I live in the South, in an area where Jews are not the norm. Jewish life must consequently be painstakingly searched for and teased out which can mean traveling hundreds of miles in our 20-year-old car which seems automotively disinclined to do. Even finding a challah to buy is a daunting experience. There is, however, one tiny bakery in Greensboro, North Carolina, which every Friday has three or four of the quintessential braided Jewish breads for sale.
Being very financially challenged right now due to a job loss in our home, we watch our pennies carefully but always make sure that there is enough for our precious Shabbat purchase. Each time we do this I remember how my father, a former yeshiva boy from Ceciny, Poland, who was forced to emigrate to Canada due to an ongoing war, had walked seven or so blocks to the Jewish deli in a poor section of Los Angeles so that we had a challah for our Sabbath meal every week. I could do at least as much in his memory and promulgate some Jewish education for my boy, whether there’s reliable transportation available or not. The sages tell us that it is our obligation to pour holiness out in the world, and this is my really small way of doing that for my son and myself.
Although my parents were poor, there was always spiritual richness in our home. I can recall my father telling us that the Talmud said that the greatest vehicle for God’s presence is within the love of a family. Indisputably, we had that. Familial circumstances, on a monetary plane, were often brutally difficult. On a particular night when we did not have much to eat and I vociferously complained, I can remember my father saying, “Who is rich? One who rejoices in what he has.” I was given to understand that whatever we had, it was absolutely enough.
To this day, I try not to complain and remember my Polish father’s example of joy and gratitude, resiliency and reverence. From him I took forward the legacy that when you teach your son or daughter, you teach their son or daughter too. I work hard to ensure my son understands that a fundamental part of Judaism is gratitude, and whatever else may be happening in our lives, we must wake up each morning and say “Modeh ani l’fanecha,” meaning “I thank you.” And. we do.
On this day, I travel to the bakery and buy the beautiful challah which will sit on our Shabbat table under a lovely cover that I purchased when money was freer from a local artist. Although I cannot read the embroidered Hebrew, I take delight in looking at it, etched carefully around the borders of the linen cloth. At that moment I remember how my father, full of pride, placed the challah on our table and said the blessing – in English, Yiddish and Polish. The bread was thus thrice-blessed and to my childish eyes seemed to gleam with even more importance.
The day before our bakery visit my son and I had watched “Yentl” and at the very moment that I placed the challah next to me on the passenger seat of my car, I thought of the line that Barbra Streisand sings, with so much emotion, to her father who had recently passed: “I remember Papa, everything you taught me.” I am here to testify that I too remember those things that my immigrant, Polish-accented father taught me.
Tonight, as we prepare for Shabbat, setting the challah in its special place (a TV tray because we do not have a table), my son is talking about Judaism and mentions Hillel’s teaching: “This is the entire Torah, the rest is commentary: love your fellow as yourself.” He wants to know if I still love a relative who has recently said terrible things to me in anger, which greatly hurt my heart. My boy carries my late father’s name, Nathan, which in the original Hebrew, means “gift of God.” So aptly named, I think. He has always been a wise and knowing person. I make a remark that I saw somewhere that Rabbi Coopersmith averred: “God didn’t give the Torah to angels. We are imperfect beings doing the best we can.” I simply say to my son, “I too am doing the best I can.” I silently say “Shabbat Shalom” to my relative, hoping he can hear me somehow from his home across the country and remind myself, according to Rav Nachman, “It is forbidden to be sad.” We are told by him as well that “it is a great mitzvah to be happy” and minutes later, I feel changed by the commentary and ready to embrace the Sabbath.
As we cover the challah, we say the blessing and then dip portions of the poppy seed-covered bread into some salt. Being the historian that my son is, he mentions (for my edification) that this act recalls the salt that priests, in the ancient Temple, utilized to sprinkle on sacrifices offered to God, linking us directly to the worship of our ancient ancestors in Jerusalem. I continue the conversation of historicity, saying that the braids of the challah are representative of bringing people together and that by eating a freshly baked challah, we have (as Rabbi Yisroel Goldstein says) “a taste of divinity.”
My son’s eyes are especially blue tonight, rimmed as they are with an even more evanescent navy hue, and for a moment my soul hurts knowing that my father did not live to see his so proudly and knowledgeably Jewish grandson who has the self-same heart and belief in the goodness of humanity. A looked-forward-to and expected guest for Shabbat has canceled due to illness and we feel a momentary sadness. My bright and shining son rebounds seconds later, telling me not to worry since Kabbalah teaches that every Friday night we have angels that visit our home as we are celebrating the Sabbath.
Our challah, from Spring Garden Bakery in Greensboro, North Carolina, is witness to this. The room is noticeably filled with a sudden incandescence and I truly expect to see an angel at any moment give us an invisible embrace on this incredibly important Friday night.
