My Granddaughters are Jewish

Today—Fall, 2024

I just received an Evite—not to a birthday party or bridal shower. It was an invitation to attend a Run-Fight-Hide Security Training. The 90-minute event at the synagogue promises to “teach basic skills for responding to emergencies: running to safety, finding secure hiding spots, and defending oneself as a last resort”.

There was no offer of refreshments.

Last April I began writing…

My granddaughters are Jewish.

There’s nothing remarkable in that. Everybody’s granddaughter is something. Jewish, Lutheran, Muslim, secular, Catholic. But I was thinking, today, as I took the small hand of my oldest and walked her to her pre-school classroom, that she has no idea how complicated religion is, especially in these times—especially her religion.

When our son was eight days old, he was given a Hebrew name during a small ceremony in our home. The Rabbi asked us—all of our family—to commit to a Jewish education for him. Sure, I thought. I didn’t know what that meant and any other answer would have been awkward and who thinks that far ahead anyway? We were only having the naming because it seemed important to the grandparents who were fairly observant Jews. I loved the idea of a blessing and it was a wonderful chance to bring everyone together to celebrate this beautiful new boy.

When he was eighteen months old, he started preschool at the Jewish Community Center, mostly because Marty heard about an opening and reacted impulsively while I was at work. I was taken aback—it was pretty abrupt and, after all, I’m not Jewish and shouldn’t we look around and I’m not sure about. . . blah blah blah. But my anxiety evaporated when I realized what a loving environment this little preschool was— with loud music, carefree art, simple Bible stories and lots of play. Big and joyful play. The rules were about kindness, the lessons were about sharing and the place exuded love.

A few years later, along with a band of his pals who would eventually dub themselves the “Jew Crew,” we found ourselves on a track for his Bar Mitzvah—serious studies that would make any pre-teen balk. And mine did. The Bar Mitzvah course was a daunting commitment. It culminated in a day when my son read in Hebrew from the Torah and then danced with me and his father to “Hava Nagila” with unbridled joy.

At his Bar Mitzvah, from the bimah, I spoke about how J.T and I had learned the lessons of Judaism together. I was the Lutheran mom who didn’t make latkes at Hanukah or a brisket at Passover but I loved what he was learning and even if I wasn’t getting all the prayers right, I was behind the wheel on all those trips to class. That counts.

My son has held fast to it—the values, the traditions and the friendships. They’re his North Star. No one is surprised that he and his wife have chosen to raise their girls Jewish and I am the very grateful if not-quite-but-almost Jewish grandmother. I’m still driving—now it’s to the preschool at the synagogue, a most loving and welcoming place.

But I worry.

To be Jewish is to share a rich and extraordinary heritage that is full of darkness and light. Today my granddaughter was teaching me a Passover song and was counting off the plagues as she sang, “Frogs here, frogs there, frogs jumping everywhere.” She hopped here and hopped there, and then I remembered that the story is about God punishing the Egyptians for killing the Jews. When she sang, at Hanukah, about the oil for the candles, it was a joyful song about reclaiming the ancient temple that had been desecrated and destroyed by the Romans—to wipe out the Jews.

Those are the oldest stories but through the centuries, the hatred has been layered. The Nazis didn’t invent the idea of putting a yellow star on Jewish citizens. It originated in twelfth century France following the Crusades when the Jews were accused of blood libel, the malevolent lie that Jews ritually sacrificed Christian children at Passover to obtain blood for unleavened bread.

The history of discrimination continued in Russia and Poland. The First World War set an unwieldy table for what was to come. Hitler’s “Final Solution” saw the death of more than one and half million children. Each one of them was someone’s grandchild.

Today at my granddaughter’s Jewish pre-school there is a police car permanently parked by the one remaining entrance gate. When police are in it, they wave to the children who wildly wave back and if they’re very lucky, the officer will do a quick punch on his siren. “Whoop Whoop.” The children are delighted. The adults are comforted.

So, this morning as my granddaughter hopped like a frog and sang, “There were frogs on his toes, frogs on his nose…” I laughed and applauded. I didn’t tell her that I have a quiet fear. But I do. There’s more than a 2000 year old history that this beautiful little girl with the sweet voice is up against.

She just doesn’t know it.

Yet.

Today.

So here we are. I’m staring at this “Run, Hide, Fight” email and my story about quiet concerns just got turned up. In the last few months, much of the world seems to be getting angrier and directing it at strangers. That’s almost never good for members of minorities—including Jews.

My nagging worry is moving toward a dangerous decibel range.

Antisemitism is on the rise. No one is arguing that. In the first three months after the heinous attack on Israel by Hamas terrorists last October there were more than 3200 antisemitic acts on Americans ranging from violent assault to written harassment. That’s according to the Anti-Defamation League who cited 500 incidents on college campuses and more than 250 in K-12 schools.

The anger accelerates as the retaliation continues. Some argue that the counter attack on Gaza has been disproportional—so many innocent lives lost. The “other side” says that that Israel will never be safe as long as their neighbor wants them annihilated. Truly, a multi-pronged tragedy. I believe that your heart can be broken for both sides. The Israeli grandmother whose grandchild was violently massacred on October 7th. The Palestinian grandmother who hears a bomb falling above her as she cradles a grandchild. Neither of them love more than the other.

I’m not signing up for the Run, Fight, Hide Security Training class. If I’m honest, it would make me more afraid. Just walking by the police car each morning is all the reality I can handle.

If only those who hate could be there when the officer hits the siren and the children squeal with delight at the “Whoop Whoop” or if they could walk with a small child’s hand in theirs.

If they could only feel with a grandmother’s heart.