In 1985, the year after my dad died, my mom asked me to lead the Seder she’d prepared for the two of us and a few relatives. I don’t remember where my siblings were. At the time, I’d recently begun keeping kosher. I was trying to do things according to Halacha, according to Jewish law, and I was annoyed.

Just like we’d always done it, my mom wanted to start the Seder at around five in the afternoon, when it’s supposed to begin after dark. The turkey wasn’t kosher. The dishes weren’t right. My dad was dead. Everything felt wrong, very screwed up.

After my mom went off to bed, I made my own Seder, my own sad little thing,  cleaned up a bit, and went for a walk.

I was living in Hell’s Kitchen in New York City then, and walking down my old suburban street in Saint Louis Park, Minnesota felt almost foreign. I was gloomy, dark. The whole world felt that way.

As I passed my friend Blair’s house, I saw his mom vacuuming. It was well past midnight. Who vacuums that late? And worse, who vacuums on Passover, when you’re not supposed to use electricity?

But then, as sometimes happens, a new thought, a better one, overtook the lesser one: Jews. These Jews. My mom. Blair’s family. People all around the world. They were still eating matzo, still drinking their four cups, still reading from the Haggadah. We’ve been doing this for thirty-three hundred years, recalling the Exodus, retelling the story of freedom and renewal.

And suddenly something shifted. I thought, this is unbelievable, and it’s still going on,........

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)