If I Could Just Have One Day . . .

I find myself wishing occasionally that I could have just one day, 24 hours, to spend with my grandparents.

If I could be at my grandparents’ house on a Friday before dusk I could watch my grandmother light the Sabbath candles. In Yiddish this is called “bentsch licht.”

Baruch Atah Adonai Elohenu Melech Ho’alom Asher Kitshanu Ba’mitzvah Sov Vitsivanu la had Licht Ne’re shel Shabbat.

Blessed art Thou Oh Lord our God, King of the Universe, who commands us to light the Sabbath lights.

As a young person this meant nothing to me. I never asked about the significance of lighting these candles.

My grandmother would close her eyes, as if seeing visions and praying for good health and happiness for all our family…

 Then I would sit down at their dining room table and I would have some of my grandmother’s wonderful chicken soup, oh so luscious with tiny globes of fat floating in it. But I left two important things out! Before the soup my grandfather would say the Hebrew blessing over the challeh, the braided loaf of bread with a glaze of egg whites, and the blessing over the wine.

 My grandfather loved to shout out the Hebrew prayer over the wine: Baruch atah Adonai Elohenu Mellech Ho’alom boree pree agafen,! or Blessed Art Thou, Oh Lord our God, King of the Universe, who gives us the fruit of the vine. Then he would slug back the wine in one gulp and—bang!—forcefully put the engraved silver wine cup back down on the table.

And we would welcome the Sabbath as a bride…

Then the meal would begin.

Instead of sighing with boredom, shifting in my seat, playing around with my hair, and watching the clock until it was time to go— daydreaming about matters other than bread, wine, and candles— I would converse warmly and politely with my grandfather, asking him how his week had been, and what both my grandparents had been doing all week.

My grandmother, unusual for an Orthodox Jewish wife, had a career as a travel agent. I never asked her about it. But now, when asked, she would tell me about how she loved planning honeymoon trips for couples, and I’d ask her all about them. It would sound so romantic.

After the dinner was over, my grandfather used to tell me and my sister to stand up so he could say the “children’s blessing” over us. My sister and I would stand resentfully, shifting back and forth, thinking how dumb this was. He held his hand over our heads and mumbled in Hebrew. Never did we ask the meaning of what he was saying.

Now, my grandfather would still want to bless me. I said kindly that I am an adult now.

“But you are still my grand-daughter,” he said. Then, because we were practically the same height, he had to reach to hold his hand over my head. Oh, what would I give to have my grandfather bless me now…

 If one of them said something that sounded interfering or bossy, instead of moaning, arguing, or stomping off to the bathroom and slamming the door, I’d smile and remember that they are after all my grandparents. Then we would all go to sleep.

In the morning, Saturday morning, I would wish my grandparents “Shabbat Shalom.” I would walk with my grandfather to synagogue, the Orthodox one where my own family did not belong. We would enter the sanctuary—men on the left, women on the right.

 Instead of chafing against the separation of the sexes—I didn’t like this and it annoyed me— I would find a seat on the woman’s side. realizing that this was now and I wasn’t going to spoil this wonderful day.  Not trying to follow along in the prayer book (it was all in Hebrew) I would listen to the rabbi lead the service, and the cantor would sing the Hebrew prayers. I would look at the beautiful stained glass windows and breathe peacefully. My grandfather would be on the men’s side, his prayer shawl—tallis in Hebrew—wrapped around him, sometimes placed over his head. The men rocked back and forth as they prayed. It was almost hypnotic and I was lost in the beauty. The sound of the Hebrew words, although I didn’t understand them, calmed my soul. Then my favorite part, the benediction, would come; the rabbi would wish the countenance of God to shine down on us and grant us peace. This part, in Hebrew, I did understand.

When it was over I would walk with my grandfather back up the hill to his house where a cold lunch was ready—no cooking on Shabbos—and then my grandparents and I would talk pleasantly about what I was doing in school.

“Remember,” he said gently, “that all the Goldings always should earn an A grade in history and civics and social studies.”

Having heard this warning countless times, instead of snorting with annoyance, I would say “I know, Grandpa. I’ll try.”

Then, since nobody works on Shabbos and it was a day of rest, my grandparents would go to their bedroom and take a nap. I would snooze a little on the spare bed. When we got up it would be time to say good bye to the Sabbath day and I would leave.

I wouldn’t ask to use their phone to call my friends; I wouldn’t complain about how bored I was; if my grandparents wanted to tell me stories about their childhoods and where our family came from I would listen attentively.  Even if one of them told me that I was plump and should go on a diet I wouldn’t fly into a rage; I would thank them for being so concerned about me. They are, after all, my grandparents and they love me.

If I could have just one day…