Back in my synagogue after too long for a bar mitzvah. The invitees were all Jewish. During the service, they were confident, practiced. As I stumbled through the prayer book, I thought of my own bat mitzvah. It poured. My gentile family filled the room but stared blankly, ignorant of the sweat and tears that had gone into this ceremony. I worried my grandpa wouldn’t be there; he sat in the front row. His head was kippa-less. His presence, while a miracle, was mocking. My rabbi warned me in advance that the Torah would be heavy. I still wasn’t prepared.
Sophie Kessler is a high school student from New Jersey. She enjoys learning French and writing about her Jewish-American experiences.