When I think about the Pesachs of my childhood, the heroes at the center of the story are my grandparents. My Bubbie turning simple ingredients into delicacies. My Saba smiling calmly, no matter the chaos. Bubbie singing songs I didn’t know, in a voice so joyous, I couldn’t help but join in. Saba reciting Kiddush in a voice that elevated the whole house. Bubbie setting a Seder table that somehow stretched to fit an ever-growing group of guests. Saba welcoming each guest with the grace of a true Southern gentleman.

My grandparents lived in Little Rock, Arkansas, which was not exactly a hub of Jewish life. But Bubbie had a supernatural ability to find Jews and bring them into her home as family. By the time we sat down to the Seder, there were always people I had never met before who somehow felt like they had always belonged at our table.

There was endless cooking. There was endless food preparation. (Bubbie wore safety goggles to prepare the maror, the horseradish, which as a child I found both terrifying and deeply reassuring.) And yet, in the middle of all that, my grandparents made time for me. They made me feel like the Seder existed just for me. Not for the 30 guests. Not for the elaborate menu. Not even for the telling of the Exodus. For me. Looking back, I don’t actually remember how long the Seder lasted or whether we finished the Haggadah. I remember sitting near them, the most loving, powerful couple in the world, with their eyes on me. I remember the attention. I remember the feeling that I was an essential part of something ancient and important. My grandparents made Pesach magical.

Now my husband and I host Seder. We are the ones making the shopping lists, planning the menu, and wondering how many boxes of matzah we really need. When we lived in America, we were the ones with the ever-growing guest list. We were the leaders of the community, the power couple trying to find Jews and bring them into our home as family. And my parents, or my in-laws, who have their own recipes, their own songs, their own stories, their own deep wells of love, sit at the table as guests. Honored guests. Beloved guests. Helpful guests. But only guests. Which raises a question I am sometimes afraid to ask myself: In my effort to create the kind of magical Pesach I remember, am I unintentionally taking that magic away from my children?

Because here is the complicated truth of being the middle generation: I have opinions. I have a vision for how my home runs. I know how I want the kitchen organized, when the Seder should begin, how the Haggadah should flow, and whether the children should be running or sitting. I am the middle generation, proudly Generation X or Xenial, known for not valuing authority or fixed instructions. We were latchkey kids and we are strong, independent and capable adults. None of this is dramatic. I love my parents deeply. They are generous and respectful and never try to take over. Precisely because they are so careful not to overstep, I sometimes forget to invite them to truly step in. And I wonder: What would it look like for my children to have a grandparent-centered Pesach the way I did? What would they gain if I made more room, not just at the table, but in the experience? What I received from my grandparents was not just Pesach. It was their presence. It was the way they had time for me in the middle of everything. The way they made Judaism feel like joy. The way they turned strangers into family. The way they let me feel that I was part of the story. And those are not things that only happen in one generation. Those are things that happen when a child and a grandparent are given the space to build their own relationship, their own rituals, their own songs, their own inside jokes, their own version of the Exodus. Not mediated entirely through me. This realization is both beautiful and humbling.

Because it means that creating a meaningful Pesach for my children is not only about what I do. It is also about what I allow. It is about asking my father to teach a song. It is about letting my mother make charoset her way. It is about stepping back so they can sit with a grandchild and tell a story I have heard a hundred times but they are hearing for the first time. It is about resisting the very modern urge to curate every moment and instead making room for something older and slower and richer to unfold. It is about trusting that the magic I remember was never meant to be mine alone to recreate. It was meant to be passed on. Pesach is the holiday of “v’higadeta l’vincha”, telling our children. But it has always also been the holiday of telling across generations. Of children leaning toward grandparents. Of grandparents seeing themselves in the faces of the future. Of a story that does not belong to one person at the head of the table but to all of us, together.

Because my children deserve the chance to feel what I felt when my grandparents looked at me across the Seder table and made me feel like the whole story was being told just for me. And my parents deserve the chance to be that person for them. And if I’m very honest, I deserve the chance to sit back, just for a moment, and watch that magic unfold again. Not because I created it. But because I made space for it.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)