For All that is Holy
Pearl of the Post: Pillars of Faith
Somewhere at the crossroads of faith, it clicked. It came into focus.
The vision I've held since first holding my son as a baby. The vision most Jewish moms see - your son as a Bar Mitzvah.
In my version, I've always pictured him standing at the Western Wall draped in his Great Grandfather's Tallit.
That image stuck in my mind for 12 years, through diapers and pre-school, through madness of Madoff, and when we finally got his bar mitzvah date it was becoming all too real.
How do I turn this vision into a reality?
How do I engrain meaning into this rite of passage when every week we'd fight about going to religious school. He'd go kicking and screaming and give me lip about why religion is stupid.
How do you impress how important it is to feel a connection with your faith? That connection cannot be forced, so how do you forge it?
My connection to my faith isn't through the study of the Torah, it's through the living history that pulses throughout my being. It's through the disconnection of generations lost simply because of my family's faith.
It's the stories and the precedence set by the man who proudly wore that talis. He'd pray, kept kosher, tell joke after Jewish joke and recite the accomplishments of renowned Jews as if they were his own kin.
My grandparents would talk in spurts about the life they lived pre-war in Warsaw, Poland. They'd describe their brothers, sisters, cousins, parents and I knew them well, all through these beautiful memories they passed on.
I've heard these first hand accounts all my life but my son only knew them for his first few years of his life. I pass on bits of the bits of stories that I remember, I take them to temple and we observe the holidays.
It's only the kindling to the fire of faith I hope will burn in my children's beings like it does mine.
Our temple floated the opportunity to travel with them to Israel. We'd be going via a tour company with our clergy members and fellow congregants with the chance of becoming a Bar Mitzvah at the Western Wall.
When I came of bat mitzvah age, my parents gave me the option of going to Israel or having a party. Like most tweens, I opted for the party. The party was great, catered by Mr. Omlette and replete with a Cindy Lauper look alike and all that fun stuff but I've always regretted that choice.
I have passed on many chances - birthright, women's groups, etc. to visit the Holy Land.
We hopped on this opportunity immediately.
We had a year ahead of us. A lot can happen inside of a year, especially when it comes to a place as volatile as Israel. I've seen plenty of people make and cancel plans to go there because of safety concerns.
There was always that looming threat and fear - it's not safe - of making the trip to Israel.
It will never be "safe" and the moment this opportunity I arose I turned to my husband and said, "I don't care what's happening, we are going."
And so off we went.
We went ahead of the group to Tel Aviv and spent time there getting adjusted to the time difference and scenery.
Walking through the streets piecing together the notes from my friends who have been. The Anita's ice cream place was delicious and would be a daily stop.
The first big moment was a dinner with my mother's side of the family who lived in and around Tel Aviv. I've only ever met 2 out of the 15 of them many many years in the past.
It was an evening where we began as strangers and left as family. As the evening went on the conversation grew deeper and something seemed to click into place, like puzzle pieces calibrating into each other as they found each other.