Edited by Zibby Owens, from her book, On Being Jewish Now: Reflections from Authors and Advocates, Zibby Books, Oct 1, 2024.
When I opened the glove compartment of this guy’s car, under the crumpled 1991 Saab convertible manual, I discovered a yarmulke. As a Shabbat-loving single woman in my late twenties on a second date, I took that navy suede kippah to be a sign from Hashem. Clearly I had found my bashert.
For some, it’s an electrifying caress or a romantic getaway that sends butterflies to all the right places. For me, a stack of dog-eared Jewish publications on a nightstand does the trick. A kiddush cup on the mantel that’s been passed down from one generation to the next? Goose bumps. A family tradition of banging on the table in a rousing Dayenu? I swoon. My primal love language, the way to my heart and soul, is Yiddishkeit, a devotion to Jewish traditions and culture.
The skullcap-in-the-glovebox suitor figured that out. Early in our courtship, he left me a late-night voicemail belting out a high holy days melody he had sung as a bowtie-wearing sixth grader in his synagogue’s junior choir. As we got more serious, he faux-casually mentioned in front of my ailing, religious grandma that his Hebrew name was Menachem Mendel, just like the Lubavitcher Rebbe. At our wedding, I reached the heights of ecstasy when, on bended knee, he surprised me with the traditional prayer of Eshet Chayil, declaring his commitment not just to me, his “woman of valor,” but also to creating a home together bursting with Jewish joy.
As a child, time stood still when my father walked in our front door early on Friday nights, Shabbat flowers in hand, marking the beginning of our family’s cherished time together. From building a sukkah out of threadbare sheets in our backyard every fall to gleefully dancing on Simchat Torah accompanied by Bracha, our shul’s accordion player; from waving Israeli flags in Independence Day parades to a decade of summers at Jewish sleepaway camp, there were so many foundational memories I wanted to re-create.
I also spent my formative years watching my grandparents mourn the loss of their parents and siblings among the six million Jews who were murdered in the Holocaust. For many in my generation, the Shoah was a catalyst for Jewish identity, a responsibility to be vigilant about ensuring the survival of our heritage and our people. It was ingrained in me by the Jewish philosopher Emil Fackenheim, and by those of my great-aunts and uncles who miraculously survived Auschwitz, that in addition to the 613 mitzvot (commandments) in the Torah, there is a 614th to follow: We must not grant Hitler a posthumous victory.
Since becoming a parent, there is no mitzvah I have taken more to heart—certainly because I feel the weight of our history and am passionate about Jewish continuity, but above all, because I believe Judaism offers a road map for a purpose-driven life of goodness and joy. By keeping kosher, for example, before a morsel of food can even graze my lips, I am prompted to savor the reminder of who I am and where I come from. For me, Judaism is the lens through which we can cultivate gratitude, honor our ancestors, raise moral kids, navigate despair, mark time with meaning, see the dignity in all humanity, show up for one another, and try to leave this world better than we found it.
Just as my Jewish experiences anchored my sense of who I was in the world as I grew up, I try to infuse my own home with Jewish values, Jewish music, Jewish prayer, Jewish food, Jewish rituals, Jewish holidays, Jewish giving, and Jewish love. My therapist, an Orthodox Jew, has a saying: “If you want the house to smell like Shabbat, you’ve got to make the potatoes.” It’s a metaphor we use to talk about how the magic of living Jewishly doesn’t just happen—not for me, my kids, or anyone. It takes work.
In the aftermath of October 7, I am doubling down on Judaism as a personal and communal toolbox for a life well lived. I blast Eyal Golan’s “Am Yisrael Chai” throughout our home, organize Shabbat dinners for hundreds, attend rallies in support of freeing the hostages, and sound the alarm for Jews and non-Jews alike about the resurgent tsunami of Jew hatred. There are countless recipes for making the potatoes, I am learning, particularly when we are activated by trauma, motivated to articulate a newfound sense of Jewish pride, and longing for a sense of community amid our vulnerability. Volunteer trips to Israel are at capacity, friends have found their voices as political activists or social media warriors, parents are galvanized to confront both latent and blatant antisemitism in schools, and business executives are displaying moral courage and leadership.
As I bless our three kids on Shabbat, I think about the unbearable void at Rachel Goldberg-Polin’s dinner table and pray for all of the hostages. We FaceTime our first cousins Goldie and Eldad, whose idyllic kibbutz life in the Gaza Envelope was shattered when Hamas gunmen tried to break into their safe room, where they hid with their three young children. And then we welcome Shabbat with joy. My husband sings Eshet Chayil, just as he did all those years ago. Our eight-year-old plays Mah Tovu on the piano, our daughter lights the candles with me, and our oldest son chants kiddush before heading out to basketball practice. That glove-compartment kippah from decades ago has since been replaced by one from our kids’ b’nei mitzvah, bedazzled with rhinestones because our daughter wanted them to be sparkly. Our kids, it seems, have the ingredients to start making their own potatoes.
Just last week, my husband sent me a selfie of him spontaneously wrapping tefillin at Chabad. He still knows how to catch me off guard. For my upcoming fiftieth birthday, I’m holding out for a breathy, pillowside Oseh Shalom, and for a lifetime of making more potatoes.
