Winter break comes hard earned. Everyone’s tired. As the kids get older, they’re not only tired; they’re rundown. So are we. So far this winter break—we’re talking under a week here since all began vacation—we’ve had one stomach bug (dear husband), a slew of runny noses, coughs and a sore throat. We could all use a lot of sleep, equivalent amounts of Vitamin C—and probably some warm sunshine (instead, we’re getting bitter winds and snow).
We’ve also had Christmas, of the non-religious variety. Can there be a non-religious Christmas? I say, kinda, sure. And how did a Jewish girl, raised pretty much without religion—save for annual visits to synagogue in Nashville, Tennessee with her grandparents and six years of Quaker school—wind up celebrating Christmas, with tree and gifts and stockings and brunch?
I married into it*. But I was raised to be primed for it, a waaay lower key version—a dash of Christmas and a dash of Chanukah. My Southern-born and bred mother was so glad to live away from Nashville—Philadelphia is so not Nashville—that she never felt any draw to join a congregation—that was for social purposes, and geography handled it—plenty of Jews in Philly. My father—New York born and bred, not of the bagel-munching variety, more the Greenberg bakery ilk—never, ever considered joining one. Judaism at home was minimalist: Seders and Chanukah, occasional Shabbat dinner. Oh, and no bagels—until my stepfather hit the scene.
Holidays like Succot or Purim, I knew about from reading—and re-reading—Sidney Taylor’s, All of a Kind Family series.
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When I look back on my education (if Paul Simon pops into your head, too, click), I realize that one reason I could think at all was Quakerism. Its strong guiding principles informed my education, including a belief in the light in each person, nonviolence, the placement of equal value upon each person’s voice, simplicity, and consensus. Later, I attended Mt. Toby Friends for years. While I stopped short of joining—I’m not Christian—I was strongly shaped by Quaker institutions (school and Farm and Wilderness Camps).
When my bigger kids were smaller, I thought a great deal about how having experienced a community formed around faith meant so much to me. I wished to share that with them. What I really longed for was a Quaker school. For years, we were members—Sunday school even—at Beit Ahavah, which if you don’t live around here I like to describe, totally fondly, as ragtag. Then, our great Hebrew teacher moved. The kids stopped wanting to go. There were some ugly politics and peacemaking efforts somewhat failed.
What really ended my going though was I don’t feel Jewish like that. The songs wash over me. The rituals feel like other people’s rituals. Hebrew, it’s a set of sounds but not of meanings, a little like my son’s Chinese texts look. Not much soaks in. What I loved was seeing the same people week after week, so many I adore. I feel that about the congregation down the street from us, so many wonderful friends there. It turns out that’s not the way I choose to gather, though, at least here and now.
So, Judaism has a place in my family, an important one. We are trying to pass on stories and some songs, and haven’t had to work to ensure a love of latkes and apples and honey. More so, we’ve committed to conversations around how the stories’ themes endure in our lives: stories of faith and hope and perseverance and against the odds occurrences. We endeavor to celebrate light and harvest, those we miss and letting go and moving forth, and remembrance.
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My eldest taught Saskia to sing, It’s Beginning to Look a lot like Fish-men. The kids belted it out during the ramp-up to Christmas, which I did marry into*. Here goes: I like to imagine a decade in the English—read, not very Jewish—countryside contributed to my in-laws’ love of this holiday. All I can say is that each year, I feel a little deflated that my father-in-law is no longer alive because Christmas was his favorite holiday and he was the most jazzed about it of all. He’d sit in his big chair clutching a gift and say, “Oh, you shouldn’t have,” smiling, “but I’m glad you did.” He loved giving, loved making gifts (yes, his gifts were pretty amazing).
The holiday evolves in terms of specifics but that spirit—a love of giving and getting—that’s important to this family I came into and now the family I am raising. It’s not what I imagined, and not how I’d choose to do it under different circumstances, but I know—when I remember Leonard’s grin, as I do every single year at this time—it’s okay to love a special day and a family tradition, even to love the giving and getting.
