A couple of weeks before Passover my husband said, “I think Mendel is going to go to Oregon for the Seders….  He doesn’t want to tell us yet, but I think he’s going….”

Pride was NOT the feeling that came from my gut and welled up in my throat.

“No,” I said with a cavalier tone as I exhaled that heavy breath. “He wouldn’t leave his mama,” I made light of the will of a boy who left home at 12 years old.

“Oh, you don’t think…?” His father shot back with a knowing grin. “I’ll really miss him.”

“Are there even any Jews in the middle-of-no-where Oregon?” I wonder out loud.

“I don’t know,” says the Chabad rabbi to whom I’m married, “but if there are, Mendel is going to find them.”

It’s a rare moment when all five of my children sleep under the same roof. From ages 11-22 they occupy four different zip codes. Such is the life of a Chabad mother.  But Passover is the time when (I thought) all the ducks come home. We sit around the seder, nuclear family intact and absorb the blessings of a full house.

Each of my four sons (pun intended) have his own monogrammed Matzah cover which are used as a seder plate, as per the Chabad custom. My daughter sits to my side and we dip twice, make the Korach sandwich and drink our four cups together.

Last year my son Mendel & a friend went to the Southwest corner of Oregon BEFORE Passover to meet as many Jews as he could find and distribute handmade shmurah matzah along the coast so they could fulfill the mitzvah on Passover. We were so proud of him. Raised in a Campus Chabad House, he was taking on the mission to bring Gdliness to farthest reach of the land and making it his own.

This year his plans are different. It’s true I run a Chabad House. It’s true that the way of Chabad is to look out for every Jew. Even in towns on the edge of the West Coast with a community too small for any synagogue and the nearest Chabad House is three hours away. This is all true – but this is my son and it’s our family seder and the kids are never home at the same time, and….

My husband accepts Mendel’s plans like a commander that must regretfully see his soldier go on a mission. But I’m his Jewish mother.

“I heard you’re going to Oregon,” I greet Mendel with a sarcastic smile. He chuckles and shifts a bit uncomfortably like a boy whose been called to the principle’s office and is not yet sure of the reason for his summons. “To break your mother’s heart?” I ask as my eyebrows rise and my smile turns a bit more genuine.

He laughs. He’s the first born and he reads my thoughts. He knows I’m trying to say I love you dearly. So deeply I don’t even have words. I carefully shield my emotions in bad jokes and wry humor.

“Were you planning on telling us?”

“I just did,” he smirks.

The pride is there but it’s still quite latent buried under layers of my emotion.

“I went to Siberia when I was Mendel’s age to make Seders, and those were some of the best experiences of my life,” my husband reflects. Twenty five years later he still talks about the Russian families for whom he hung mezuzahs and the men who wrapped tefillin with tears in their eyes.

“I know,” I reason, “I’m just going to miss him.”

It’s Shabbos Hagadol – a few days before Passover – and I tell one of the women in our shul that my son is flying to Oregon for Passover. “There are a lot of flights being canceled,” she throws out. “You’ll see what happens with his plans,” she suggests.

I don’t have the right words to explain but I realize in that moment there is no way his plans will change. You’re not going to stop a Chabad bochur from going on his mission. “His plans aren’t changing,” I reply and the conversation is over.

Mendel comes home to pack his bags. “I see the Jews in Oregon are more important than your mother’s heart,” I say as I help him pack. “Maybe you should check a bag?  Will the oven have Shabbos mode? Do you want to order a crockpot and electric egg pot on Amazon and have it sent straight to Oregon?”

We pull out one of the camp duffels and I start digging through my Passover supplies. “Take a peeler, here is a stack of foil pans, I’m sure you’ll need them. Do you want a box of pre-cut tin foil? How about this box of table clothes?”

“Mommy, I thought you didn’t want Mendel to go,” says one of the younger kids.

“I don’t”, I remind them.

“Take some sponges, and a few deli containers,” I continue aiding and abetting my son. “I bought a lot of meat, take this second cut brisket. If you wrap it in a towel it will stay frozen in your luggage.” In the end, he takes two briskets and his monogrammed matching Matzah cover in his checked bag.

I arrange the next day such that I happen to have a three hour window available to drive him and his two friends to Newark airport. By the time they all pile into the car with their luggage, indeed I want him to go. He wants to go and I want to him to succeed.

Before leaving to the airport it’s clear that the bochurim have no chance of catching their connecting flight but I’m not the least bit worried. I know they will find a way and they will get the job done.

The airlines award them each $36 in food vouchers and a hotel room in Seattle to compensate for the missed the connection. They stock up on the only kosher food they can find at Seattle-Tacoma International Airport – chummus. The local Chabad rabbi takes them out for pre-Passover bagels the next morning before they catch their final flight to Oregon one day late.

“We met a Jew in the supermarket,” Mendel calls home, “and he’s coming to the Seder.”  They check lettuce, make kugel, brisket, chicken and soup.

The bochurim hosted the first ever Seder in Brookings Oregon for 35 people. My heart is so full.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)