Grampa’s Seder by Carol Beam

A seder is always an amazing evening. It's a beautiful part of our religion, a major ceremony that has always been the domain of the family, not of the temple. It is a retelling of our ancient struggles, and a link we have not only to our ancestors but also to all people who have struggled and who still do struggle.

But seders can be kind of boring, especially to a kid. They go on for hours, and an incredibly long time passes before you even get to eat any of the ceremonial foods that are sitting right in front of you.

Our seders always had lots of family at them. My mother made a huge pot of chicken soup, matzoh balls that were rubbery and delicious, homemade gefilte fish and then the real dinner food. Aunts, uncles and cousins were always there. We'd work our way page by page, through the hagaddah. We'd sing the songs at the indicated places. It was pretty much the same year after year.

But one seder was very different. It was the year Grampa sat at the head of the table. The foods were the same. The bitter herbs and the lamb bone were laid out as usual. And we started out as usual, but soon Grampa put down the hagaddah and said, "I'm going to tell you what happened." That's when the magic started.

Grampa told us the story of the exodus as though it were about people he knew. He never looked at the book. This epic, which he'd read through for so many years, was his story now. And that's when it became our story for real. For the first time I really listened, and all the good smells from the kitchen didn't matter anymore.

When the time came we ate and we talked -- or the grown-ups talked while the kids shoveled in third helpings. There have been so many seders since then, but this was the one. This is how the roots got rooted, and it's the gift Grampa gave our family that year.