Double manna

In olden times, when food from skies was the only way to dine,
And the Sabbath’s rest was ensured and blessed by Friday morning time
With manna once and manna twice, double providence divine,
Our stomachs filled with heaven’s yield, headier than wine.

Pet shop with allegory

Shabbat tells the story of the time when she went to the pet store. There was a box full of adorable tiny puppies, but she could only pick one. The puppies all ran away from her—except for one little runt with floppy ears. And Shabbat picked up that puppy and she said, “I will love you and feed you and take you on walks, so long as you play with me and welcome me home every day.” So Shabbat and the puppy lived happily ever after.

“A puppy?” I ask when she finishes. “Really? In your version I’m a puppy?”

“Yeah, why not? Just look at those big brown eyes. You are so cute!”

Before I can stop her, Shabbat leans over and ruffles my hair. I protest, but I know that if that’s how she remembers the story, then that’s how the story’s getting told.

Road ends

Shabbat? It’s a lot like driving forty miles over the speed limit when all of a sudden a sign in front of you announces, “Road ends, 500 feet,” and sure enough, 500 feet later there’s no road and you have to smear rubber across the highway because otherwise you’ll drive into thin air. You’re in a hurry and there are places you have to be but the road just isn’t there right now, though the workmen tell you to be patient because it’ll be up again soon… -ish.

You can get mad, sure, you can yell or make frustrated phone calls and pace, but instead maybe you pocket your keys and step outside. There’s a field of wildflowers in the median and the birds are singing, and even though you’ll have to work twice as hard to catch up, you don’t mind the delay—not really.

A song for Shabbat

Shabbat she sits, staring—seeming to stir when I start to sing but only swaying softly, her starlit eyes conspicuously somber as she searches across the scattered landscape. Does she seem scared? I yearn to assuage her fears, to assure her even in her unsettled stupor that she is the sole possessor of my spiritual devotion, that if she should smile—only smile!—my soul would shatter into shards and wisps of splendor.

Geode

Shabbat is a time for contracting, for drawing in the widespread arms and fingers of influence. It is a time to abdicate some of the enormous responsibility of the earth, to admit that the sun and moon will continue dancing across the sky whether or not we try to prod them on their way.

On Shabbat, the world becomes a geode. It sits and waits. Later, when we look into it, we might find just a few tattered shards of meaning. On a perfect, transcendent week though, the simple act of drawing back from mundane concerns might led to something entirely new—a glittering paradise that would never have been possible in a more densely packed world.

Pomegranate

Shabbat is in my kitchen late Friday afternoon, standing beside the fruit bowl and examining a dark, round pomegranate. “What is this?” he asks.

So I tell him that the pomegranate is one of the seven species, that its profile was stitched on the hems of the high priests’ robes. I mention that the rabbis claimed that it has 613 seeds inside, one for every commandment.

“Really?” Shabbat tries to smell the odorless fruit. Then he perks up and presses his nails through the thick outer skin, splitting it down the middle. He looks carefully inside, as though counting every seed, and then he shrugs and hands me half. With cherry-stained fingers, he pulls out a clump of seeds and stuffs it in his mouth like a greedy child. “You forgot to mention that they’re tangy and sweet… and crunchy,” he reproaches me, his mouth still full.

Hiddur mitzvah

So this Wednesday in Hebrew school we learned about hiddur mitzvah—that’s making all your Jewish stuff look as pretty as you can because it shows God how much you like being Jewish and making God happy. And anyway, so I decorated my very own shabbos candlesticks, with gemstones and yellow paint, and I worked really hard at it, and at the end of class my teacher smiled and said, “Good job!”

Last night Friday, while Daddy was driving home he stopped at the light on top of the hill, and after he stopped Mommy said, “Look at that sunset!” And then we all looked, and it was bright pink and my favorite color orange with just a little bit of sun halfway set, and the clouds looked like carnival cotton candy.

Then the light turned green and Daddy kept driving and I whispered to God, “Good job!”

Lifeblood

They all entered into the flow, constricted by the walls but refreshed, red with excitement and propelled forward by a force they could not control.

They came trudging in at the end of the cycle, fatigued and stumbling along, demanding replenishment, needing energy before they could do it all again—

And then they joined together, pulled by an irresistible desire—and with an uprising of might they crushed through, crossed the barrier into a new realm—which was the same realm they had entered thousands of times before.

Past the electric, frenetic crush, the sweetest part came—when they entered the red-walled chamber, the treasure-room where fresh air and new energy were freely given to all. They lingered for a moment, luxuriating, before they began the cycle again.

The Sabbath tree

One Sunday, when I was small, I took the bag of havdalah spices and buried it in the back yard. The sun shone down on the spot, and I watered it daily. A tiny stem sprouted, with silken-green leaves, and every day it grew more. By Friday morning it was a sapling taller than I was, with tight buds at the end of its branches. Through the day I checked on it, watching the buds slowly open.

As the sun set, the smell of spices seemed to fill the air. Just as darkness crept into the yard, the flowers opened wide. They had white, glowing petals that curved like shaved cinnamon, with tiny star-anise-shaped patterns within. I sat under the tree all evening and much of the next day, breathing in cardamom and turmeric until the sky darkened again and the petals snowed slowly down.

Cause and effect

Shabbat called me Friday morning. “I’m looking forward to seeing you tonight. You have something planned, right?”

“Wha—I—of course. Of course I have something planned, Shabbat. Why would you even ask?” I looked guiltily around the room, hoping no one would catch me in the lie. A few choice words came to mind while I scanned my contacts, trying to think of anyone who might be free, who would be willing to get together for a last-minute shindig.

That night, after a great meal and in the middle of a lively conversation, Shabbat leaned over to murmur in my ear. “You’re welcome.”

“For what?”

Shabbat gestured around the room.

I frowned. “You think I’m thankful to you for the party that I put together for your benefit?”

The look Shabbat gave me was a little pitying. “Seriously. What would you be doing tonight if it weren’t for me?”

Sunday's child

Sunday’s child knows what’s coming,
Monday’s child starts the week running.
Tuesday’s child is tied up in knots,
While Wednesday’s on schedule but sort of forgot
That Thursday’s needs help with a major display
That’s in shambles and can’t be put off ’til Friday—

While the Sabbath’s child (it would be understood)
Is blithe and bonny, gay and good.
He’s the king of the couplets, the crown of the rhyme,
The nursery’s champion; a child sublime.
He is always well-mannered, cheerful and meek,
For he dumps all his flaws on the rest of the week.

In a single word: בדיבור אחד

Come home early from work. Dance under the stars at midnight. Eat ice cream. Watch a movie. Play hide and seek with the cousins. Laugh until your ribs hurt. Go to synagogue. Play with the cat. Sleep and sleep and sleep some more.

They all sound so different, but when I listen to what everyone is doing tonight, I only hear one word, really.

Shabbat.

Winter wonderland

Shabbat has strong features, dark hair, and he is wearing a tuxedo when he beckons me from the other side of curtain.

I join him in a tent made of silver, walls arching toward the sky and frost-kissed branches tangling overhead. I am suddenly wearing a silver-sequined gown, glittering in the light of a thousand candles shining two by two in the periphery.

Shabbat settles a firm hand beneath my shoulder, and as the music starts we sweep into the crisp stillness of the early winter sunset.

Tropical paradise

I dressed for winter before stepping outside to pick up Shabbat. He was waiting by the bus stop, holding an overnight bag and wearing a bright, almost glowing Hawaiian shirt.

“Aren’t you cold?” I called as I walked toward him. His tanned brown skin, open to the elements, clashed with my thick, water-resistant coat.

“‘Cold’?” He stretched out his arms. “Are you kidding me? Baby, it’s sunshine and mai tais 24/7 over here!”

I looked doubtfully at the gray, packed-frost sidewalk. Then I frowned. “Are those orchids growing out of the cement?” I demanded, pointing at a short trail from the curb to his sandaled feet.

Instead of answering, Shabbat wrapped his arms around me. He smelled like coconut with a soft tang of seawater. I wanted to ask him what kept his skin so warm, but as soon as I opened my mouth he smothered me with his tropical optimism.

Winter white

Shabbat stopped in front of me when I was hurrying along the sidewalk. “Why the rush?” she asked, wrapping her thickly robed arms around me.

The wind was slicing though the wool and cotton that I wore in layers, but the fluffy softness of Shabbat’s wrap kept out every hint of winter. Shabbat’s fingertips glowed and were almost hot as she stroked them gently up my arm.

I fell asleep in a thick warm haze.