Pesach, sort of

My husband has a new post up in honor of this painfully contrived and yet ridiculously important day.

He's titled his post "How is today different from all other days?" which reminds me of the recitation of the four questions (asked by the youngest at the table) in the Passover seder. The wonderful thing (I think) about Judaism is that we all attribute varied meanings to holidays and rituals, and many of those meanings are accepted (you've heard about 2 Jews, 3 sides of a story?). Anyway, in my hippie Jewish school in the 1970s, Passover, or Pesach, celebrated survival: making it through the desert, making it through another winter. As a people; as people.

We have survived another year. Another winter. Another father's day. Two and a half years now. In some ways, I've gotten used to this load I carry. In other ways, it seems to change from day to day.

What makes today different from all other days? After all, it is simply another day we have survived -- survived when we did not know if we would.

And what the future holds? We simply put one foot after another, hoping/not hoping the load we bear gets lighter this year.

*****
To all fathers with empty arms, you are in my thoughts.