The High Holy Days are approaching, bringing a time for apple and honey, elaborate meals, family gatherings, new outfits, and a mix of reflection and celebration. It is also a season of extended prayer services at the synagogue, a familiar place for many, including my father, who found comfort in the rituals of Judaism, fulfilling his duties as a descendant of Levites.
For others, the synagogue is less familiar. My husband, although proudly Jewish and attached to family traditions, only attends services three times a year. Early in our marriage, we balanced the High Holy Days between our families in Manchester and Hertfordshire, which introduced me to new customs, like breaking the fast with hot coffee and olives instead of honey cake.
After moving to Amsterdam, we visited different synagogues, finding ourselves puzzled by the bilingual services and the complex Sephardi rituals at the stunning Portuguese synagogue.
The loss of my mother-in-law just days before Rosh Hashanah in 2005 marked a significant moment. We experienced our final Manchester Yom Tov in a desolate synagogue filled with dust and sadness. When we relocated to London, we joined a nearby synagogue but often returned to my childhood shul during the holidays. Our experience at our own synagogue was complicated, highlighted by a mix-up with seating.
As my mother’s health worsened, I began preparing Rosh Hashanah lunches, continuing her tradition of fried fish and potato salad. Her passing transformed our celebrations forever.
Last year, we attended services at my father’s care home, which were brief and suitable for the elderly residents, many of whom were fragile and often fell asleep during the service. The rabbi kept the atmosphere light, avoiding reminders of mortality that loomed over the congregation. Despite the situation, we found it meaningful to gather with a community where the younger members were few and far between, and we were grateful to share the experience with my father.
With his passing in March, this year marks our first Yom Tov without him or any of our parents. We faced the question of where to observe the holiday, torn between reminiscing about the past and looking forward to the future. Initially, I thought we would attend a traditional synagogue, but my family had different ideas. They reminded me that we already have our own community, albeit without a synagogue.
We are fortunate to be part of a vibrant local community established by a young couple from Chabad, reminiscent of my own upbringing, filled with warmth, friendship, and an inviting spirit of Judaism. They are moving to a new location, where they plan to hold an explanatory service, which I will attend, and a “power hour” suitable for the rest of my family. We might even participate in tashlich at the park.
For lunch, I will prepare my mother’s potato salad and fried fish, purchase horseradish to honor my dad’s love for it, and bake my mother’s apple cake and jam strudel. At some point during the day, I expect to close my eyes and sense the presence of my parents, reminding me of their own losses and their hopes for my future, just as I will pray for my own family’s well-being this year.