JPost.com | BlogCentral

Life before Pesach is not just about tidying up; life before Pesach is also about joy. Joy, per say, can be found in ordinary, but nonetheless elevated, events, such as watching the sun rise over the hills of Jerusalem or such as sharing Shabbot with a dear friend, her children, and her grandchildren. Joy can be found, too, in particular events, such as the obligatory festive meals associated with lifecycle moments. The Seudah Bar Mitzvah, which Computer Cowboy and I recently had the honor to attend, was in this latter category.

To begin with, the invitation to that seudah was especially beautiful. The paper, which beckoned to us, was not distinct because of its carefully crafted placement of type or because of the quality of fibers upon which it was printed (although both of which were noteworthy for an Israeli invite in their quality of being aesthetically pleasing), but because at the bottom of that celebrations note special kavod was given to the Bar Mitzvah boy's grandparents.

At the party, itself, even the photographer, either through the hosts' instructions, or through his own astuteness, made sure to capture the celebrant's Saba and Safta. He took posed shots of the grandparents as well as casual pictures. He made certain that the significant presence of the family's elders would be a permanent reference to the happy event.

As for the grandparents, I can attest that the grandma presided graciously over a table on the women's side of the mechitza. That sweet and wise New York matron lovingly accepted kind words about her family while concurrently engaging guests, many of whom were strangers to her, in friendly discussion. I'm not sure what occurred on the other side of the room, but according to my husband's reports, the grandpa was ever bit as chivalrous, as was his wife, with the host family's company.

Per the meal, there was much upon which to sup beyond the tastefully arranged buffet. There was no small measure of delight, available to the women, in the form of old friends and new acquaintances. Personally, I bit into happiness each time I watched guests enter and greet the Bar Mitzvah boy's mom. It is so satisfyingly to fill up on hugs and smiles.

It was wonderful, as well, to hear the words of Torah given over by the Bar Mitzvah boy. Many moms nodded and beamed as we listened to his well articulated, clearly parsed speech. It's a frank pleasure to witness youth authentically embracing our way of life.

For me, other forms of enjoyment that were called into existence because of the Seudah Bar Mitzvah, included: sharing pictures of grown children and grandchildren, catching up on friends' professional goings on, and meeting an adorable elementary-aged little girl. Small kindnesses, too, contributed tasty moments to the festive night.

Eventually, though, I had to abandon all of those lovely talks of shidduchim, of shiurim, of coffee klutches, and of stores that featured good prices on Pesach goods. I had to stop consuming those entirely agreeable interpersonal morsels because it was time to go home. My better half, who knew no one of his side of the divider, had more than gallantly participated in a party to which his only claims to belonging were his relationship to me and his Jewish birthright.

Hence, my sated neshemah bid good night to the sweet school girl who had declared me a "good" grownup for having participated in a wild variant of hand shakes and hand greetings (I understood the knuckles pressed together and the high fives, but lost the nuance of some of her other means of connecting with my mitts) and to the easy leisure with which my new acquaintances spoke. I hugged and kissed known friends good night, too.

En route home, Computer Cowboy and I compared notes. His evening, too, had been pleasant. In fact, he had only nice things to say about the men with whom he spoke and about the convenience of being able to daven Ma'ariv while at the party. Further, the man of my life admitted that he never tires of behold new beginnings.

At the next traffic light, however, my lassoer of stray code yawned, looked at me with those eyes I still find irresistible even after all of our shared decades (b'li eyen hora), and said, softly, that he needed a bit of sleep. My man was well aware that in the days to follow there would be cleaning, packing and related activities in which to participate.

Little Smile:

Speaking of Sma'achot, recently Missy Oldest gave over a dream in which the final scene involved rice. She asked me to interpret her symbols.

Summing up my best motherly love-influenced interpretation skills, I teased out meaning from her subconscious message. Piece by piece, I attributed value to the signs and wonders she had disclosed.

At the end of my discourse, I came to the scene in which the white grain had figured importantly. There, I paused. Neither Missy Oldest nor I needed me to explicate that reference. Boy-Getting-Taller, who had been silently listening throughout my entire, affectionate diatribe, suddenly jumped in. He objected to the meaning, which his sister and mother had implicitly assigned to the rice.

In a sincere voice, Boy-Getting-Taller asked how grain could represent anything but a reasonable means to feed a hungry teenager.