Chicken Hands….

I write with chicken hands this morning.  The pot on the stove is bubbling away: my Passover matzoh ball soup  on its way.

It will even be gluten free… just like  my matzoh, just like me.

The meal will be set, the family I gather around myself to hear the old story…

I think of my ancestors, preparing the meal, carefully Kosher, in dark kitchens.

This day will be long but I will serve all of you, and leave an extra place, for You.

But, I will.

Me and my chicken hands will carefully arrange the plate;  our Seder of tears, questions, memories of slavery, memories of exodus and renewal and it will leave us pondering anew;

When does the journey end? Where does it go?

It doesn’t matter.

For me it is the journey and the questions and inevitably, a few answers…

A sense of lines so deep that nothing: not history, not mass extinction, not distance, can erase.

My family: I have found you at last. You were there the whole time.

My Lord: we have found me at last.

Here at your table:

I knew you were always here with me.

But oh, it has been a long, long, time, since I have felt welcomed home.

Come in, Elijah!  Come in, Adonai.

Come sup at my table and fill me and those I serve…

The slavery, the wars, the losses and gains, all are welcome here.

And I know that You, I AM, are here too.

Thank you! Thank you! From the bottom of my imperfectly Jewish heart to my dirty… chicken hands.