Miracles in My Pesach Kitchen

It wasn’t just what we learned, it was also what we saw and felt at a Chabad Shabbaton in May of 1987 that convinced my husband Zev and me that we wanted to become Torah observant. Immediately. We learned that G-d performed overt miracles in the Holy Temple in Jerusalem. (Wait, there was once a time when the whole world knew G-d existed?)  We saw grandchildren and grandparents together on the same page, looking into Torah to answer an all-consuming question: what does G-d want from us now? (Wait, that was my all-consuming question!)

I sniffed Truth, Zev sniffed Jews who love living as Jews. Together, we felt this was the community where we belonged. The Shabbaton ended on Sunday. By Tuesday, I was learning how to keep kosher.

Soon we heard rumblings that our new Lubavitch friends were worried about us: The Rudolphs are moving too fast. But I knew we weren’t. I knew I just needed to move far enough, fast enough so I wouldn’t turn back. Because I also knew I could be dissuaded from living a Torah life — Restrictive! Outdated! Anti-woman! — and if I stopped and thought about it too much, I would probably turn around. And I didn’t want to. Because something inside me beyond my intellect knew it was the right decision. So we moved fast, doing radical things like giving away our practically new dishwasher and expensive wedding china. With our kitchen kosher enough for Moses himself, we would be forced to think long and hard before bringing home the bacon. Within weeks we had even stopped eating in non-kosher restaurants. Only a super-rational commitment to G-d could explain why I would give up my favorite pastime in exchange for learning how to cook.

I never questioned whether we had bitten off more than we could chew until our first Passover. We had plugged along diligently in all aspects of Jewish observance and then along came the eight-day holiday that took over everyone’s lives. It wasn’t enough to avoid eating chometz, leavened bread products. I had to eliminate it beforehand from everything in my possession. Just scratching off the encrusted gook from the kids’ car seats took an entire day. Cleaning our actual kitchen connected me to our ancestors’ slavery in Egypt through a labor I had never known before: any and every surface or appliance that would be used for Pesach food needed some combination of scrubbing, boiling, torching or covering. Meanwhile, an indignant question simmered inside me: For this I needed an MBA?

I wish I could say it got easier the next year, but it didn’t. It was worse; I knew what was coming. My Pesach scrupulousness veered into obsessive-compulsiveness. I developed my own case of seasonal affective disorder; springtime meant Pesach and Pesach meant anxiety and grumpiness.

You would think having a Pesach kitchen would solve most of the challenges of feeding a family and cooking separate food for Pesach. But I still found what to be grumpy about. My condition was as traditional as the Pesach Seder. It wasn’t about the cleaning. Or the kitchen. I was holding out on G-d, not quite sure He was worth the work.

So why is He worth the work now?  For one thing, Pesach is physically easier. With kids out of the house, it’s less likely I’ll find Cheerios under the beds. Amazon, iphones and adult children — all relatively new phenomena — help, too. I’ve also let go of some of the stringencies that aren’t necessary. I can do that now because I’m more secure in my relationship with G-d. I showed Him I loved Him on His terms, even though it was difficult for me. After many years, I understand that the greatest gift I can ask for is to be able to truly know that He’s “worth it.” What else do I need?

When I tell the story of our journey, some people say I should take more credit for the choices we made. And maybe I should. It’s hard to do that though, knowing how clearly G-d was communicating with my soul back in 1987. (Our sages say He tries communicating with all Jewish souls, as often as every day.) Why I listened then, and why I kept listening, I honestly don’t know. I guess I just figured G-d had to be smarter than I was.

About the Author
Lieba Rudolph, her husband, Zev, and their young family returned to observant Jewish life when they were both over thirty. Now, after spending equal time in both worlds, she shares the joys and challenges of her journey, answering everyone's unasked question: why would anyone normal want to become religious?