The temptation to compare myself to a romanticized Jewish past (grandparents at the center of the family) is not helpful.
So I simply follow the lead of Zachary and Jeremy’s parents, who take the time to tend their spiritual garden and who dare to contemplate the meaning of a moral life.
I love to join children’s services, marking the seasons, promotions, graduations. Passover, Sukkot, Simchat Torah, Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Chanukah — I’m there, alive to that current of joy that postpones paralyzing perplexity.
Before Shabbat dinner, I sing along with that extra syncopation they taught me, “Shabbat Shalom — Hey!”
As they learn who they are, I am reminded of who I am. And as I become able to share my family history, my experience of tradition, something happens: a reciprocity that’s new to my experience of tradition.
Therefore: I am a sponge/ a camera/ an interviewer/ an interviewee/ an applauder/ a re-enforcer/ an interpreter/ a rememberer/ a player in the identity drama/ wresting joy from a shattered history.
Does that constitute an active role? How about being a good-enough granny? Maybe — efshar — I qualify?