It is Bedikas Chometz night. I should be slicing the meat. And yet I sit here by the computer click-clacking away. My head is bursting with thoughts. My heart feels like the walnuts of Pesach’s past that needs to be cracked open. My eloquent writing is gone, with all the chometz I hope. And so instead, I am going to write an open letter to Mashiach. Feel free to add your thoughts as well.
All I know is I want Geula. I want the hostages home. I want the soldiers to come home. I want this war to end. I want our children to return to their Heritage. I want the word “diagnosis,” both in physical, mental, social and academic terms, to be stamped out and erased from the world. I want people to find their soulmate. I want children to grow up in a two-parent home, who love each other and their children. I want people to have, not to lack. I want clarity and understanding. Is this too much to want?
There is so much pain and suffering. We have been crying for a very long time. Centuries. Same fears. Same tears. We are tired and worn out. We yearn for what we know and what we don’t know.
Like any Jewish woman these days, I go about and get ready for this holiday of Freedom. I shop, I clean, I cook , and I cry. The Mashiach dress that waits in my closet gives me hope. The music that has exploded in our Jewish world buoys me even more. I wanted to paint a tambourine but did not have time in this very busy week. There is a plastic one, however, hanging in my kitchen, and that will do.
I cooked my chicken soup the other night and told my husband I am saving a portion for Mashiach.
He has a BIG job and he will be hungry! My husband laughed, but I was serious. My son said that Mashiach doesn’t eat. We’ll see.
I put my special new white tablecloth on the dining room table. It is delicate and beautiful and reminds me of a kittel. I announced loudly to anyone who was listening that I’m taking this tablecloth to Eretz Yisroel when Mashiach comes!
My husband and my youngest child are going about quietly the house searching. It feels like Yom Kippur as they concentrate on unearthing those white little packages, resembling the kvitlach in the kosel. I marvel that I have watched this process for almost 30 years with my family. My youngest child, almost a man, takes this job seriously, I qvell. As does my daughters fancy mousse desserts on the table. This lifts my spirits more.
My oldest child and his wife and my granddaughter will be coming tomorrow. The toys are out and ready to go. I dressed the baby doll myself. Life is constant and the clock doesn’t stop. I am grateful to see the blessings in my life that I remind myself to take the time out to count. I feel like my mother.
Yehuda Green’s song has been percolating in my head, “Mashiach, Mashiach, where are you? We’re all waiting for you.” The meat is waiting for me, and so are the dirty dishes. Beds must be made, laundry to be folded.
But know this Mashiach: I have a container of delicious soup waiting just for you.
Come and get it.
Chag Kosher V’Sameach to all.
