Eleven years ago, I sat in the sanctuary of my new synagogue. My parents were visiting. My mother’s and my attention turned to the large window next to the bimah. My mother said, “I wonder what the leaves will look like on Sofie’s bat mitzvah?” Sofie, who was two, was born on the second day of Rosh Hashana. Although we were years away from getting her date, I knew it would be around this time.
Five years ago, I sat in the kitchen of my synagogue. We had invited various kosher caterers to do cooking demonstrations. Each was given a holiday menu to plan. I was sampling the Sukkot meal—butternut squash soup served in small gourds, savory fish, beans with toasted hazelnut and lemon, poached pears swimming in fluffy cream. The caterer had dressed the display with gorgeous silks of orange and chocolate. Tiny votives glowed. This will be the caterer and this will be the menu for Sofie’s bat mitzvah, I decided. We were years away from getting her date, but I knew it would be around this time.
Three years ago, I was given the form to request dates for the bat mitzvah. The closest Shabbat to her birthday was Sukkot. The executive director warned me that the service would be longer than most. I didn’t care. It is a joyous service with Hallel and special blessings for all the babies born into our congregation that year. We could have part of the reception in the sukkah. It would add even more meaning to the day. It was a glorious date.
Wheels immediately started turning. The DJ, photographer and social hall were booked. I met with the caterer, crumpled card from the cooking workshop in hand and rattled off the menu that I had decided on years ago. I was thrilled when a donation was made that allowed out synagogue to construct a magnificent sukkah. I poured over every bat mitzvah planning book I could find, trying to find that balance of celebration with meaning and mitzvah. I watched my friends’ children become b’nai mitzvah and began to accept the fact that yes, I am old enough to be a bat mitzvah mom.
One year ago, Uncle Saul promised, “I will be at Sofie’s bat mitzvah.” I know he tried. I know he wanted to be there. It never occurred to me in all my years of planning that he wouldn’t be the one to call Sofie to the Torah the way he did for me and my sister and cousins. He had asked me to tell him all the details of everything I had planned. He wanted to picture it, to be able to tell me he was proud of me. Outside, Summer haze was giving way to Fall winds. It was easy to imagine the bat mitzvah, we knew it would be around this time.
The years became months, became weeks, became days. I don’t remember even once having to remind Sofie to practice. She politely refused my help preparing for her d’var torah. “Mom,” she said patiently. “I want you to be surprised.”
Last Saturday, I sat in the front row of the sanctuary. Sofie sat on the bimah in her beautiful ivory dress with gold trim, remembering to cross her legs at her ankles. She was beaming. I knew she was prepared. I knew she would do well. What I didn’t expect was how comfortable she was on the bimah, how much joy she radiated as she chanted. The forecasted rains never came. It was the perfect Fall day. I’d like to think Uncle Saul had something to do with that. I watched my parents stand for their aliyah, watching Sofie read using the yad my mother used at her own bat mitzvah three years ago. I could feel the continuity. I heard my father-in-law chanting lines of Torah with Sofie. I don’t even know if he knew he had joined her—it was as if his voice was acting on its own. Tears streamed down his face.
And when Sofie spoke to the congregation, she explained that sukkot are fragile, that their wooden frames are not meant to withstand pressure or time. So we must learn to appreciate and remember the moments of beauty in our lives because they are fleeting. And, in the end, it is not about the sukkah, it is about the family that builds it.
Sofie was right. It is the moments I’ll remember. Every year, around this time.
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