I lit the candles last night, though I'm not sure why. Something deep down just compelled me to do it, as if the rituals of my childhood came out to play. Mom didn't light the candles last night. They've lost their meaning for the brother who went over to his friend's house on Friday night for pork chops. But they still mean something to me.
For even as I type this on the Holy Sabbath, I'm doing arguably more than most would--I'm thinking. I'm questioning and struggling with this religion that just doesn't yet make sense to me. I am bold, I am courageous and I am. . .absolutely confused. Confused beyond all doubt. When people ask me what I am, I reply that I'm Jewish--as if nothing more needs to be said. But there is always more that needs to be said.
I should say that I am not Jewish overnight camp, or a flunked Hebrew school class that my transcript will never show. I am not teen Israel trips in which you tell your rabbi that the highlight was climbing Masada when we know the real highlight was climbing the Israeli soldier. There are so many things that I'm not, though it's hard to say exactly what I am.
My parents are Jewish, so by default I am too. I am a Bat Mitzvah, I am engaged in my Jewish community, but when people speak of this Jewish identity--I stare blankly back. Can a Jewish identity be comprised of broken puzzle pieces that may or may not fit together? How is a girl in the North Shore suburbs of Chicago supposed to feel a connection to Israel when the country itself is struggling to make that claim for themselves?
I'm a sea of what ifs, a sea of doubts and insecurities. But if my Jewish community has taught me one thing--that sea is Jewish. And it may not mean much, but it'll mean I'll never be alone.
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