A Story on Shabbos

My grandmother, Baboo, lived a pious life back in the old country, in one of those small shtetls in Russia I assume looked just like Anatevka. She said that her father, my great-grandfather, Itzhak Mayer, was a scribe to the Rebbetzin. I think that connection must have made her family life a fairly religious one. She saw heartbreak and terror in that little town and lost contact with her older brothers when they escaped Russia to come to America. The story she told was that her brothers carried a coffin, with one of the brothers inside, to cross the border to freedom. Some of her tales sounded outrageous to me but who would make that one up?

Baboo, her sisters, and parents eventually found passage to freedom years later. She witnessed death and separation at such an early age, and then remotely feared everything all over again during the Holocaust. What kind of world did she have to face as a Jew? She did not keep a kosher or very religious home when it was her time to start a family. She questioned how so much heartache could be allowed to touch the ones she loved. She turned her back on what she was bred to believe in, although, I will always remember her being as Jewish as the nose on her face. Religion for us, as redefined by my grandmother, was based on American traditions in Judaism which basically include a matzoh ball in the holiday soup and a Bar Mitzvah at the age of 13. She taught me how to cook matzoh brie the Russian way (as a pancake) and how to measure ingredients with my hands, not with a measuring cup. They didn't have measuring cups and spoons back in the day, but everyone always had a clean hand. Rachael Ray's grandma must have lived in a similar town in Sicily since that is also what she preaches.

If you ask me who I am, I will say that I am a mom, a wife, a sister, and a daughter. I am an artist, I am a woman, I am Jewish, and I still use my hands to do everything.

I found a website that asks people to cross stitch a Torah verse for an international exhibit, called Torah Stitch by Stitch. I was so excited when my fabric and embroidery floss arrived this week. Katie's boyfriend, Shim, (who could easily relate to my grandmother's tale of taking two steps back from Judaism) was educated in a Yeshiva and could translate the verse assigned to me. I started stitching my panel this week, and with each pull of the needle, I feel a strong connection to Itzhak Mayer, the great-grandfather my brother is named for. As a scribe, he must have printed the same letters I am sewing on my canvas. I feel like his hands are guiding my hands. I don't think it is ever too late to embrace the true blessings of family, to honor where you came from, or to discover who you are.