The high holidays are steeped in memories. We remember the joy of Isaac’s birth and the trauma of his binding. We remember the preparations for the ancient sacrifices by the high priests in the holy of holies. With each shofar blast, we remember the destruction of the temple and our subsequent history in the diaspora.
Sitting in the sanctuary of our beloved Ansche Chesed, I am also visited by memories of previous high holidays, and the loved ones who fill those memories. I am a small boy, sharing tickets and sneaking into the grand synagogue on the Grand Concourse with my Zeide, born in 1888 in what is now Belarus, and my Nana, born in Russia in 1897. Me and my brothers with the women in the balcony staring down at the men davening below.
I am pre-bar mitzvah, and families in our new Rockland County development gather for high holiday services in the living room of our neighbors, Arlene and Howard Eisenberg, while the community raises the funds we will use to buy a house and start a new egalitarian, progressive congregation right down the street. There, I will walk to high holiday services until my parents become empty nesters and move back to the city.
I am a graduate student home for the holidays, sitting with my dad, now gone, in a west side orthodox synagogue, where he feels a connection with the old-world experience of his youth and with his father.
I am a father of small children, sneaking snacks into the sanctuary to keep them quiet during services.
And this year, sitting with my wife Sharen, our college children too far or too busy to come home, I will once again step again into the river of memories and visit with loved ones.
This high holiday season, may you find joy in your memories, and may the new year bring occasions for more joy and lasting memories.
L’shanah Tovah.
Photo: The writer’s sons, Sammy and Rashi, making holiday chopped liver with their Zeide, the writer’s father, Alvin (Sept. 2009)
