My daughter brought me back to synagogue after 20 years away.
It started right after she was born, with her baby-naming ceremony. The ceremony was my mother’s idea—she was a regular at her Reform temple in Florida. So, on our new family’s first flight to visit her, we went to her synagogue. Apprehensively I handed the baby over to my mother’s rabbi. He serenaded her with a few prayers. When he asked my Hebrew name, I confessed, embarrassed, that I didn’t remember. He held my baby up high in the air, a bit closer to heaven, for the entire congregation to view.
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