Grape Juice and Challah

I moved to Boston the week of 9/11. Since two of the planes that crashed into the World Trade Center took off from Boston, not only the city, but its economy, were in shock. My dreams of quickly and easily finding work unfulfilled, I turned to doing what was available. I became a substitute teacher at a Jewish day care.

Unbeknownst me, I had picked up an accent in Israel by trying to speak English in a way that made it easier for Israelis to understand. People at the daycare kept asking me where I was from and looking at me with skeptical faces when I said, "Utah". "But where are you really from?" They'd ask again.

One would have thought that my blond hair and blue eyes were a dead give away that I was really from Utah. But then, this was a daycare where the African-American son of a woman rabbi was named after one of the Jewish months of the year. And a Muslim Indonesian woman in a headscarf felt that her daughter would be better treated and supplied with food that was halal (in accordance with Muslin dietary laws). So, maybe nothing could be assumed. Yet, they assumed I was Jewish- and Israeli. After all- I spoke Hebrew - and they couldn't tell how poorly. I didn't realize this until the manager of the daycare asked me point blank, "Are you observant at all?" I was offended. I think of myself as pretty observant; I tend to notice details and subtle social hints. Had I missed a new hair cut or something and this woman was angry with me?

Seeing the utter confusion and look of horror on my face the woman asked, "Are you Jewish at all?"

"Oh, observant like that!" I laughed. "Yeah, no. I really am from Utah. I was raised Mormon."

Which probably didn't explain why I knew all the words to the Sabbath prayers that we would sing with the children every Friday. Fridays were the best part about working at the day care. Instead of the normal snack time, we would light the Sabbath candles and sing the Sabbath prayers. Then we would eat challah and pass around cups of grape juice. The older kids from the religious school next door would come over to sing songs with the children. There was a lot of biddy-bum in the songs. Enough to make me feel Hassidic, or like a cast member of Fiddler on the Roof.

I loved these Fridays at the day care because they reminded me of arriving at Grandpa Shmulik's house in Rehovot in time to walk him back from the synagogue. We would arrive back at the house, the Shabbat candles already burning, the smells of Hungarian food filling the apartment. He would tell us again the Talmudic story of the angels who escort people back from the synagogue on Friday night: one good angel and one evil angel. When they arrive at the house, they look to see if there is a beautiful Shabbat feast prepared, whether everything is in order, and there is harmony in the family. If so, the good angel blesses the house so that the next Shabbat will be the same. The evil angel doesn't want to, but he must say 'Amen'. If there is no Shabbat feast, there is disharmony in the family, and everything is in disarray the evil angel wishes that the next Shabbat will be the same. Against his will, the good angel must answer 'Amen'.

When we arrived back, we stood around the table and sang the song to welcome the angels and to fill the house with peace. I would look from beloved face to beloved face and see them smile, heads thrown back in song. How many families can sing on key, let alone in harmony? I knew I had found something special.

Then, someone would say Kiddush, the prayer over the bread and wine, sung to welcome in the Sabbath. Everyone would join in for the last part, "For You have chosen us and sanctified us from among all the nations, and with love and good will given us Your holy Shabbat as a heritage." I learned the words and sang in Hebrew, but the better my Hebrew became, the more the words disturbed me. I was not one of those "chosen from all nations".

Singing Kiddush with the children every Friday in Boston, I would long for Grandpa Shmulik's home, but I was still disturbed by the words of the prayer. Then one day, while singing in Hebrew: mee kol ha-amim (from among all nations) I realized that if I switched the "mee" to "eem" it changed the meaning of the song to be, "with all nations". Thrilled with my discovery, I sang faithfully each week: "For you have chosen us and sanctified us with all the nations, and with love and goodwill..." It made sense for me and it made sense for a daycare that had representatives from many nations. I decided then that if I believed in god again, it would be in a god who blessed all the nations. And if I never believed in god again, there was still something for me to value in the taste of the fresh baked, soft bread and the sweet juice. There was still something lovely in celebrating a thing as simple as the end of another week with people that I loved.