Christmas from my Eyes

Our 25th annual holiday party was last week. It concluded on the 5th night of Hanukkah, so we invited everyone who was still here to light the candles and say the blessings with us. They were clearly honored to join us. One even reached out and asked if I could share a picture of him lighting the candles. I can't help but wonder if he was going to share it with Jewish family. When I shared the pictures with parents, several told me that their child had never lit a menorah before. (I'm not surprised.) It felt good to give them that opportunity. After we said the blessings, I made sure that husband translated it for them. I think that if you are going to say a religious blessing in another language, you should know what you just said. 

It's fun to hear our children's friends' response to our annual sing-a-long. When Son's friend's mom and I were talking about whether she could make it to the party this year, she told me what a good time her son had last year. "Mom, we sang Christmas Carols, while Mr. G. played them on the piano...Um, aren't they Jewish?"

Once the party is over, I sort of enjoy going out into the world that is Christmas. The hectic parking lots, the beautifully-decorated mall, the frantic shoppers - knowing that I can truly enjoy the season. Santa always fills my children's stockings, and there is a gift or two. But I don't have the stress of finding and wrapping piles of gifts. It's particularly nice, when Hanukkah has passed before Christmas Eve.

It was a long time ago that we decided not to have a Christmas tree. I do enjoy seeing those of my family and friends; however, I no longer feel like there is an empty space in my home or heart where our tree should be. We do decorate - with snowmen and carolers. After our holiday party this year, one of the stockings that is hung by the chimney with care was filled with a surprise visitor - the Mensch on a Bench. Yet again, an interesting interfaith twist.

Christmas Eve is one of my favorite nights of the year. We spend a family-filled relaxing evening together with my extended family. I have pictures of the kids sitting around the Christmas tree every year. We haven't done gifts for years, so it's truly family time. This year, we're going to have some fun with a white elephant gift swap. That should be entertaining.

Christmas Day is also spent with extended family. This year, we'll be having brunch together. So, we might even be Jews on Christmas and go out for Chinese food for dinner.

I can't lie; this week is never easy. I will always wonder what would have been. What would my tree look like? How many gifts would be under it? Would my stair rail be wrapped with greens? Would the lawn and house be draped with lights? Would we go to Mass on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day? Would the church be breathtaking? No one seems to "get" it. Everyone seems to think that I've got it all together and can't imagine why I get anxious after doing this for 20 years. Sometimes I don't understand it either. But, I do enjoy the season with an unexpected burst of tears here and there.

No matter how you choose to celebrate it, Merry Christmas!

51 and 53 Apple Lane

I grew up at 53 Apple Lane. In my mind, if it happened at 51 Apple Lane but not at 53 Apple Lane, it must have been a Jewish thing. So, when the Weinsteins ate bagels, it was a Jewish thing. If they drank Bloody Mary's on Sunday, it was a Jewish thing. If they hung "famous" paintings on their walls, it was a Jewish thing. These were all things my Italian/German Catholic family did not do, so it had to be a Jewish thing!

The Weinsteins celebrated Chanukah/Hanukkah/Hanukah. My Dad pronounced it "Sha-noo-ka." My family celebrated Christmas. My Dad always looked forward to the holiday, I can't remember which one it was, when Mrs. Weinstein brought him some pickled herring! Mrs. Weinstein enjoyed eating my Mom's pizzelles. Susan and Karen came to our house on Christmas Day to see what Santa brought. And, Mrs. Weinstein was always happy when my parents decorated the outside of the house with lights and lit up the Christmas tree in the front window. It was Mrs. Weinstein who loaded us girls into the station wagon to drive through town to check out all of the Christmas lights!

The Weinsteins were the only Jews I knew until about 1985. I'm sure I knew others, but I couldn't name them. I went to Catholic school, and just about everyone in my neighborhood was Christian.

One of the girls was born on Christmas Eve, which was simply December 24th to her. I used to wonder whether she was something special because she was a Jewish baby born on the same night as Jesus was born. One night, on her birthday, she waited up all night long for the jolly guy and his sleigh to land on my roof! Christmas was never the same after that!

Why am I thinking about the Weinstein girls today? I came across the "interfaith parenting" books I've collected through the years and decided to re-read them. The first one was "How I Saved Hanukkah" by Amy Goldman Koss. I thought about how lucky this Catholic girl was to have two wonderful Jewish friends to grow up with in the suburbs. Yes, we were different in some ways, but in our day-to-day life, we were just a gaggle of girls having fun! I traveled with them. I shopped with them. We rode bikes together. Their parents were like parents to me. I can't imagine growing up without them as my neighbors. I always knew they were Jewish, but in the 60's and 70's in our planned community it didn't matter.

Was I oblivious? Did they know they were Jewish in a very Christian world? Did they feel comfortable in my Catholic home? Did they enjoy the Christmas decorations and coming over to see my presents? I wonder. I know that there was never a day when I felt uncomfortable in their home.

Now I wonder if my kids' friends ever think if it happens at our house and not at their house, "Oh, it must be a Jewish thing!" 

If your child has friends or cousins of the other faith, I encourage you to track down a copy of How I Saved Hanukkah.

Do You Really Know Anything About Your Neighbor?

While in a book club at our synagogue, we read books with Jewish themes. Most were of a historical nature. As we wrapped up one, we were encouraged to recommend the next one. I recommended The Faith Club, a book I had read and thoroughly enjoyed. This book was about 3 mothers - a Muslim, a Christian, and a Jew. Initially, they had come together post-9/11 to write a children's book that celebrates our similarities rather than our differences. Considering I was the only non-Jew in this book club, I thought it would be interesting to hear everyone's perspective on the book.

I was delighted that the group agreed to read the book. I was asked to address the Christian perspective, and we had plenty of folks to look at it from the Jewish perspective. When we were finished reading the book, I asked the group if my Muslim friend could join us at our next meeting to share the Muslim perspective. This was about 12 years ago - not too many years after 9/11, so I was delighted when they said, "Yes."

At that point, I just had to convince my friend, T,  to join us. For him, it would mean coming into a Jewish synagogue, not a typical place to find a Muslim. T surprised me and said yes, right away.

When T arrived that next Sunday morning, everyone in the book club stood to shake his hand - except for one gentleman, D. I didn't think much about it, since this gentleman was seated at the back of the room. The next two hours were filled with questions and answers, as we each got a better understanding of Islam and a new perspective on our fellow man. When T left, the conversation continued and the group was unanimously in favor of asking him if he'd be willing to return to our next meeting to explore the topic more thoroughly. T happily agreed to return.

At the conclusion of our second meeting, D, the gentleman who would not shake T's hand, approached T and asked him if he'd be willing to present at a local service organization he belonged to. Weeks later, when D introduced T to the other members of his organization, he said, "When I first met T, I thought ..." forgive me, but I can't even repeat what he said. However, he concluded with..."but today I call him friend." At that moment, I thought, "My work here is done." I felt like I had really made a difference by connecting a Jewish man and a Muslim man and had high hopes for where that would lead.

When I invited T to speak to my Jewish friends, I knew that I was taking a risk. I knew that relations were strained. However, this nice Catholic girl growing up in a generally Christian town and now raising Jewish children, had not realized how deep the divide still was for so many. For those of us who live in diverse communities, I wonder how often we get opportunities to truly understand each other's culture. For those who live in homogeneous communities, I am sure it is easy to misunderstand cultures that are different from your own.

In light of recent events, I'd like to share this article written by a young man, a Penn State Sophomore. He is much wiser than many of us. It is very easy to make assumptions about other people. Maybe it's time for the T's and the D's to come together for some civil discourse.

http://www.collegian.psu.edu/opinion/columnists/article_c750d330-861f-11e7-b923-c73da6100396.html 

Mom - My Eulogy 6 Years Late

I went to a funeral today - 6 years to the day from when my own mother passed away. The differences between a Catholic funeral and a Jewish funeral are strikingly different - at least in my diocese. When we met with the priest to plan Mom's funeral, he said outright that our church does not allow anyone to come up and speak about the deceased. Honestly, I had not given much thought to what happens at a Catholic funeral, until I had attended a few Jewish funerals. The service at the funeral home chapel or at the synagogue is a celebration of the person's life. Loved ones get up and share why what they most loved about the person, why they will be missed, and what the person meant to them. It may be one person who speaks or three or five. Considering that the clergy often do not know the deceased, it allows the moment to be real. It provides those in the room an opportunity to remember and to mourn.

Catholic funerals are a Mass at which family members play key roles - lectors for each reading, bringing up the gifts in the offertory procession, and readers of The Prayer of the Faithful. The casket is front and center. Prior to Mass, the priest speaks to the family and asks about the deceased. Then he gives a homily that refers to the person. The thing that distinguishes this Mass from any other is the incense that is offered up as the priests ritually walks around the casket. 

Catholics in my diocese have a viewing or wake before the funeral. This gives the family and friends a way to celebrate the person's life in small conversations around the room, as mourners pass by the (often open) casket and pay their respects to the immediate family. A viewing is foreign to most Jews. A Jewish friend who attended my mom's viewing was shocked to see the grandchildren and great grandchildren sitting around laughing and talking, with Mom laid out in the other room!  To us, it was second nature. In fact, with such a large family, Mom's funeral was a bit unorthodox. The receiving "line" was scattered all around the room as each of us received our friends and took turns sitting with Dad.

As I think back on the funerals for both of my parents and attend Jewish funerals, I can't help but wish that we had had the chance to get up and share our love for our mother with those who were there with us that day. It would have been nice for our friends to get a window on the world that was growing up with Mom.

Now...about Mom.

She was a 90 year old wife, mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother, and her greatest pride was her children's accomplishments.

Born in Philadelphia, she was the proud alumna of an all-girls Catholic high school. She and her husband were original owners of their home in one of the country's original planned communities, where they raised six children. Upon moving into their suburban home, they immediately became parishioners of the local Catholic Church and remained there for more than 55 years. 

While raising her children, Mom was a member of the Little League Ladies Auxiliary. She and her friends got together at least once a month for their Tuesday Night Club (which never met on Tuesday). We only used her special dessert dishes and coffee urn on the night when she hosted. Otherwise, they were stored in the closet under the stairs. 

When I was growing up, Mom sewed most of her own clothes - and mine too. She believed, like my grandmother did, that the seams should look as good on the inside as they did on the outside. 

Although she would never allow me to wear red shoes (they were not for "ladies" to wear), that didn't match the story Dad told me of the night they met on the dance floor. There was a mixer that consisted of each of the girls throwing one shoe into the center of the circle. Then the guys grabbed a shoe and that was who they danced with. Daddy told me that he had been "watching those legs all night" and knew that the red shoe belonged to her! (Aha!) They continued dancing throughout their long life together. I always knew where my parents would be on a Saturday night - he in his suit and she in her silver or gold sandals with matching jewelry, a flowing skirt, or satin palazzo pants. She even had a sequined butterfly shirt.

Mom was a huge Philadelphia Phillies fan, although she knew nothing about baseball until age 80. (She socialized during the boys' games and was known to yell "touch down!" after a home run.) 

Although primarily a homemaker, she worked as a secretary before marriage. Then, once I was in 7th grade, she went back to work in a factory making envelopes. Without realizing it, she was out in front as far as being a working mother - leaving for work after I went to school and arriving home with enough time to lay on the floor and put her feet up on the couch for 20 minutes before I got home from school. When Dad retired, they spent the first few months together all the time. Then she told him, "I married you for breakfast and dinner, but not for lunch. I'm going to work!" She spent many happy years dusting knick-knacks in a gift shop and talking with customers about how they were going to decorate their house. We met her at work for dinner twice a week. I never thought about it before, but I guess we were really trailblazers.

My Mom taught me so much about what it means to be a mother and a woman. I am very lucky to have had her as my mom. 

I Was Sad that We Were Going to Miss It

Made by My Daughter in College!

Months ago, I heard, "Mom, I am not going to miss playing in this concert for Passover." His father and I agreed. THE concert of the year was going to be held on the second night of Passover. Our family has always celebrated both nights with an extended family Seder; it looked like, due to our district's scheduling mix-up, including the kids' opportunity to play with a world-renowned musician from the other side of the planet, we were going to miss the second night.

Then, the news came that there would be a full rehearsal with the musician on the first night! PAUSE for effect. For those Christians reading this, that's sort of like saying that school is scheduling a mandatory baseball practice at midnight on Christmas Eve. You just don't do that. So, Mom and Dad have a conversation to decide how we're going to handle this. Yes, the show must go on. We figured if we're lucky, we'd make it to the Seder in time for a plate of food.

Fortunately, the rehearsal ended with plenty of time to get to our Seder. However, son was taking his time exiting the building. When I ran in to get him, he sighed and said, "Oh, I thought we weren't going." First question he asks is, "When am I going to get my homework finished?" Granted, as my kids hit high school age, they typically have homework over Spring Break and Winter Break; however, they have 5-10 days to do it. The Seder is 3 hours long on a school night. Why did he have to figure out when he was going to have to do homework? Passover, unlike most Jewish holidays, is a true celebration. We read through the story of the Exodus. We eat. We sing songs. So, why did my son have to figure out at what point he was going to slip out and do his homework?

As dinner turned into dessert, my went into another room and did his homework. Then, we returned to the table for our favorite part of the meal - singing. 

This year, we were missing 3 of our favorite people at the Seder - my daughter, niece, and nephew. Last year, daughter was able to come home from college for Passover. This year, since it falls during the week, she stayed at school. She called beforehand to wish us a Chag Sameach and tell us that she'd be going to the "traditional" Seder. As it turns out, there were 75 students there with an additional 300 at the shorter Seder downstairs. It's nice to know that she was surrounded by her people on Passover. She said, "It wasn't my Passover; they didn't sing the same songs or say the same prayer. But it was still Passover." On the second night, she joined with friends from her Birthright Israel trip, in the apartment of a trip leader. She was with a friend from home, who led the service. I hope that made it feel more like her Passover.

I sent my niece and nephew a video of us singing the family's favorite Passover song. My grown nephew was touched. This is the same song that often brought fear to my husband's family, as it became a tradition to have a water gun fight in the middle of it!

On the drive home at 10PM, with more homework yet to be done, I said, "I'm really glad we were able to be at the full Seder." This time, my son's response was, "Me too, I was sad that we were going to miss it."

Tonight, my daughter and her non-Jewish friends made "homemade" Matzoh Ball soup. Her paternal grandmother would be so proud.

Happy Passover. 

A Purim Story - in honor of my father's 100th birthday

Let's begin with saying that I am not good in the kitchen. In fact, it's one of my least favorite places to be. So, when my daughter comes home from college for Spring Break and wants to bake hamantaschen, of course, I say yes.

During the past two years, my daughter has not been home for Rosh Hoshanah or Yom Kippur. Last year we Face-Timed while we lit the Chanukah candles. I drove 8 hours round-trip in one day, so she could join us for Passover. This year, she'll be at college for all of Passover. Luckily, being part of an interfaith family, she gets to be home and celebrate Christmas with my family.

So, I was happy that my she wanted to bake for this weekend's Jewish holiday, Purim. Ironically, the cookies will be served to my Catholic family, since we will be celebrating my Dad's memory on what would have been his 100th birthday. My parents were all about family, and my Dad wanted to live to be 100, so my daughter and I decided to use his 100th birthday as an excuse to throw a party to bring our family together. It just happens to be Purim.

What is Purim?
For those of you who don't know what Purim is, it includes costumes, merry-making, and a reading of the Magillah, a story of when Haman - the bad guy - tries to kill all the Jews. Then, Queen Esther, part of an interfaith marriage, saves the Jews by going to her husband, the King, and begging him to pardon the Jews.

Here is a wonderful song my husband wrote about Purim. 

Purim Blues

Back to the kitchen

Baking with my daughter is a pleasure. 
She must have my mother-in-law's patience in the kitchen. Mom G. used to say that some of her best successes in the kitchen resulted from her biggest disasters. As you can see, making hamantaschen includes folding the cookies into Haman's hat. So, when the dough was very dry today, it began to 
crack and fall apart. Me? I would have thrown out the dough and given up in quite the huff. Not my girl! She stayed calm throughout the process, figured out a solution, and we now have a couple dozen cookies to celebrate her Catholic grandfather's birthday.


Mom's Kitchen

Celebrations in my husband's family are ornate affairs. They include home-made complicated recipes. Nothing is simple. My family was another story. In Mom C's house, food was simple. With five hungry boys and one girl to feed, I suppose she decided early-on that it was going to have to be easy. When we visited my parents' home, pepperoni and cheese were served (the irony of that does not escape me for those who may keep Kosher). Our birthday cakes were made in a tube pan by Betty Crocker, and the frosting came out of a can. For more birthdays than I can remember, the cake was lopsided, and Mom was frustrated that it never came out perfect. All birthday cakes were served with a scoop of Neapolitan ice cream. "Would you like chocolate, vanilla, or strawberry with your cake," they would ask. The reality of it was that no one cared. The point of having cake and ice cream was simple - to bring our family together.

So, in memory of my Mom, I made a Betty Crocker cake. Can't wait to taste it. As is par for the course, I forgot an ingredient and threw it in at the last minute. My daughter's patience must be wearing off on me. I didn't even curse or cry. The good news is that the cake rose to the occasion, so at least it will look good. It will be a yellow cake with chocolate frosting from a can, just like Mom would have made. Oh, and just in case, I bought a pretty, decorated chocolate cake too!

Happy 100th Birthday, 

Daddy! I miss you.