The Holiday of Memory

…the first table setting the day before the Seder..more plates were added

It’s really only eight days, but preparing for a Friday night with challah again feels like a big deal now that Passover has concluded. 

Now that the extensive preparation and planning are over, I have time to reflect on this annual experiential holiday that requires us to relive the story of the Exodus from Egypt. It’s the story of the Hebrew people, originally welcomed by Egypt’s rulers as sages, who then were seen as “other” by a new king who had not known Joseph or his brothers. Not that biblical timelines are perfect, but it apparently took about 100 years - a couple generations - for the helpful to become an enslaved people.

And every year - now some 3,000 years later - we gather around tables with family, friends, and always the children to retell, and relive, the story of the exodus. 

All families have different ways to bring the story alive so that we can experience the pain of slavery - with vibrantly bitter horseradish in this house - the tears of our ancestors, with radishes dipped in salt water - with various mideastern haroset, or sticky dried fruit, nut, red wine pastes that remind us of the mortar used to build the Pharaoh's temples. 

The ten plaques take on lively dimensions when ping pong balls fly across the table as the plague of hail is called, or bouncy plastic frogs, or dark glasses, or wild animals. And depending on the attention span of the children, there are sticker books to occupy little fingers as we tell the story one more time.

Passover is all about memory - ensuring the story of becoming an “other”, of suffering slavery and our ancestors' quest for freedom and autonomy through the hand of God - remains real for Jews today and for our children and grandchildren. 
It’s also a holiday where we remember all those who have shared our table over the years. 

Even when patience is waning, I need to sing Dayenu to bring back the memory of my mother-in-law's laughter as she sang that tune with great gusto. We remember Uncles Harry and Abram who liked to argue the timing of sundown in this Northern state, from their equatorial perspective of time. One of them loved watching us burn the hametz in the tin pail, while the other was bemused at our feather and wooden spoon search with the kids before the start of the holiday. 

And this year, others emerged at our table. The mother of a dear friend who departed a few months ago, meaning it was the first time he was observing without her in his 70+ years. My college roommate, who would have loved sharing the measured chaos of a Seder with her grandchildren if she’d had the gift of time to do so. Our former neighbor, who was always so curious about Jewish holidays. 

Once more, we put away the matzo platter, sweep up the crumbs and reintroduce pasta and bread and cakes to our menu, and hope the memories we created this year will last.