Has it truly been nearly a year since October 7 marked the beginning of significant turmoil in the world?
Lisa Kogan, an author and speechwriter, shares reflections adapted from her forthcoming book, “On Being Jewish Now: Reflections from Authors and Advocates.” It has been quite some time since I found myself believing in God, yet I worry about upsetting this God I no longer believe in, fearing it might lead to an unflattering haircut or poor credit.
Nevertheless, I enjoy Rosh Hashanah. I appreciate setting the table with cloth napkins, flowers from the store, and my mother’s wedding china. The presence of pomegranates and dates delights me. I cherish the way neighbors bring the delicious challah from the Hungarian bakery. I take pleasure in watching our dog strategically position himself under the toddler’s chair, anticipating any dropped brisket. I find joy in hearing my husband playfully remind guests to put their phones away. I smile as my friend Judith declares her wish to see her grandchildren choose their identities.
I find comfort in taking a yellow legal pad to jot down the most challenging events each of us has faced since our last gathering, then tearing the list into celebratory confetti. I enjoy the moment when we all throw the confetti into the air before dipping slices of Granny Smith apples into honey from the farmers market. I relish the chance to reconnect and ponder how swiftly time passes.
Can it really be almost a year since Hamas executed the deadliest assault on Jews since the Holocaust? Have all four seasons passed since witnessing the outrage on college campuses, since I avoided a man yelling antisemitic slurs near my corner store, since I first cried for the plight of Palestinian civilians and felt despair for tortured hostages as the world spiraled into chaos?
What would my mother have said about this overwhelming darkness? As I sift through the box of her old recipes, tracing her handwriting, I remember that my mom would not have crossed the street. I busy myself cleaning carrots, crushing garlic, and dicing onions, reflecting on how she once guided students in Detroit through a Holocaust memorial.
While cleaning and preparing, I remind myself that I would engage in this regardless of any guests. My mom had a special ability to converse and listen, understanding the depth of pain some endure and how it can harden the heart.
I order red wine and extend the dining table to accommodate everyone. While my mom never tolerated foolishness, she also recognized that a rose is more than its thorns—she answered fear with facts and cruelty with compassion. I place a follow-up order for three additional bottles of cabernet. This year has certainly called for it.
As the doorbell begins to ring at 7 p.m., our gathering, despite the infamous vegan duck incident in 2019, remains a tranquil group. Our ages range from 2 to 96, comprising Buddhists, Catholics, Jews, and the occasional lapsed Protestant. Our diversity in color, orientation, and income levels unites us in our readiness to bid farewell to the year 5784 on the Jewish calendar.
At sundown on Wednesday, we’ll light the candles and recite the prayers. As I glance around the table, I’ll recall moments from when my daughter was young and my mom was still present. After dinner, some of us will settle on the sofa for late-night conversations, while others will occupy the kitchen, transitioning food from large containers to smaller ones. Together, we will reflect on our lives, lament the absence of loved ones, and contemplate the future.