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........

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