a strange Passover
Once we were slaves to Pharoah in Egypt, and the Lord, in His goodness and mercy, brought us forth with a mighty hand...
These are the words of the Haggadah, the book we read from during the Passover Seder. We tell the story of Israel's redemption from bondage in Egypt. Had the Lord not brought our ancestors out of Egypt, we, and our children, and our children's children would still be slaves to Pharoah.
In my mind's eye I can see the table at my parents' house, set for Passover. Beautiful china, my mother's best silver, candles, flowers. The Seder plate, a family heirloom handed down from my immigrant grandparents, contains the ceremonial foods we will use. The matzahs sit on a tray, covered with a napkin. Our Haggadahs, over 50 years old and falling apart, with wine stains and matzah crumbs from Seders long past. The silver kiddush cups, fresh from their annual polishing, remnants of a Brooklyn synagogue that disbanded in the 1950's.
The house smells of chicken soup and matzah balls, of gefilte fish, of brisket and potatoes, of turkey and matzah farfel stuffing...
In my mind's eye, it is my late father who leads the service, as he did every year of my life until age and illness took the ability away from him. I hear his voice in my head, reading the prayers in English and in Hebrew. I see the friends and family members who graced our Seder, those who are still with us and those who long ago departed from this earth. My grandmother, of blessed memory, has enjoyed her four cups of wine, and is now singing in Yiddish. I think Passover was her favorite holiday.
During the service, the youngest child asks Why is this night different from all other nights?
In 2020, that is surely a loaded question.
What could be more Jewish than celebrating escape from an ancient plague during a modern plague?
My three sisters and my mother are home alone in my parents' house. I am at Drew's house, Becca is completely alone in her apartment, and Jen is with her boyfriend Matt.
The worst of it isn't my own disappointment, the first time in my 60 years on this planet that I won't be at my mother's table for Passover. No, the worst of it was listening to Jen cry ... and telling her how we will have a beautiful Seder next year. We both know that sadness about the holiday is just the tip of the iceberg ...
Every year we end our Seder with the words Next Year In Jerusalem.
Never in my life have those words sounded so hopeful, so full of promise.
May the Lord in His goodness and mercy bring us through these dark days, and may we all celebrate, together, next year.
These are the words of the Haggadah, the book we read from during the Passover Seder. We tell the story of Israel's redemption from bondage in Egypt. Had the Lord not brought our ancestors out of Egypt, we, and our children, and our children's children would still be slaves to Pharoah.
In my mind's eye I can see the table at my parents' house, set for Passover. Beautiful china, my mother's best silver, candles, flowers. The Seder plate, a family heirloom handed down from my immigrant grandparents, contains the ceremonial foods we will use. The matzahs sit on a tray, covered with a napkin. Our Haggadahs, over 50 years old and falling apart, with wine stains and matzah crumbs from Seders long past. The silver kiddush cups, fresh from their annual polishing, remnants of a Brooklyn synagogue that disbanded in the 1950's.
The house smells of chicken soup and matzah balls, of gefilte fish, of brisket and potatoes, of turkey and matzah farfel stuffing...
In my mind's eye, it is my late father who leads the service, as he did every year of my life until age and illness took the ability away from him. I hear his voice in my head, reading the prayers in English and in Hebrew. I see the friends and family members who graced our Seder, those who are still with us and those who long ago departed from this earth. My grandmother, of blessed memory, has enjoyed her four cups of wine, and is now singing in Yiddish. I think Passover was her favorite holiday.
During the service, the youngest child asks Why is this night different from all other nights?
In 2020, that is surely a loaded question.
What could be more Jewish than celebrating escape from an ancient plague during a modern plague?
My three sisters and my mother are home alone in my parents' house. I am at Drew's house, Becca is completely alone in her apartment, and Jen is with her boyfriend Matt.
The worst of it isn't my own disappointment, the first time in my 60 years on this planet that I won't be at my mother's table for Passover. No, the worst of it was listening to Jen cry ... and telling her how we will have a beautiful Seder next year. We both know that sadness about the holiday is just the tip of the iceberg ...
Every year we end our Seder with the words Next Year In Jerusalem.
Never in my life have those words sounded so hopeful, so full of promise.
May the Lord in His goodness and mercy bring us through these dark days, and may we all celebrate, together, next year.
It's hard to not do the things we normally do. Holidays and celebrations ignored. But think of the tales next year, when we can look back on this and be grateful we survived. Take care.
ReplyDeleteNext year....
DeleteKnowing how much celebrating Passover in a group is important, I feel sorry that you can't be with everyone. How about next year at your mother's house, the after that in Jerusalem?
ReplyDeleteHappy Passover!
Sounds like a plan!
DeleteAmen.
ReplyDeleteIt so sad does matter what you celebrate. I think most of us with common sense will be distancing from our love ones.
ReplyDeleteExactly
Delete