The Magic of Shabbat
From Jerusalem to Westchester
This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
It was August 2023, and we—my husband, two sons and I—were finally on our way to Israel. This trip had been in the works since my husband and I said our “I do’s” over 15 years ago. It was the reason we were still saving the miles on our first joint credit card. Neither of us had taken family vacations to Israel as children or done Birthright as young adults.
We weren’t particularly religious. My husband was born and raised in New York, a consummate secular Jew, while I grew up in the Midwest—a region sorely lacking in Jewish culture. Sure, there were Jewish pockets in the Midwest, like Highland Park, Illinois; West Bloomfield, Michigan; and Shaker Heights, Ohio. But not Ann Arbor, where I’m from.
Growing up as a Jew in Ann Arbor often felt lonely. My family belonged to a small reform synagogue, which shared a space with a church. On Sundays, the bimah turned into a pulpit, and the Star of David was replaced with a cross. I had to explain to my friends and teachers why I had to skip parties that clashed with Yom Kippur and miss school over Rosh Hashanah. I vividly remember one elementary school teacher, who made me stand in front of the class and explain why I had been absent over the High Holidays. “I’m Jewish, and yesterday was a Jewish holiday,” I said, mortified, before quickly returning to my seat.
Ann Arbor was a college town. Most of the city’s Jews arrived from the Northeast in August and went back home in May. Meeting the New York Jews, with their thick accents and self-assurance, made me want to move East. I went to NYU for college, and I stayed in the city after graduation—working in Manhattan and eventually meeting my husband on JDate.
As we approached Ben Gurion in the early morning, the aisles of the plane were packed with men davening and wrapping tefillin. It felt both comforting and spectacular at once—like a synagogue in the sky. In the run-up to our trip, I had spent months curating the perfect first-time-in-Israel itinerary. I joined multiple Facebook groups and solicited recommendations from friends—one of whom scored us an invite to Shabbat dinner at the home of an American couple in Jerusalem. We arrived at their stunning house in the Old City to find an eclectic mix of IDF soldiers, travelers and prominent Israelis. A group of around 50 baby-faced soldiers were singing joyfully on the terrace, welcoming Shabbat as the Temple Mount glimmered in the background.
When they finished their song, the host asked us to share our first impressions of Israel, and to say why we were thankful for the IDF. We were taken aback, unprepared. We knew the soldiers protected the Jewish state, but otherwise, we were ignorant. After stumbling for words, we thanked them for their service and told them how lucky we felt to finally be in Israel.
After lighting the candles, we headed down to the Kotel. I had to split up from my husband and sons, so I followed the hostess, a seasoned Friday night Kotel visitor, who helped me weave my way to the front. I looked at the women clutching their prayer books and listened to the men’s jubilant singing from the other side of the wall. I touched the weathered stones I had only seen in photos. Shabbat dinner lasted into the early morning hours. We met soldiers who had come from South Africa, Brooklyn, South America and even Asia to join the IDF.
We were back home in Westchester on October 7. In those early days after the attacks, I felt empty and couldn’t stop crying. I felt powerless to help those beautiful soldiers I had met, and the country I now felt so connected to. I kept hearing the same sentiment from my friends—so I decided to tap into that magical feeling of Shabbat. In early December, I helped organize a Shabbat dinner at our local community center, and I invited as many Jewish families as the space could hold. We lit candles; we sang songs. Next year in Jerusalem.
Melissa Schweiger Kleinman is an author, copywriter and marketing professional based in Westchester County, New York. You can catch her lighting candles and eating challah with friends and family on as many Friday nights as possible.
This essay is part of a new collection of work inspired by the anthology On Being Jewish Now: Reflections of Authors and Advocates. Want to contribute? Instructions here. Subscribe here.
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