Conflict of Interests
At home in Ramat Gan, we have a very clear, set schedule for Friday night. During the summer, we start Shabbat early (what's call Plag HaMincha) so that the younger children can participate in the meal and still go to bed at a reasonable hour. Being away from home, we had to strategize with conflicting interests. On the one hand, we wanted to have a pleasant and calm Shabbat dinner with the whole extended family. On the other hand, we wanted to attend synagogue, which only started at 7:30 pm. Normally, the meal is eaten only after services. And on the third hand, the earliest Shabbat can be started is one and a quarter hours before sundown, which came out to be 6:30 pm. In order for the meal to count as one of the three Shabbat feasts, it needs to be held on Shabbat.
In the end our plan was to do the afternoon prayers at home, earlier, so that we could aim to get to synagogue for just Kabbalat Shabbat, which I estimated to start close to 8 o'clock. That way, we could start Shabbat at the earliest possible time and have a leisurely meal before leaving the house at 7:40. What actually happened was that we didn't finish preparing the meal until after 7 o'clock, then we ate a somewhat abbreviated meal and left the house to run to synagogue (just Binyamin and I) at 8:04. We arrived just in time for Adon Olam, the hymn said at the conclusion of the Friday night prayers. Oh well. Better luck next time.
In the end our plan was to do the afternoon prayers at home, earlier, so that we could aim to get to synagogue for just Kabbalat Shabbat, which I estimated to start close to 8 o'clock. That way, we could start Shabbat at the earliest possible time and have a leisurely meal before leaving the house at 7:40. What actually happened was that we didn't finish preparing the meal until after 7 o'clock, then we ate a somewhat abbreviated meal and left the house to run to synagogue (just Binyamin and I) at 8:04. We arrived just in time for Adon Olam, the hymn said at the conclusion of the Friday night prayers. Oh well. Better luck next time.
Feast of Goodness
For Shabbat lunch, which, due to our insistence that children have relatively standard bedtimes even on weekends, is the only opportunity for us to go out for a Shabbat meal, we had been hooked up with a family that has a kind of open house every Shabbat. The mother of a former college roommate of Michal's, who lives in the area, had suggested we take advantage of their hospitality, since they're always happy to have more people join them. She suggested we meet around noon at the synagogue, since guests usually head to their house in a group, using the synagogue as a departure point. Shabbat morning was overcast, and by 11 am it was raining fairly hard. At 11:40, when it was time for us to leave, it was basically pouring. We borrowed raincoats from Sonya and Adam (umbrellas are prohibited on Shabbat), put a nylon cover on the stroller, and started to make our way in the rain.
We made it to the synagogue in good spirits but quite wet, only to hear from our host that the group wasn't leaving until 12:45. So we nibbled on cookies and vegetables at the kiddush that was still going on, and chatted a little with some of the members of the community who recognized us as out-of-towners. By the time 12:45 rolled around, the rain had completely stopped. We threw all the wet rain gear over the top of the stroller and joined the lunch party for a 20 minute stroll. Eventually we reached a stone house with a piece of paper taped to the front door. It read, in Hebrew, "Cohen family - Welcome!"
Inside we were warmly greeted by our hosts, an elderly couple who were impeccably dressed and overly welcoming. As everyone filed in and got comfortable, the kids were invited to play with magnet sets and scoot around the floor on little kiddie vehicles they referred to as "flying turtles". Within a few minutes we were called to table for kiddush. The table was very long, and set with very stylish, almost lavish, dishes and decor. Everyone, even the youngest children, had a tall crystal glass to drink from. Bottles of flavored soda were distributed equally down the table. A towering centerpiece with large flowers was set in the center of the table, but somehow was slender enough not to block our view of anyone else. Booster seats and high chairs were available for all our children. Even though five other guests had come with us (for a total of 16 people at the table), in the end there were two extra place settings. I was mesmerized. What was this place?
The host pronounced the blessings with a thick Brooklyn accent, grape juice was drunk, hands washed, and bread broken. The meal was underway. The hosts were exceedingly courteous and gracious. While a constant barrage of chicken and deli meats flowed from the kitchen, along with kugel, cholent, salad, and other dishes, the hosts inquired after each of the guests. Henry, the host (I don't recall his wife's name), would casually toss out a dvar torah from time to time, and he also invited one of the guests (our guide, as it turned out) to deliver some of her own insights on the Torah reading. She chose to speak about the mitzva of caring for the stranger, the sojourner, and the greater social meaning of the commandment. When she finished, I commented that we have before us, in this house, a fantastic application of that very commandment, since our hosts extend an open invitation to any who need it. About midway through my second sentence, Henry and his wife abruptly left the dining room for the safety of the kitchen. I was left with my mouth slightly agape, the unfinished thought still on my lips, whilst the other guests looked on, seeming slightly amused at what had happened. A few moments later, our hosts reemerged. Before taking his seat, Henry asked me if I'd finished with what I had to say. I almost began to repeat myself from the beginning, but then immediately understand what had transpired, and just said yes, I'm done. Then Henry proceeded to explain that they don't appreciate hearing praise about what they do, because they don't feel like it's anything extraordinary. "We're all sojourners," he told me, "me just the same as you. That's just a part of being Jewish." I tried to protest and insist that Jews are no longer strangers, no longer the homeless people. We can go home now, to Israel. My words fell on deaf ears. I can't say I was surprised.
By the time we'd finished eating - for dessert they brought out two flavors of pareve ice cream and four kinds of cookies, and the kids had played sufficient on the (still wet) backyard playground, many hours had passed. Throughout the whole encounter, I had been completely astounded by the couple's patience, generosity, humility, and piety. When we decided it was time to go, Amiel and Chanania came to the back door from the play equipment with thoroughly muddy feet. I caught them just as they were about to step in, and ordered them to go around and come in the front entrance, so that they could wipe their feet on the mat. Henry overheard and waved his hand dismissively, saying, "It's fine, I don't mind. Let them come in." I was totally blown away, but I still insisted they go around to the front. Leaving their house, I was reminded of many a chasidic tale, in which one of the characters is a pious, generous, rich man. Perhaps there are still some of those left in the world.
We made it to the synagogue in good spirits but quite wet, only to hear from our host that the group wasn't leaving until 12:45. So we nibbled on cookies and vegetables at the kiddush that was still going on, and chatted a little with some of the members of the community who recognized us as out-of-towners. By the time 12:45 rolled around, the rain had completely stopped. We threw all the wet rain gear over the top of the stroller and joined the lunch party for a 20 minute stroll. Eventually we reached a stone house with a piece of paper taped to the front door. It read, in Hebrew, "Cohen family - Welcome!"
Inside we were warmly greeted by our hosts, an elderly couple who were impeccably dressed and overly welcoming. As everyone filed in and got comfortable, the kids were invited to play with magnet sets and scoot around the floor on little kiddie vehicles they referred to as "flying turtles". Within a few minutes we were called to table for kiddush. The table was very long, and set with very stylish, almost lavish, dishes and decor. Everyone, even the youngest children, had a tall crystal glass to drink from. Bottles of flavored soda were distributed equally down the table. A towering centerpiece with large flowers was set in the center of the table, but somehow was slender enough not to block our view of anyone else. Booster seats and high chairs were available for all our children. Even though five other guests had come with us (for a total of 16 people at the table), in the end there were two extra place settings. I was mesmerized. What was this place?
The host pronounced the blessings with a thick Brooklyn accent, grape juice was drunk, hands washed, and bread broken. The meal was underway. The hosts were exceedingly courteous and gracious. While a constant barrage of chicken and deli meats flowed from the kitchen, along with kugel, cholent, salad, and other dishes, the hosts inquired after each of the guests. Henry, the host (I don't recall his wife's name), would casually toss out a dvar torah from time to time, and he also invited one of the guests (our guide, as it turned out) to deliver some of her own insights on the Torah reading. She chose to speak about the mitzva of caring for the stranger, the sojourner, and the greater social meaning of the commandment. When she finished, I commented that we have before us, in this house, a fantastic application of that very commandment, since our hosts extend an open invitation to any who need it. About midway through my second sentence, Henry and his wife abruptly left the dining room for the safety of the kitchen. I was left with my mouth slightly agape, the unfinished thought still on my lips, whilst the other guests looked on, seeming slightly amused at what had happened. A few moments later, our hosts reemerged. Before taking his seat, Henry asked me if I'd finished with what I had to say. I almost began to repeat myself from the beginning, but then immediately understand what had transpired, and just said yes, I'm done. Then Henry proceeded to explain that they don't appreciate hearing praise about what they do, because they don't feel like it's anything extraordinary. "We're all sojourners," he told me, "me just the same as you. That's just a part of being Jewish." I tried to protest and insist that Jews are no longer strangers, no longer the homeless people. We can go home now, to Israel. My words fell on deaf ears. I can't say I was surprised.
By the time we'd finished eating - for dessert they brought out two flavors of pareve ice cream and four kinds of cookies, and the kids had played sufficient on the (still wet) backyard playground, many hours had passed. Throughout the whole encounter, I had been completely astounded by the couple's patience, generosity, humility, and piety. When we decided it was time to go, Amiel and Chanania came to the back door from the play equipment with thoroughly muddy feet. I caught them just as they were about to step in, and ordered them to go around and come in the front entrance, so that they could wipe their feet on the mat. Henry overheard and waved his hand dismissively, saying, "It's fine, I don't mind. Let them come in." I was totally blown away, but I still insisted they go around to the front. Leaving their house, I was reminded of many a chasidic tale, in which one of the characters is a pious, generous, rich man. Perhaps there are still some of those left in the world.
Birds of a Feather
We returned to the house and passed the remainder of Shabbat napping (the adults) and playing board games with the cousins (the kids). Binyamin and I returned to synagogue after 7 pm for the prayers at the conclusion of Shabbat.
In many Orthodox synagogues, a small meal is served at the end of Shabbat for those who come for the afternoon prayers and stay for the evening service as well. This synagogue was no different from most. We entered the social hall and I looked for a table to join. At most tables people had already filled there plates from the buffet and were engaged in conversation with the people seated next to them. I looked for a table that wasn't crowded and seemed to have friendly folk. I chose one near the entrance, where two fathers and two sons were situated. Within moments, it became apparent that I had "accidentally" chosen to sit at the only table occupied by other Israelis. I guess I subconsciously identified them and was drawn to my kind. The both of them were in the area temporarily, one had been sent by his work and the other in order for his wife to get a higher degree. I didn't have much to talk to them about, but it was nice to hear and speak Hebrew to adults.
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