It is only now, nearly thirty years since becoming observant, that I want to share everything about the journey. I had been encouraged to write about the process as soon as I started, but if my first piece is any indication, it's a good thing I waited all these years.
It was called The Pain of Passover.
I don't even remember who asked me to write it or what became of the piece. I tried looking for it on my computer, but couldn't find it. It's probably better that way.
My first Passover, make that Passovers, plural, were quite difficult. As a new ba'al teshuvah (Jewish returnee), I went a bit overboard, to say the least. My rabbi told me to clean my house for chametz (leavened grain products), and I was terrified the forbidden stuff could be anywhere and everywhere—the cracks of my wood floor, the bindings of books (the one-in-a-million chance they were opened is still a chance, right?). I banned Play-Doh from my house forever (total chametz), and I hunted down every last Cheerio. At stake was my rightful place as part of the Jewish people.
But the real pain wasn't the cleaning or even the cooking. (That's a whole other story.)
The pain of Passover was an indescribable, overwhelming feeling of sadness.
Passover was so hard because I felt abandoned by my ancestors.
Who was to blame for the fact that I knew nothing about the cooking, the customs, the cleaning, the meaning?
Now, so many Passovers later, I understand better that "blaming" is futile because nothing happens unless G‑d wants it to. I will never know the who, the how, the when, and the why, and it doesn't matter anymore.
Because now, with G‑d's help, my husband and I are the new ancestors, the Zeidy and Bubbe, the ones who can impart to our grandchildren what got lost in translation when our ancestors came to these shores.
I was at a beauty salon a while ago, and the esthetician moved my sheitel away from my face. "It's a wig," I told her. "I wear it for religious reasons."
"Really?" she asked. "Do you mind if I ask what religion you are?"
I said I was Jewish.
"Wait a minute, I don't understand," she said, totally dumbfounded. "I have lots of Jewish women who come to me, and none of them wear wigs. What are you talking about?"
I laughed to myself. How would I explain the story of the American Jewish experience in the course of a 15-minute appointment?
"It's a long story," I said. "One thing I know. All of your Jewish clients had ancestors who were observant."
For me, this fact was a turning point when my husband and I considered observant Jewish life. This was where we came from.
We couldn't come up with a good enough reason not to return to it; the only reasons for our non-observance were circumstantial.
Picking up where our ancestors left off was very challenging, and at times painful. But now, nearly thirty years later, I am grateful beyond words that we did it.
