”

As we prepare to celebrate Enos’s retirement in January, we also celebrate what he represents: the heart of Mishpacha—family. His care, humor, and humility remind us why this community matters.

“I always brag about this place,” Enos shared. “This is one of the best jobs I’ve ever had in my life.”

That gratitude runs both ways. Enos has left his fingerprints on every corner of our congregation, and his light will keep shining through every smile, every classroom, and every hallway he makes brighter. Let’s honor Enos by carrying that light forward. Help us continue building the kind of community he helped create—one filled with laughter, kindness, and family.

December 27, 2025