In first person…Nothing lost in translation when boy goes to a service

Our early seders as a family were conducted out of a mix-and-match collection of haggadot from Manischewitz, Maxwell House and an orphanage in Israel. For some reason the story about the rabbis studying at B'nai Barak always produced a rash of giggles from the younger set. Perhaps because the way it was translated, it made no sense to them. Whatever the reason, when the leader said, "Rabbi, rabbi, it's time for the morning Sh'ma," it never failed to bring down the house.

One Friday night at services, there was a ceremony honoring some rabbi for something (my memory is vague on this), and we were treated to a parade of his colleagues extolling his virtues. At last the honoree rose to deliver his response. After a few sentences it became obvious that it would be a lengthy one, at which point our 8-year-old Matt tugged on my sleeve and whispered into my ear, "Rabbi, rabbi, it's time for the morning Sh'ma."