Category Archives: Holidays

Chrismukkah

Holidays

In 2003, the popular television show The O.C. coined the term Chrismukkah to describe the melding of Christmas with Hanukkah.

As a convert to Judaism, I welcomed Chrismukkah with open arms and an open mind. And while I never openly celebrated Christmas post-conversion, the holiday was always a poignant reminder of my childhood and forever in my heart.

The first night of Hanukkah has fallen on December 25 four times since 1900 as follows:

1910, 1921, 1959, and 2005.

In 1959, I was six years old and a practicing Catholic, and in 2005, I was fifty-two and a practicing Jew.

And now, with Christmas and the first night of Hanukkah falling on December 25 for only the fifth time in 124 years, it got me thinking:

Who am I in God’s eyes?

When I converted to Judaism from Catholicism in 1984, I kept this well-guarded secret to myself:

As much as I tried, I was unable to trade in one belief system for another.

My conversion was never the walking away from one religion to another but the belief that I was going to be protected by both at a time in my life when I desperately needed any iteration of God.

I sought refuge from the highest of highs at my lowest of lows. And I leaned on the purity and beauty of both faiths to survive each and every day.

You could say I hedged my bets by melding Judaism with Christianity.

In the middle of my conversion process, I sought religious counsel from both a rabbi and a priest. I needed their spiritual guidance and acceptance, although it didn’t matter what they thought because I had already decided to take advantage of the best of both religions.

As part of the conversion process, I was required to appear before a “beit din” for a hearing. “Beit din” is Hebrew for “house of judgment” and is a Jewish court system presided by rabbis.

On the morning of my hearing, I woke up to a snowstorm. Without a car that day, I had to take three buses, which took almost four hours to reach Brooklyn for my scheduled interview.

To say I was nervous walking into the cavernous room was an understatement. My beit din consisted of three rabbis sitting side by side at an elaborately carved oblong wooden table perched on a dais high above me. I recall thinking that this beit din was intimidation at its finest.

The rabbis began the hearing by asking me the name on my birth certificate, my former religion, my spiritual education, and my family history. As I spoke, they wrote assiduously.

Then, they asked me to recite the Shema Yisrael, a Jewish prayer that serves as the centerpiece for the morning and evening prayer services. Despite my anxiety that I would forget large swaths of it, I was proud and relieved that I could recite the Shema in Hebrew from memory.

The rabbinical hearing lasted over an hour, and I felt relatively confident about how it went. As the rabbis sat silently reading through their notes, I was praying that my Jewish proceeding was finally over, but to my chagrin, they asked me one last question:

Who is Jesus to you?

My first thought was: Oh boy. Here we go.

My second thought was: Don’t screw this up.

I nervously looked up at the trinity of rabbis and pontificated that Jesus was Jewish, a beloved rabbi, and a reformer of Jewish beliefs. I went on to emphatically describe Jesus as a great Jewish prophet.

Additionally, I explained that Jesus was a revolutionary Israelite, so for me, converting to Judaism wasn’t that much of a religious stretch.

I ended my long-winded rationalization by stating that since Jesus was a Jew, I felt secure in my decision.

I was shuddering with apprehension that one of these rabbis would ask me what role Jesus would play in my religious future, but thank the Lord Jesus that they didn’t.

But if they had asked me, I would have had no option but to tell them the truth:

Jesus has been ingrained into my brain, heart, and soul since the beginning of my time, and His teachings will forever remain a part of me.

Perhaps I would not have revealed that I will always feel Jesus’ presence and believe Him to be omnipotent, but maybe I would have.

Because I’m confident that those three wise men would have agreed that very few people could ever or would ever fully and ultimately walk away from their beliefs or eradicate their entire religious and spiritual upbringing.

But I’ll never know if I would have truthfully admitted that no amount of time or Jewish religious instruction could ever erase Jesus or my knowledge of His teachings from my psyche.

If my calculations are correct, Hanukkah will fall on December 25 for the sixth time since 1900 in 2035.

I pray to God that I will be around and in good health to once again celebrate the holiday melding—as a Jew or a Christian.

Thanksgivings Past

Holidays


[Grammy Nadeau, Mammy, and Terry]

The Wednesday nights
before Thanksgiving
were glorious
and full of some
of the most
memorable and
happy moments
I’ve ever known.

We were always so
frantically but
ecstatically happy
preparing for
our day of thanks.

My grandmother
Mammy would be
baking pies like
mincemeat,
rhubarb, cherry
and pumpkin.

My great grandmother
Grammy Nadeau
would rest quietly
in an old armchair
while I sat next to
her, reading the
newspaper aloud.

Mommy would play
records, and there
was always dancing.

And then came
the day of.

I would wake up
to the smell of
sauteed vegetables
and garlic.

We would roast
chestnuts in the
oven, and eat them
all day.

We cracked walnuts
and filberts with the
lobster cracker.

And no Thanksgiving
was complete without
Mammy’s famous
deviled eggs.

The turkey was
always the
crowned jewel.

Packed to capacity
with the most
heavenly stuffing.

But it was the love.

That big humongous
love that stretched
from Wednesday
through Thursday.

A love that I will
forever cherish
and recall.

What Would You Do If You Weren’t Afraid?

Holidays, , ,

I recently had a weird dream that was all jumbled up, but I recall that the question shrouded me in regret and remorse:

What would you do if you weren’t afraid?

I jumped out of bed, grabbed my journal, and wrote it down.

Then I tossed and turned, asking myself the question over and over again.

It was a fitful night, and I finally gave up trying to sleep and began writing this blog post.

What would I do if I wasn’t afraid?

What would you do?

Rosh Hashanah, a time of repenting and forgiveness, begins at sundown tonight—Friday, September 18.

There it is—that number 18. It always manages to creep up and in, whenever I’m soul searching.

“The days of awe,” also known as the “ten days of repentance,” include Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and the days in between, during which time Jews reflect on how we cycle through the year, bring it to a close, and begin again.

I don’t know about you, but I could really use a new beginning.

In the old days, when I would attend Temple during the High Holy Days, I would recite the same prayers every year. Year after year, the same tedious prayers. But this year is like no other year.

In thinking about what has happened over the past twelve months, I am regretful that I ever thought the prayers were routine—or worse, boring.

So, I pulled out the prayers today. And yes, they’re the same old familiar prayers, but in a calming, rejuvenating way.

Like all of you, my circumstances have forever changed.

The past twelve months have brought and wrought a harrowing narrative coupled with a Groundhog Day corona-routine that has rocked my world.

I looked back in my journal to remind me of all the things that happened over my past twelve-month life. If only I could go back to a simpler, safer time. If only I could go back to twelve months ago.

Last September 18, I had a Me Too awakening that left me with a glorious sense of acceptance. Finally. And of course, it happened on the 18th.

In October, I drove with my husband to Manchester, Vermont, for a wedding. The wedding was terrific, but it was the hours of driving, exploring, and conversating that reminded me of why I love spending time with my guy.

In November, I flew to London with my daughter, and we had an unforgettable ten days. I had never been to the UK, and will probably never get there again. I wish I would have known that back then.

On December 31, I threw a New Year’s Eve party, and we all cheered and celebrated the coming of 2020 with steak, lobster, and champagne. Happy 2020! Happy New Year!

In January, my grandson turned ten years old! And I recall thinking that it seemed like yesterday that I gently held his tiny swaddled body at the hospital. Back in the day when I assumed that I had all the time in the world to spend with him.

In February, I celebrated my daughter’s birthday in Brooklyn, New York, at an annual Peter Luger’s extravaganza with her two best friends. Porterhouse, thick-cut bacon, and an ice-cold martini, oh my!

And then, well, everything changed.

On March 7, I went into quarantine. I haven’t left my house since.

I remember the date, not because Coronavirus happened, but because it was the birthday of a special someone. A someone I’ve never met and who is a beloved and integral part of what I would do if I weren’t afraid.

On April 3, I corona-celebrated my 67th birthday. How the hell did 67 happen? But the day is seared in my memory forever, not because I turned 67, but because my Aunt Mary and one of my best friends I affectionately called Annie Pannie, were both buried that day.

On May 10, I got to see my daughter for the first time since we celebrated her birthday in February. The best Mother’s Day ever.

On June 21, we spent Father’s Day with two of our grandchildren, albeit socially distant. We hadn’t seen them since the prior November. And wow, how they had grown.

On July 21, I was fired from my executive director job by the deputy mayor of Cedarhurst, New York, because I asked to sit out the promoting and organizing of the annual summer Sidewalk Sale, which in the past years brought thousands of people to the shopping village. Sorry, not sorry, but I didn’t see anywhere in my job description that it was okay to kill people.

In August, I celebrated my 21st wedding anniversary with my husband corona-style, i.e., I warmed up whatever leftovers I had in my fridge, followed by a two-hour television binge of Married at First Sight.

And now, here we are on September 18, 2020.

I’m contemplating what I would do if I weren’t afraid—to reach out, and ask a most treasured person for their forgiveness.

I recently read that in asking for forgiveness, we often overlook the balance between the one who asks for forgiveness and the one who forgives.

I find it difficult to forgive myself for the mistakes I’ve made. And even though I recognize that I’m a work in progress, I continually beat myself up over events I wish I could go back and change.

I desperately want a do-over. A chance to make things right and put the mistakes and regrets behind me and out of my life forever.

I would ask for a second chance—that’s what I would do if I weren’t afraid.

Don’t get me wrong; I’ve asked this person for forgiveness many times.

So many times that I’ve all but given up.

I said, “all but.”

Before I was Jewish, I was Catholic and taught that I was born with original sin. I always took that to mean that I was predisposed to making mistakes—a lot of them.

And I learned over the years that sh** happens. But it’s never too late to make amends.

I’ve personally given plenty of loved one’s numerous chances. Some took full and loving advantage, and others did not. But I don’t regret forgiving.

So, I’m going to ask for forgiveness, even though I’m afraid.

And I know that if I’m forgiven—which I probably won’t be—we will never be able to get back to the way we were. Asking and receiving forgiveness doesn’t mean all is erased.

I’m not naïve.

I know that if I’m forgiven, it will never eliminate the anguish of the injury or the memory of the pain I caused. I’m just hoping to break the impasse—to unbreak two hearts.

And tonight, when I light the Sabbath candles, I’ll pray for a new beginning. Not just for me, but for all of us.

Because we are in a very dark time, and there is way too much suffering and human wounds out there.

And even though I’m afraid, I will send that email. I won’t call because I know I’ll never get a callback.

I’m hoping, but not expecting a response to my apology.

And until I draw my last breath, I will pray for the courage to keep trying and to never lose hope.

Even though I’m afraid.

Describing Thanksgiving

Holidays, ,

When I was in London last November, everyone kept asking me the same question:

Why are Americans so obsessed with Thanksgiving?

I didn’t want to insult anyone, so I left out some of the Pilgrim stuff.

How would they have felt if I told them that the Pilgrims were refugees fleeing persecution due to the brutality of the English monarchy?

They would surely have been insulted if I said to them that the Pilgrims fled England because of the despicable treatment by their government due to religious, cultural, and societal intolerance.

So, I told them the bare bones of Thanksgiving:

In 1620 the Pilgrims sailed from England on the Mayflower and landed near Plymouth Rock in what would later become Plymouth, Massachusetts. The Pilgrims had a good harvest that year, so they wanted to celebrate.

During that “First Thanksgiving,” European Immigrants broke bread with their friendly Native American neighbors in harmony and peace.

I didn’t tell them that the friendship between the immigrants and the Native Americans didn’t pan out and that most of New England’s native population was wiped out over the next few decades.

But what I did tell them was that every year we continue to celebrate the first time that races and cultures came together and left out the ugly stuff that happened after that initial Thanksgiving.

I also told them that in 1863 Abraham Lincoln made it an official national holiday. And that Lincoln proclaimed Thanksgiving as a holiday just a few months before he delivered the Gettysburg Address, declaring that in America, all men were created equal.

Several Londoners asked me if that meant that Thanksgiving is a celebration of American equality.

My answer was that Thanksgiving celebrates what makes America so great: Religious and personal tolerance, the belief that we are all equal, and the inclusiveness of every culture.

As I explained Thanksgiving, I said the words, but they felt empty to me. I wasn’t buying my explanation.

If I wasn’t buying it, why should they?

Here I was tying Thanksgiving together with America’s core values, but instead of feeling pride, I felt embarrassed, like I was an imposter.

And as I explained that Thanksgiving was a celebration of American values, not only could I see their pessimism, but sadly, inside, I felt it as well.

As I spoke out loud about American racial and religious tolerance, combined with the acceptance of multiculturalism, I was asking myself:

Am I talking American bullshit? Is Thanksgiving a sham? Is it merely an outdated holiday with no actual meaning?

God help us if it is.