Opinion: Opening the door

In my view

by Ilya Welfeld

Surrounded by good food and a motley crew of family friends, I often felt like a polite spectator at what could have been a precursor to reality TV. Most years, my ever-patient, deeply knowledgeable and good spirited stepfather would answer endless questions, settle raucous debates, sing himself hoarse, toast my mother and down the four obligatory glasses of wine ... probably more obligatory than I imagined at the time.

Our tiny home played host to an-ever evolving crew of the downtrodden. Each year, the cast changed slightly but, without fail, those most in need of open arms and warm kneidelach would find their way to our doorstep where they would join the regulars: four children of a single mother, two ex-wives of abusive husbands, three recent converts, a non-Jewish neighbor, an ex-con and his family.

Newly observant (my mother, brother and I joined my stepfather on the journey when I was mid-elementary school) I was sorry my beloved aunts, uncles and cousins rarely partook in the ritual festivities. But my parents made quite the effort to fill our home with celebration. Eager newbies, we took to heart the charge to open our doors for the lonely, tired and poor of our community (Kohl Difchin...) And we took care to race through Shfoch Chamatcha without translation, taking into account my funny, non-Jewish best friend, invited in part because my parents knew I would be in need of some comic relief.

Even at the time, I was immensely proud of my parents for fulfilling the mitzvah of V’ahavta L’reacha, and each year, my heart would tug as I thought about the challenges faced each day by our guests. It was so easy to appreciate all I had, when witnessing their gratitude in the face of such troubles.

Yet, I often dreaded those nights; I remember joking that I was partaking in the mitzvah of experiencing the pain of leaving Egypt. I was somewhat jealous of the brilliant postulations offered by our young guests, exhausted by their tireless questioning and toneless singing and more than a little resentful of the attention so kindly dolled out by my parents during sedarim that often lasted mercilessly into the wee hours of the night. I smiled, tried to keep my eyes open and helped shuttle soup and sweet potato casserole to and from the kitchen, all the while longing for a quiet, drama-less, family-only seder culminating in a pre-midnight Chadgadya.

Now, a parent myself, I am still surprised that my husband and I are old enough to hold a seder, let alone host family of our own. We celebrate with three and even four generations, sometimes at my parents’ (they have retired from hosting the world) or in-laws homes and sometimes in ours. Here, we have created our own traditions. I like to fill the table with plastic cattle and throw little green frogs and toy vermin around from time to time.

I set blocks in the living room so the younger children can build pyramids while we read through Magid. We even walk through a sea of parted blue cellophane before we break out the brisket. In time, these antics will soon annoy and embarrass my children and our sedarim will surely evolve.

But for the time being, these are intimate, family affairs, full of little questions from small children eager to lean to the left, sip sugary grape juice and stay up past bedtime. Yet each year, another question lingers in my mind, am I depriving my children of the experience I once resented? Surely my kids have fewer questions about the agenda of the night because they benefit from a yeshiva education. They and their peers are blessed to ask questions from the perspective of children who know, who believe and who are secure. And these blessed facts sometimes make me wonder whether as we open the door for Elijah, leave the glass on the table ... they feel less in need of salvation, less beguiled by the possibility of an open door than did I, new to it all, surrounded by those in real pain and need for more.

So as I switch dishes and swap pans I am struck by how honestly grateful I am to my parents for opening the door of our small home to let the needy in ... and the world with it. I hope that while I may not yet have the proclivity to invite the downtrodden en masse to my table, I might be able to impart to my children some of the empathy learned in my youth.

My wish this year for my children and for everyone else who is safe and sound is that, without suffering ignorance, loss or pain you may learn to love and appreciate the freedom to retell our story, practice our religion and ask questions. And that each year, you may exercise the right, the obligation, to look around the table and to appreciate the food, the traditions, the history and whatever motley crew surrounds you.