Bar Mitzvah Re-do

Inspired by a true story.

The Twins approached 13, the traditional time for their rite of passage in the form of a Bar Mitzvah, which of course they would do together. They did everything together. Besides, what were you going to do, book two synagogues and have the family schlep from one to the other on the same day? Out of the question.

Everything was set. The synagogue had them practicing the melody for their haftarah portion. Each branch of the family knew the time and place. The caterer was ready with blintzes, fruit, chicken cutlets and bourekas. Their father took them to one of the Orthodox stores in Nazareth to pick out matching talises (taliot? talits?). The prayer threads hanging from the shawl were braided by a Rabbi’s wife in the ancient city of Hebron, which is where our family claims to have lived before the diaspora. And they got a discount because they were buying two. Win-win. Their friends carefully schemed about which girls they wanted to ask to dance during the reception, and how to do it to minimize embarrassment. Their mother ironed everyone’s best shirts. It was showtime.

The event itself went much as expected. With a 2pm start on the invitations, family members trickled in until 2:45, the later ones clearly having wrapped their gifts in the car, nudging people to scooch so they could find a place to sit while the two boys stood at the alter, flanked on either side by the rabbi and the cantor. Those who were late got glares from those who had done the basic respect of showing up on time, making up for the previous family events in which they had arrived late themselves.

The rabbi’s job was as conductor, leading the ceremony from one part to another, each person following as he gave the order to rise, face toward Jerusalem, bow, rise, sit, rise, bow. The cantor’s job was particularly important for the Bar Mitvah circuit, as his bellowing voice graciously drowned out the high pitched squeaks that pop out of 13 year old boys as their voices try to grow up with varying degrees of success.

The Twins told the story of Lot and his wife Edith, taking turns singing the ancient text in front of them. Two angels arrive in the City of Sodom and are invited to spend the night at Lot’s house. They tip him off that God is angry with the people of Sodom for a number of relatively petty reasons, and the angels have in fact been sent to purge the city of anyone who hasn’t been a good Jew. They have come to tell Lot in the hope that he, one of the only devout people in the area, will flee with his family.

The people of Sodom are particularly interested in these two angels, who have arrived in the form of hot men, and chant outside Lot’s house hoping for an orgy with them. Lot, in his attempt to please the angels, tell the people chanting outside his house that he won’t give them the hot men but he’d be happy to give them his daughters instead. Nobody is happy with that situation. The angels transport Lot and his family outside the city and tell them not to look back. Lot’s wife, Edith, who this whole time has not been consulted on what the best course of action is, is pretty upset that her life was upended in a moment’s notice (and, chances are, she is also upset that she is missing the orgy). She looks back on the city, where the angels are now “wreaking havoc” (we all know what that means) and is turned into a pillar of salt for doing so. Lot moves on with his life pretty quickly, and thinks God is doing a great job. This is where the phrase, “well that’s just my Lot in life” comes from.

Ah yes, The Bible. So wholesome.

It was an Orthodox synagogue, as they all were at the time, so the women and girls went up to the balcony to participate in the ceremony from above. This was most of the girls’ preference, as there was rarely a better spot to people watch. An uncle falling asleep. A school mate missing the cue to stand up, or accidentally facing the wrong direction. Most importantly, there was a time honored tradition bestowed upon the girls in the balcony, and they took it very seriously. When The Twins were done telling the story, all the girls took aim and threw hard candies into the congregation and at the newly Bar Mitzvah’d. The men below covered their heads to protect themselves from these projectiles, which, when aimed from twenty feet up, could do some damage. The boys knew no such fear, and made a show of trying to catch them in the air as they flew.

The Throwing of the Candy marked the end of the Patiently Sitting in Pews portion. The flock flurried around downstairs making their way to the reception, where every few feet, a groups clustered around an older relative gesticulating seriously along to the phrase, “would you believe…” or “and then…” or “now let me tell you….”.

The Twins’ mother got a call two days later. As she stood on the line, her face grew pale and her stomach dropped. Her mother-in-law was on the line, calling from New York.

I’m so excited for the Twins’ Bar Mitzvah. It’s been so long since I’ve been to Israel. I’m bringing that eczema cream for your skin, you looked horrible last time I saw you. I’m arriving on Thursday so I can get over the jet lag by Saturday. Let’s hope. I don’t want to be asleep when I should be moving my tuchas on the dance floor! Ah listen to me it’s like I’m 35 again. My two grandsons’ bnei mitzvah, what an amazing thing. I can’t wait to see you all. I thought my colitis would have killed me by now but you know, I found the best young doctor in the city — he’s my friend Sarah’s son. He went to Cornell. He’s got me counting my steps and taking these vitamins and I swear I’ve never felt better, except when the colitis flares up and that’s awful. My god. Let’s hope you never have to suffer like I do. But today we’re good. Tomorrow who knows? Who’s picking me up from the airport? Here’s my flight number, write it down. Do you have a pen? I don’t hear you getting a pen. I’ll wait.

She had gotten the dates wrong, planning to arrive a week too late, and in the frenzy of preparations, nobody had checked to make sure she was coming on time. This mistake was of the never-speaking-to-you-again caliber. And of course, thought The Twins’ mother, though Grandma Ruth was her husband’s mother, she was the one who would be held responsible for this oversight, she was sure of it.

The family met for an emergency meeting in the kitchen. So, Grandma Ruth called. She said she’s excited to fly in on Thursday for your Bar Mitzvah this weekend. All eyebrows shot up for a collective moment of realization.Of course they had noticed that she was missing from the Bar Mitzvah, but each person assumed she had told someone else she wasn’t coming.

They all knew the consequences. Their branch of the family would never be forgiven. No more calls, cards, packages of babka and lox from Zabars, or visits from Grandma Ruth. She would surely withhold her brisket recipe, which she had promised to pass down in her will. She might put the evil eye on them, which, though the family did not believe in its powers, they certainly didn’t want to tempt fate if they were wrong.

What if we did the whole thing again? one of the Twins offered. It seemed like a crazy idea, but this was a dire situation.

To pull this off, they would need buy-in. The Twins, their parents, and their sister divided up the list of attendees and got to work. Their father spoke to the Rabbi and teachers, their mother to the aunts and uncles, the kids to the cousins, schoolmates, and family friends.

While some took convincing, and a few said they couldn’t make it, the overwhelming majority understood the situation perfectly when they were first told. A grandmother had missed her grandsons’ bar mitzvah, and this needed to be fixed. Because they were twins, it wasn’t like there was another grandson down the line that she could come for. It had to be now.

On the following Saturday, the family took their places. There was another kid being Bar Mitzvah’d earlier in the day, but luckily the 2pm slot happened to be open — a miracle in and of itself, a sign they had made the right choice. The sister and two close cousins stood at the entrance, covertly reminding guests who walked in not to say a word that might indicate they had already done this just last week. They received solemn nods in return. Everyone understood the gravity of the situation.

The men filed into the pews downstairs, the women onto the balcony above. Shouts of “long time no see!” and “I remember you when you were just a fat baby” echoed as people settled in. The rabbi welcomed everyone to celebrate the once-in-a-lifetime momentous occasion that is a Bar Mitzvah. The Twins told the story of Lot, fully animated by its lessons about orgies, not turning back, and not trusting hot men who say they are angels. The congregation stood, faced Jerusalem, bowed, and sat the requisite number of times. The parents dutifully cried from pride, and Grandma Ruth sat in the front row of the balcony while the girls around her threw candies down at the men.

Many years later at my own Bat Mitzvah, held in one of the new reform synagogues in Tel Aviv, I hastily collected my hard-earned candies that had been thrown from the audience. I made my way to the reception, where groups of people clustered around older family members, gesticulating seriously as they spun yarns. I heard my uncle say, “Would you believe… I did my Bar Mitzvah twice?”