Shabbat Shalom

When our daughter Lily, turned three, my husband and I decided to take her to her first Shabbat for toddlers at a nearby temple. I was moved to do this because she had begun singing about everything. Her songs, so full of light and love, reminded me of the way, when I was a little girl, I sang songs to God and felt him everywhere. Somewhere in my late teens, I’d lost the link to my Jewish roots, but hearing Lily’s songs inspired me to seek rituals that would keep alive her connection to spirit. Judaism, after all, was Lily’s birthright and part of her heritage.

We took her to a sanctuary in a well-known and packed Hollywood temple. We found seats as the Cantor, strumming a guitar, sang loudly above babbles and wails.

As the singing died down, the Rabbi approached the pulpit, inviting all the children who wished to light the candles to join him at the Bema. I stood with other parents behind the children as they recited the blessings. I looked out at the congregation and longed to feel a common bond, a history, a heritage; instead I felt like an outsider. Over twenty years had passed since I’d participated in a service like this, yet as the blessings continued, tears pooled in my eyes and a sense of something old and familiar washed over me.

Preoccupied by my surge of emotion, my mind wandered back to Camp Sabra, a Jewish campground where my family spent a weekend on The Lake of the Ozarks. On Saturday at sunset, all the families gathered on a hill overlooking the lake for the Havdalah service. As the sun disappeared beyond the horizon, the Rabbi lit the braided Havdalah candle and performed a blessing. I sat in my father’s lap and my sister’s head rested on my mother’s shoulder as we all sang, “Hinei ma tov umah nayim shevet achim gam yachad....” We sang round after round, swaying like the leaves in the trees. I could have stayed there forever.