Time Marches On

When our son was born, we decided to join a Jewish congregation. We live in the town where my husband grew up, and his father had retired as the Cantor at a Reform congregation just across the river. We considered joining there, but we wanted to be in the same town where our children would eventually go to school. During my husband's childhood, there were very few synagogues to choose from. In fact, just about the time we were joining a congregation, an elderly woman asked him where he lived. When he responded, she said, "What! You couldn't rub 2 Jews together there." She was shocked to hear that there were indeed 3 synagogues in our town - Reform, Conservative, and Reconstructionist. She gave her opinion: "Reconstuctionist? That's worse than Reform." Although we seriously considered joining the local Reform congregation, where I had taken my Intro to Judaism class, we were told that although I would be welcome in the community and most likely drive my children to/from religious school 2 days a week until they are 13, I would not be able to fully participate in their B'nai Mitzvah. I could almost be an equal parent in my children's religious life. As a result, we did not join that community. Instead, we joined the Reconstructionist synagogue, one that was, and still is, very welcoming of interfaith families. Reconstructionists are all about being Jewish in the United States in the 21st century; it was a good fit.

As I mentioned in my Bringing Challah to Pesach post, I decided to get involved by participating in and even running programs. Although I always felt a little out of place, I knew that doing things at the synagogue was the only way I was going to begin to feel like this was home to me.

In the meantime, I was very lucky to be surrounded by a large Catholic family. They kept me connected to my history. All through the years, I shared in Catholic milestones with my parents, my local brothers, and my nieces' and my nephews' families. My children have a nice relationship with their cousins. I don't think they see each other as "Jewish" or "Catholic" - just as cousins. So that was wonderful. However, although we attended many Baptisms, First Communions, and Christmas Eves, my children were always on the periphery. It was sort of like walking through a big city and looking through the windows at the beautiful displays -- at things you knew you'd never have.

Obviously, I knew that my husband was Jewish when I married him. I just didn't know he was "that Jewish." About the time that our oldest child began religious school, he began to get involved in congregational life. He played music for Shabbat. He published the newsletter and managed the email communications. Then, all of a sudden, he was on the board. Before I knew it, he was the Vice President.

I think I was jealous - of the time he spent with the board members, the Rabbi, planning the music, and attending meetings - lots and lots of meetings.

After much reflection, many years later, I realized that my husband was exactly what I would want as far as involvement in our congregation. He was on the board. He was involved in the music. Everyone knew him - and me. He was branching out into other outreach type of responsibilities at a regional level. People thought highly of him and his dedication. At some point I realized that, if only it were in “another building,” I would have been thrilled.

After doing “this” for 9 ½ years, it took a toll on me. As my daughter became deeply ingrained in being Jewish (and announced she’ll raise her children Jewish), I had a realization about just how much of our life revolves around being Jewish.

I realized that it wasn't about the holidays. We were still doing Christmas to some extent. But, in our home, the rest was gone, and I honestly had no problem with that. I did not grow up with lots of tradition, so I was not missing that piece. What had become overwhelming was the everyday of it: When my son blasted Rick Recht on his CD player. Or when he and his buddy made believe they were in a band and belted out Rick Recht tunes. When my husband practiced Micha Mocha for hours on end and then asked me for my critique. “How do I critique it,” I shouted at him, “when I have no sense of where it belongs, even if you translate it for me?” Or when my daughter and her friend asked if Eve was the first Jewish woman? How do I answer that?

It wasn't that my children are Jewish; it’s that I had no history to share with them. No music to share. I tried to get my daughter interested in the things I did as a kid, like Girl Scouts, despite the fact that she was not all that interested. Little by little I began to feel like my children were missing out on all the years of my life that had come before them. And I was sad.