Wednesday, January 29, 2014

Sometimes I feel like the Jews on my campus make it worth being Jewish.
This sounds cliche and borderline halachically problematic, but I'm willing to accept that. 

Today, it wasn't the alarm that woke me up for shacharit; it was the tossing in turning in bed thinking about meeting my friends at Hillel to pray together and then going downstairs to eat breakfast as a family. This is not the classic picture of family: a father headless, buried behind a newspaper, a mother whirring around the kitchen preparing lunches and calling the troops out of bed and into their respective carpools which she signals to from the door with a pointed finger holding the number one, and in the background you asking someone to pass the milk for the fifth time. 

This is no typical breakfast.We are neither a self-absorbed, headless dad nor a methodic, apologizing mom. We are not the baby brother you have to sacrifice your favorite yogurt to, or the friend who slept over and in the morning find less hilarious and annoying to entertain. We are not the guests who finally emerge from their guestroom and you automatically say, "take whatever you want from the fridge" or "can I make you something?"

The Hillel family is when, upon seeing you with a plate of scrambled eggs and cup of coffee in each hand, a person sitting at a crowded table gets up, walks across the room, retrieves another table, says make room for "Abby," connects it to his crowded table, and sits back down as if it were nothing. Its nothing to them, but its everything to me. Its the cross section of  cracking the maze and helping Fred get to the factory on the back of Fruity Pebbles, and reading how wheat is harvested on Shredded Wheat: You care about the Hillel family, and conversely, they care about you.

no more leggo my eggos or cereal box forts for me

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