By: Kate Myers
If anyone could bring me to God, it would be my children. I'm big on science, but the miracle of a child is beyond explanation. For me, it's the biggest possible check mark in the God column. Especially after my father died, I wondered what exactly I was I believed in: Could I be a Jew and be anti-religion? Is it okay to have faith in something and not someone? What part of Jewish tradition did I hope to share with my children?
A few years into this inner dialogue, my daughter Annie, then 6, asked me straight up: "Mom, do you believe in God? And what happens when people die?" I gave her this long answer about how some people believe this, other people believe that, and I believe that people live on through you, blah, blah blah. It sounded okay to me until I was in my friend's minivan a week later and her son asked the same thing. My friend, who is Catholic, said: "When we die, we all go to heaven and then we'll be together." Wow, I thought. We Jews don't have a straight answer for anything.
I still haven't come to any big epiphanies about what I believe in. I know it's something based in love and the good in people, but that's as far as I've gotten. I know I'm proud of being Jewish, but I didnt' grow up in a religious household and I'm not into organized religion. I think of myself as a cultural Jew - someone who can throw in a little Yiddish here, a hit of Hebrew there, have Rosh Hashanah dinners, support Israel, hide the afikomen - but sitting in a temple makes me want to jump out of my skin.
So when Annie told me she wanted to become a bat mitzvah, I resisted. How could I support her in this thing I wasn't sure I believed in? I did what any rational parent would do: I tried to bribe her. "How about an exotic vacation instead? Or a big party for your 13th birthday? We can call it the Omigod-I-forgot-to-have-the-bat-mitzvah party."
"Not funny, mom," she said.
"Why do you want this?" I asked.
"Because it's what Jewish kids do," she replied. I couldn't disagree with her. It was just a bit surprising, as I have tried to push Judaism on my daughter exactly never. I've told her I'm proud of my heritage, and I've talked about my grandfather, who walked across his native country at 13 and came to the United States by himself. But I've never mentioned anything about ceremony or ritual. I quit going to Sunday school in fourth grade. We eat on Yom Kippur.
I couldn't argue with my daughter wanting to take part in something she viewed as an important Jewish rite of passage. So I went along - kicking and screaming in my head, but never to her - driving to sessions with her tutor; to monthly meetings with the rabbi; to b'nai mitzvah classes on Monday night. I worried about the cost, and I thought: This is cosmic payback for not fasting.
I helped her research her Torah portion of the Internet; up popped 12 different interpretations. The story has to do with the sons of Aaron bringing an offering to God, something God hadn't asked for, and then being consumed by fire. "Not exactly a slap on the wrist," I said to Annie. At which she cracked up. Somehow my daughter understood that my irreverence is not disrespectful - just questioning in its own way.
Then one night I was in my bedroom reading, and from across the hall I heard Annie singing her prayers. Her voice was sweet and beautiful. She felt the music in a way I never could, but suddenly I could feel it through her. It was as if I were having a reverse immigrant experience - my child bringing me into the old world, connecting me to something I'm not quite part of.
Our rabbi requires that Annie (and all bar/bat mitzvah students) attend six ceremonies in out congregation. Can you hear me groaning? can you hear my ex (her dad) saying, "This is crazy"? But I agree to do the Bat Mitzvah Tour. It's fun to put on a nice outfit (something I never do) and sit with my daughter, who looks so comfortable dressed up (and who wants me to wear makeup and buy myself a fancy getup for her big day). We sit in the back row holding hands, noting different aspects of the service, things she might want for her own. Eventually, we're swept up in the emotion of the day: Even though we don't know the bat mitzvah, I can see how proud she is, how proud her family is. It's lovely to share this joy.
I'm thinking that our rabbi is a pretty smart cookie, because I have to admit, I'm starting to look forward to Annie's bat mitzvah. Of course, I'm nervous about pulling it off. I wake up at 3 a.m. with to-do lists in my head. My boyfriend, a nonbelieving Scottish Presbyterian, is helping me create a PowerPoint prayer book, because, in an attempt to save a few trees, we're not printing 200 siddurim. I think about how wonderful it will be to have my whole family visit at once - something that hasn't happened in the 14 years I've lived in Colorado. I think about hearing Annie chant her Torah portion in front of the important people in our lives and about sharing this ritual with our non-Jewish friends. It gives me chills.
My mother, who is 80, will not be able to make the trip. She lives in a nursing home in Pittsburgh. Her 11 grandchildren lovingly refer to her as "Nina," and she has written a speech for each one's bar or bat mitzvah. Annie insisted I start collaborating with Nina on her speech way ahead of time.
"I'm sad that Nina and Doc" (my late father) won't be here," I tell Annie one night while preparing for dinner. "Yes, they will, Mom," she says, walking over and tapping above my heart. "They live in here, so they will be there."
Put another check mark in the God column.
