When my younger son got engaged this past February, we had grand plans for the summer wedding. We’d fly to celebrate in Israel, where the couple hopes to live someday, joined by the bride’s family from Australia. After the ceremony, large numbers of friends and family would swarm the newlyweds, hoisting them up in chairs and dancing around them long into the Jerusalem night.
When they got married last Sunday, in a small ceremony in Connecticut, it didn’t look much like the wedding we’d imagined. And yet, we squeezed every bit of joy out of the day, taking not one moment for granted.
Until a short time before the wedding, we didn’t even know if the bride’s parents would be allowed to leave Australia. At the last minute, they were granted special permission. Other close family members, including the bride’s grandparents and some of her sisters, couldn’t come, but they dressed up and joined us for a livestream, some watching in Israel where it was late at night, others in Melbourne where it was early the next morning.
People wore masks, but nothing could mask the immense gratitude we felt. On the dance floor, there were no large horas; instead, socially distanced family units danced in their own small circles. Certainly, what we lacked in numbers, we made up for in spirit. The Shehecheyanu recited as my son wrapped a new tallit around himself and his bride resonated powerfully: Blessed are you, Lord, our God, for granting us life, sustaining us, and enabling us to reach this occasion.
The truth is, I was a naysayer; I was skeptical about moving forward. And I was particularly concerned about having a wedding that the bride’s parents wouldn’t be able to attend. When Hurricane Isaias cut the power at the wedding venue just days before the event, it felt par for the course. What would strike next? But my wise new machatunim — my son’s in-laws — were adamant that a wedding should not be postponed. Echoing their resolve were the bride and groom, who were determined to start their lives together.
Today in New York, little is as it was before, and there’s much uncertainty about what will be. We’re in an in-between time, with the worst of the Covid-19 outbreak hopefully behind us, and enormous unpredictably still ahead. It can feel like we need permission to be happy. This wedding made clear to me that while life is not back to normal, we must take every opportunity, in ways that are safe and responsible, to celebrate and find joy.
Recognizing not everybody has a wedding to celebrate, I hope that at some point this summer, whether in walks through local parks or time spent with family, you’ve found moments of joy.
We also must acknowledge that for some in our community, joy may still feel very much out of reach. They are grieving losses or recovering from sickness. There are those who are confined to their homes because of advanced age or health conditions. And those dealing with the fallout of job loss. As it’s been since the earliest days of the pandemic, our focus at UJA will be on helping all of these people, supporting an array of services that lift up lives — and, hopefully, providing a measure of comfort. That’s what it means to be a caring community.
At the end of a Jewish wedding ceremony, there is the breaking of a glass, a reminder even in our happiest hour that we live in a time of brokenness, without the Temple that represents a time of peace and wholeness. This pivotal moment in the ceremony has evolved to reflect sadness and suffering more broadly, not to be forgotten or ignored. That concept struck a new, more resonant chord for me as my son stepped on the glass, embarking on a new life with his bride in the middle of a pandemic.
Please God, may their life ahead be filled with happiness. And, in this challenging period, may we all allow ourselves to experience and appreciate the moments of joy in our own lives.
Shabbat shalom