L’Dor VaDor: My Mother’s Quiet Legacy

“From generation to generation, we will declare your greatness…”  

                                                                                       -Kedushah

Lately, I have been thinking about the phrase L’Dor VaDor.

For my non-Jewish readers—and maybe even for many Jewish readers—L’Dor VaDor is a Hebrew phrase that literally means “from generation to generation.” It is the idea that each generation inherits something precious and is entrusted with passing it on.

I don’t think I had a clue what those words really meant growing up—or even well into adulthood.

Yet somehow, with G-d’s help, I have been applying L’Dor VaDor in my everyday life for decades.

Post-10/7, I realize that with every stage of my life, I was connecting. Now, with my mother’s yahrzeit once again approaching, I am recognizing the overwhelming importance of L’Dor VaDor.

It’s a wild feeling to realize that my Jewish identity was not something I consciously chose. Rather, it quietly accumulated through the smallest of experiences over decades, eventually making me another link in the chain.

To understand all of this is to talk about my mother.

Estelle P. Jones Z”L.

My mother Estelle (Esther), with her parents. Born in New York, she became the bridge between the old world they carried with them and the American life they hoped to build.

Her Hebrew name was Esther bat Bina, though almost no one knew her by that name. Yet I remember her parents calling her Esther. I remember the Yiddish they spoke so the kids wouldn’t understand.

I remember my mother insisting that our family attend synagogue for the High Holidays, despite the fact that she herself struggled with her parents’ old-school ways. They were the “green cousins,” and she married the “Yankee.”

I remember my mother taking me to see Fiddler on the Roof and Hester Street. I was completely enamored by both, but it wasn’t until recently that I rewatched Hester Street with my husband that something clicked. I found myself saying exactly what my mother had once said to me:

“This is the story of my mother’s parents.”

My Grandfather Harry’s family in Eastern Europe before immigrating to America. The fate of many of those pictured – including his sister Fayge standing beside him- was never known.

Only this time, I understood it in a way I never had before.

I remember insisting that I have a traditional Jewish wedding (the first one!), even though my parents would have been perfectly happy to marry me in a more American venue serving shrimp at the cocktail hour.

I remember insisting that my daughter have a baby named in Israel—something her father probably wouldn’t have even cared about. (Tel Aviv Jews are not always the most traditional in Israel.)

I remember insisting that her father speak Hebrew to her.

I remember insisting that her father make Kiddush on Shabbat, even though he would have happily skipped it. (Funny how some Israelis are.)

I remember that when I remarried, I once again stayed within the laws of my Jewish faith, even though my present husband was not Jewish. He happily agreed, and here we still are, keeping those traditions today.

And then there is one memory that I didn’t fully appreciate until much later.

My mother’s appreciation for her family history didn’t stop with her own side of the family. She became fascinated with my father’s family as well.

She researched how my father’s family came to have a very American last name. She discovered that their original family name was Alter Esco and that it had been changed so they could find work and build a life in America.

My Grandfather, Harry, on the far right. In America, he fulfilled his lifelong dream of becoming a Cantor.

When my mother wrote her will, she insisted that the name Alter Esco be engraved on her headstone.

To be honest, at the time, I thought it was a little nutty.

Post-10/7, I honor that decision with pride.

Now I understand what she was doing.

She wasn’t just honoring a family name. She was preserving a piece of our family’s Jewish story that could so easily have been forgotten.

It was yet another way my mother was practicing L’Dor VaDor long before I ever understood what it meant.

And then came October 7th.

Like so many Jews, something shifted inside me.

I found myself speaking up more. Writing more. Learning more. Defending more.

I couldn’t quite explain why at first. It wasn’t as though I had suddenly become more Jewish. The truth is, I had been becoming this person all along.

It happened one decision at a time.

One tradition at a time.

One memory at a time.

One generation at a time.

As I approach my mother’s yahrzeit once again and think about my grandparents before her, I realize they were quietly passing me something all those years. My mother, with all of her own struggles between the old world and the new, somehow managed to hand me a Judaism that continued to grow long after she was gone.

Today, when I stand in synagogue and we sing L’Dor VaDor, I hear those words differently.

I no longer hear them as simply a beautiful prayer. I feel them.

I think of my grandparents speaking Yiddish so the children wouldn’t understand. I think of my mother, Esther bat Bina, trying to build a bridge between the Jewish world she inherited and the American life she chose. I think of the countless small decisions that seemed insignificant at the time but, together, became my Jewish identity.

Then I think of my own children and grandchildren.

Somewhere along the way, without even realizing it, I became another link in the chain.

May HaShem continue to give me—and Jews around the world—the strength to honor Am Yisrael, L’Dor VaDor.