Bar and Bat Mitzvot

Adolescence, Adult Children, Aging, All Poems, Bar and Bat Mitzvot, Change, Family

Role Reversal

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Strange how roles reverse over time.

My daughter, as young teen, not interested in clothing.

Unwilling to shop.

Dress up.

Even for her own Bat Mitzvah.

To which she wore a simple cotton outfit.

Which got me in trouble.

With her grandmother, the rabbi.

Who both lobbied for organza or lace.

Now an adult, my daughter has taste.

In shoes, bags, jackets, dresses.

Always looks her best.

At holidays, graduations, theater debuts.

Apparently, while traveling.

For we are heading to Maine.

Bob, Roseanne and I.

A state I’ve never been to.

My suitcase packed with hiking gear, tee-shirts.

Mom, my daughter said, I brought dresses. For dinners.

In response, I enumerated my casual wardrobe.

Mommmmm, she intoned, stretching the m.

Pack something good. Something for a fancy dinner.

Just one button down blouse, she cajoled.

I stood firm.

Feeling the adolescent fire up in me.

I’m taking a bra, I said.

Something, I rarely use these days.

Earrings, lipstick. It’s enough.

I didn’t stamp my foot.

But, I imagined doing it.

Taking ten minutes to concede.

Like a kid, I stuffed a blouse into an already crammed case.

Wondering how many years it would take for me to become eight.

Then four.

In relation to my daughter’s mounting age.

I’m on my way to second childhood

while my child, parental, wise.

I hope she knows it will happen to her

when her daughter starts to advise.

So, my recommendation to her

whilst I still have wits to prize,

is: treat you mother with compassion.

Be kind and empathize!

 

Lynn Benjamin

August 8, 2023

 

Adolescence, All Poems, Bar and Bat Mitzvot

To Zev on Becoming a Bar Mitzvah: The Completion of the Story

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And so it was written in the Book of Life,
on the seventh day of Sukkot,
that the farmer and his wife rested,
and they surveyed their work:
the fruits of their labor.
It was fine.
They rejoiced singing Hoshanah rabah
for the harvest, for life,
and, especially, for the miracles of their own love:
Rachel, Daniel, Ari and Ze’ev.

For it numbered many seasons that they had sown
their first seed and then three times after
culminating in the ripening of their last sunflower.
Born in full summer
amid the vines and plants of the land.
And, indeed, he was a blessing,
a sturdy wolf cub ever vigilant,
ever learning from the wisdom
of his brothers, his sister, and his elders.

And so it came to pass
that the cycle was nearing its completion.
It was Ze’ev’s turn to become a man
and to dedicate himself to his people and to his tradition.
So he performed the mitzvah
of constructing a booth according to the designated design
to celebrate God’s bounty and his own happiness.
The roof he made from the greens
he seeded with his two hands and on the walls
he hung the peppers and beans which overflowed his plate.

Beneath the open sky holding ethrog and lulav,
he knew it was his time to be honored
and to do credit to his family.
With the joyously familiar up, down, forward, back
of the citron and twigs which tied together
the praises of many generations past
and of many to come.

For this boy was the last of the tribe of Benjamin.
He bestowed tribute upon upon the clan
with the kindness of his heart,
his curiosity and zest to learn,
his lively wit and humor,
his dedication to integrity,
and his ever genial spirit.

So together, he and his family,
and those who came to celebrate with him,
circled the bimah seven times.
Striking the ground with their willow twigs,
loosening leaves like trees in fall,
in symbolic demonstration of the seasonal cycle
and their faith in the restorative gifts of God.

Until finally, the Book of Life was sealed.
And also a chapter in the time line of Benjamin.
For Ze’ev became a man,
accountable to God and to his people,
to his family and his friends.
To carry on his tradition and his legacy
of faith and mitzvot.

And to all who came to witness this thanksgiving,
he gave appreciation,
and he invited them to sing Amen.

Lynn Benjamin

October 11, 1998

This is the poem I read when Zev, our youngest child,  became a Bar Mitzvah on the seventh day of Sukkot. We were very proud of him.

All Poems, Bar and Bat Mitzvot, Children, Stories

To Roseanne on Becoming a Bat Mitzvah

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This day is a celebration of a story:
the story of the longing for a daughter,
her birth, her growth, and her dedication to her ideals and her people.
For, many harvests ago, a farmer and his wife dreamed of having a child.
After many sowings, they were blessed with the fruit of their dreams.
And they loved her.
They nurtured her.
She grew surrounded by suns who followed and worshipped her.
Every harvest, she returned to the Temple with her father
carrying her lulav and her Etrog , singing hoshannas,
and giving thanks for the bounty of the year.
She connected herself to her father, her father’s father,
and to all generations past and all generations to come.
So, it came to pass that on the second day of Sukkot,
thirteen years after the birth of their daughter,
the farmer and his wife counted their blessings,
rejoiced in the number of their fruits, in the quality, and in the fineness.
In order to give thanks for the harvest, they brought their first fruit to the Temple
so that she might dedicate herself to her people and to the doing of good deeds.
For, it was written that it was just to give back what was received.
And, so it was.
On that day, there was much exultation with song and wine.
The farmer and his wife gave thanks to God,
and to all the people who helped them.
They felt glad in the abundance of their fruit and in its value.
They felt that they had grown wise in proportion to the harvest,
but also humble before all there was yet to know.
The farmer and his wife found strength together in the knowledge
that the seeds of their fruit would bear fruit according to a never ending
legacy of mitzvot and faith.
And with those thoughts in mind, they joined with those around them and said:
Amen.

Lynn Benjamin
Sukkot 1987

This poem I wrote to read on the occasion of Roseanne’s Bat Mitzvah on the holiday of Sukkot in 1987. Bob and I fancied ourselves farmers as we had a huge vegetable garden, and a fruit orchard behind our house. Sukkot is a harvest holiday. Needless to say, we were very proud of Roseanne’s achievement of becoming a Bat Mitzvah.

Adolescence, All Poems, Bar and Bat Mitzvot, Parent Love

To Daniel on Becoming a Bar Mitzvah: A Continuation of the Story

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And so, the farmer’s family flourished,
following the cycle of the seasons.
Sowing and harvesting according to the Master’s plan.

And lo, the second season after the birth of their daughter,
the farmer’s wife found herself ripening with the corn.
The family rejoiced for at Chanukah,
they had their own miracle: a son.
If their daughter was a rose,
the boy was a sunflower,
golden haired and blessed with seeds to sow in his own time.

The farmer and his wife tended their gardens.
One the fruit of the vine.
The other, the fruit of their own love.

As the years passed,
more sunflowers issued forth.
They looked with awe at the first
for he was a boy who was much endowed
with a musical sense and a mind for numbers.
He excelled in both composition and computation,
writing melodies or using logic to play games of contemplative maneuver,
feeding himself with the wisdom of others,
quenching his thirst with written words.
And with all that, his eyes were open to see the unjust.
His mouth was willing to speak out to help the less favored.
He valued giving, and above all, he was kind.

And so he grew, a tribute to the house of Benjamin.
In return for this awesome gift,
the family urged him to dedicate himself to his people
through faith and mitzvot.
And he did that urging with honor,
in the company of all he loved and cared for.
When it was complete,
they joyfully gathered around him and sang Amen.

Lynn Benjamin, 1989

I read this poem at the Bar Mitzvah of Daniel in December, 1989. We were very proud of him when he became a Bar Mitzvah.

Adult Children, All Poems, Bar and Bat Mitzvot, Emotions, Family, Grandchildren, Humor

A Hot Day in May

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It was a hot day in May.
No shade anywhere en route to the temple in Manhattan.
Even the sidewalks begged for water.

Hotter still as we approached the synagogue.
Two families coming together
to celebrate a grandson’s bar mitzvah
post a bitter divorce.

Determination:
Keep calm. Be cordial.
Chitchat. Be pleasant at the door.

Yes! All goes well until….
Screech:
Where’s Asher’s jacket? my speech? my music notes? the tallitot?

Suddenly, panic, anxiety, confusion.
Eruption:
Who screwed up? Who let the cab drive
away with our stuff in the trunk?

And then:
Call 4-1-1!
Hail a taxi and describe the runaway!
Roseanne, go home! Search your computer for your speech!

Scurrying in all directions to comply.

Randomly, a cell rings.
It’s the shop where the suit was dry cleaned.
What? You were called by the precinct in Central Park?
A police officer noted the cleaning tag?
Everything is at the station?

Crisis averted.
Someone, go to the police.
Pick up the lost things.
Call Roseanne back to the temple.
Smile for the photographer.

Relief. Hugs. Peace.
Two families, alienated by animus, restored.

Divine intervention on a hot day in May
before a bar mitzvah.

Lynn Benjamin
August 8, 2018

 

Adolescence, All Poems, Bar and Bat Mitzvot, Parent Love

To Ari on Becoming a Bar Mitzvah: An Unfolding of the Story

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And so, the story unfolded.
The farmer and his wife prospered
peaceably planting fruits and tending two flowers:
the rose and the sun.

And the earth endured,
seedtime and harvest,
cold and heat,
summer and winter,
day and night.

Until one Spring, sunrains fell on fertile fields
to quench the green fruit trees’ thirst,
and usher in the ripening of the vine and child.

For this is the line of Ari.
Suckled by the juice of berries and all manner of fruits.
Gentle as his name is strong.
A helper to men and an admirer
of the gate of his same name.
A child tamim in the eyes of God and family.
And in his age blessed with a gift
of keen perception to know his way
toward right and away from wrong,
and to honor all people and all living things.
The third in the line of Benjamin.
He knew his job and he did it well.
A careful follower of divine instruction:
300 by 50 by 30 cubits high
he pronounced the words in ancient tongue,
joining with the Tsaddik.
In a new and lawless time,
growing from his own foundation,
secured with gopher wood and pitch, dry and ready,
he embarked on the journey of the young man.

Through his chant on the altar,
he linked the generations past to present
promising to preserve posterity
and to remember the covenant with God
in a never-ending chain of faith and mitzvot.

And,lo, there was a rainbow. And Ari remembered
to praise God and all living creatures.
And with that done, he honored
all who came to celebrate with him
his thirteenth year.
He offered thanks to family, friends, and God,
And gratefully sang Amen.
Lynn Benjamin, 1993

This was the poem I read when our third child, Ari, became a Bar Mitzvah. Ari’s Torah part was the story of Noah. He was an eager participant in his Bar Mitzvah. He had a Havdalah service and a dinner to which he invited many friends.