Part 2: The Missing Ushpizin, and Chol Hamoed

Last week, we recounted how we worked hard to prepare a Sukkah party for our Israeli friends from the kiosks in the mall, and how we were left high and dry. We were crushed. If you missed Part 1, scroll down to find that blog first. We pick up from there…

I’d love to tell you that I am a man of faith, who truly believes that everything is for the good, and I was able to be cheerful the next day. But it was really hard. I was disappointed and frustrated. Truth be told, I was upset at them. 

Did our intended Ushpizin (Sukkah visitors) really have so little appreciation for all the many hours Chana had cooked all those weeks for them (not to mention the money we had spent)? 

What about all the shlepping and preparing we had done? 

Was the bond of kinship I thought we had forged actually so tenuous that they could just blow it off, after telling us that they were coming?

To a degree, I blamed myself for this failure. Perhaps I was too proud of what we were doing; maybe this should have been done in a more quiet fashion, without our neighbors and Facebook friends knowing all about it. I also questioned my own motivations — was this whole undertaking an expression of Ahavat Yisrael, or did I see these Israelis as my pet project, some outreach experiment I could notch on my neshama? I remember my father once expressing his distaste for those who objectify non-religious Jews, seeing them not as brethren with their own good traits, but rather as little more than potential targets of kiruv efforts. If that was what I had been guilty of, then no doubt it was my own lacking in sincerity which was reciprocated with their seemingly-apathetic absence from our Sukkah.

My melancholy encroached upon my Chol Hamoed. I had planned to bring my Lulav and Etrog to the mall each day, but the first day I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I didn’t know how to face them. What would I say? Would I just ignore the fact that they didn’t show up? 

Or should I give them — politely — a hard time about it? Perhaps that would show that I cared. If anyone, Israelis should appreciate tough love.

So I headed back to Towson on Tuesday, Arba Minim in hand. I greeted the aromatherapy crew with a warm Chag Sameach, which they returned. Apologetically, they explained that their boss had arrived from Israel, and told them he wanted to meet with them Saturday night after work. Everyone was expected to attend. 

They were sorry they had missed it. So was I.

When I approached my friends at the Dead Sea booth, I got another warm welcome. They were so very sorry they had missed it, they said. But they had gotten off of work at 10:30 that night, and since I had put down that it ended at 11:00pm, they felt it would be “lo na’im (not nice)” to first show up at that late hour. A simple, well-intentioned miscue on the invitation — limiting the hours until 11 — had torpedoed what I thought was my best shot at having them join us for a warm Yom Tov experience. 

Most of them were only too willing to take the Lulav and Etrog with me. For almost all of them, it was their first time doing so that Sukkot; for some, it was their first time in years, perhaps ever. Aharon, the hair-straightening products guy (who, ironically, has long curly hair), needed little help. He obviously had a traditional Sephardic background. After reciting the Brachot, he continued silently praying, his eyes shut tight. 

Two others politely refused. I confess that I was surprised — they were always very sweet, and I couldn’t imagine why they would pass on this lovely, innocuous Mitzvah. But I made it clear that I was only there to offer it, with no pressure. The reluctance of the few did not dampen the fact that most of them were appreciative that I had brought them the opportunity to avail themselves of this Mitzvah.

***

Feeling much better about things, I returned each day, and was able to get others to join me in the brachos, those who had not been present earlier. I decided to explain the symbolism of the arba minim to some of them. On the drive over, I rehearsed in Hebrew how I would explain the meaning of the mitzvah, hoping that this insight might help open them up to participating. I explained to the gentle, quiet Dan about the four types of Jews represented by the Arba Minim: those with and without Torah, those with and without Ma’asim Tovim (good deeds), and how, after the forgiveness of Yom Kippur, we all bind together as one united people. He listened attentively and politely, and repeated his earlier refusal: “Lo. Todah.”

On Hoshana Rabbah, several hours before the onset of Shimini Atzeres, I arrived at Towson Town Center with reinforcements. I was joined by Chana, Chananiel, and my mother-in-law, Sarah Bush, who was visiting us from Seattle. We made sure all the Israelis knew that the following day would be the end of the Chag (at least for them), and that this was the last opportunity to make a Bracha on the Lulav. Again, almost all of them were only too happy to participate. The mood among the group was positively festive. Between the shmoozing, the distributing of kugel and chocolate chip challahs, and the Brachot on the lulav, everyone was having a great time.

Chana’s home baked Challot.

At our first stop, while we were socializing with the kiosk workers, a mother and her 20-ish daughter, shoppers in the mall, passed by. The mother saw the Lulav and Etrog and asked if she could do it, too. The daughter, rolling her eyes, wanted nothing to do with the whole thing. Mom was in from Columbus, Ohio, visiting her daughter in college, and they were just out for a little shopping. We showed the mother how to hold them, and helped her with the Brachot. As we recited the Shehecheyanu blessing (which is said the first time doing the Mitzvah that holiday), I glanced over at the daughter, who was sitting on a bench, a safe distance away. I couldn’t help but notice that she was mouthing the words of Shehecheyanu along with her mother. Deep down, she really did want something to do with it! Afterward, the mom explained: “she’s a little turned off about religion. My husband is a reform rabbi.”

I approached one of the female managers, who had been one of the only ones to refuse me previously. I gave her the explanation of the mitzvah, and she hesitated for a moment. Then she sheepishly explained her reluctance: “aval ani lo yada’at (but I don’t know how)…” Chana jumped right in to help her, and she made the Bracha on the Arba Minim, and, for the very first time, the Shehecheyanu. At once I felt gratified that we had made this breakthrough, as well as frustrated that her insecurity over trying it had almost allowed the Yom Tov to pass without her participation. 

I approached Dan again, and, feeling comfortable enough with him to get a little personal, I told him that I wasn’t pressuring him to do it, but I wondered if I could ask him why he didn’t want to. He answered: “ani lo ma’amin. Ani agnosti (I don’t believe. I’m an agnostic)”. In a sign that he really had been listening to me the day before, he then continued: “I’m the Hadas — the one without the Torah, but with the Ma’asim Tovim”. I replied: “Maasim Tovim are wonderful! We need more Maasim Tovim!”. 

About that time, my mother-in-law was frantically trying to get my attention from the Rockport shoe store. As our visit had become quite protracted, she had sought refuge, somewhere she could sit for a few minutes. Now she was frantically motioning and calling to me. I tried to finish up my “business” quickly at the electronic cigarette kiosk and see what the fuss was about. 

“These two are Jewish,” she enthusiastically reported. As it turns out, the girl who had waited on me the day before in the shoe store (and had clearly seen my Lulav and Etrog at that time), was Jewish. The second worker was a male trainee from Las Vegas, who was only too happy to take the Lulav, as well. “I’m originally from a religious family” he explained. I was pleased to give him a chance to reconnect, if only for a sweet moment. 

Outside the shoe store, a woman approached us with a stroller holding twin babies. “Please, can you come to our store when you are done?” she asked with a sense of urgency in heavily-accented English. I began to talk to her in Hebrew, and while she responded in kind, she explained that she is Mexican, not Israeli, and that she and her husband own a Mexican art and knicknack store in the mall. So after wishing the Israelis in the area a Chag Sameach, we made our way to the Mexican store. We formed an immediate connection, as the owner of the store is the uncle of one of my son’s classmates. 

AI Generated Image – Mexican Type Store

Although not Shabbat-observant, they belong to a wonderful Sephardic shul in our neighborhood. They both did the Brachot on the Lulav, we talked about their families and kids, and then we got ready to leave, when the owner presented me with an unexpected request. “Can you please bless my store? Business has been very slow.”

Now I’m no rabbi, and certainly not one that anyone comes to for blessings, but here was a man asking for spiritual answers to his life problems, and I certainly didn’t want to discourage that. Besides, the Talmud says: “al t’hi birchas hedyot kala b’einecha (don’t take the blessing of an average person lightly)”. Once again exiting my comfort zone, I obliged him, clumsily muttering something which I hoped would be meaningful to him.

With that, we left the mall, leaving ourselves barely enough time to get home and change for Yom Tov. No matter. I truly felt that we were doing was far more important than getting in the last-minute vacuuming (or maybe I just like having a good excuse to get out of that last-minute vacuuming!). 

Since that time we’ve been back to see our friends, with challahs and kugels in hand. One of them called us after having been released from the hospital, suffering a severe case of the flu. Chana immediately got to work and dispatched me with a container of Jewish penicillin, her well-stocked chicken soup. 

***

So many lives, so many stories, and none of them whose final chapter is yet penned. I don’t know whether or not any of our Israeli friends will actually ever set foot in our home. But I do know that for now, we have tried to give them a taste of home, and a reminder that there are Jews out there who care for them, and that we are indeed one people.

—

Author’s note: Next week we’ll share the conclusion of this story, which, ironically, involves an Xmas dinner (don’t judge me!). 

This blog was adapted from an article which first appeared in Baltimore’s Where What When magazine in November, 2009. 

In the 15 years which have transpired since this piece was written, so much has changed. We have made Aliya, many of the workers in this story have gotten married, and the world has dramatically changed. But the unity of the Jewish People, though sometimes marred and scarred, is eternal.