I believe in God.
I keep a kosher home.
When my children turned 13, each of them in turn became a bar or bat mitzvah -- literally, a son or daughter of the commandment -- and took their places as an "adult" in the Jewish community.
As an adult, I have always belonged to a synagogue and gone to services on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.
This year, I let my temple membership lapse and didn't even purchase tickets (yes, you need tickets) to the holiday services. I continually walked past the envelope of membership information without taking action.
As early as Friday morning (before Rosh Hashanah began at sundown), I still had no plan. Fortunately, my BFF rescued me from my malaise and offered my family a place at her synagogue with her family.
But as I sat in services on Saturday morning, flanked by the Roo-girl and Z-man, I realized one of the sources of my problem.
Tradition -- or, rather, the lack of.
For years, my parents hosted a night-before dinner on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. When that stopped, they hosted post-services lunch on Rosh and a break-the-fast on Yom.
This year, there was none. Some of that was due to my mother's breast cancer diagnosis not being as clean and pretty as we had hoped. She was clearly not up to hosting anything.
But even so, I realized I have nothing in its place. The torch has not passed to another family member, nor have I taken up the challenge myself.
So there was nothing. No dinner. No lunch. No family gathering. And I barely managed to have a place to worship with the two children of mine who still live under my roof.
My childhood and, frankly, adulthood are filled with memories of holiday dinners at first my grandparents and then my parents.
Right now, I despair at the memories -- or lack thereof -- I am making for my children ...
Crossposted at Mid-Century Modern Moms