Bar Mitzva Story: a retrospective of the big day - part II

Ok. Here comes part two. We were at the synagogue. And indeed, it proved to be the perfect choice.
But let me first tell you what happened to my little sweet-faced baby on his road to becoming a Bar Mitzvah. Because 13 is apparently not just a randomly selected age. It appears to be a real watershed in terms of boys growing up.

Because here is what happened to MB:


His voice became all squeaky and deep at the same time;

He grew hairs on his legs, above his lip and apparently other places as well as he suddenly became very private while dressing up;

He became as tall as I am (and today he is nearly a head taller than me);

His soft face changed sometime (I don’t know exactly when) to an angular, sculpted face of a young man: his nose slightly out of sync with the soft, long eyelashes framing his warm brown eyes;

His feet started touching the bottom of his bed.

At times at night, before going to bed, when I go to tuck him in, I am still startled by this young man I see in my baby’s bed.

So anyway. On the Friday we all traveled to Jerusalem. Occupied all of the rooms of a small hotel. Brought games and cards for after dinner. Had speeches and the traditional Friday night meal. And then went to bed for the big day Saturday.

The next morning I was terrified MB would be ill with worry. But he wasn’t. My baby, now young man, popped two small croissants in his mouth, played a quick game of cards with his cousins, and then donned his prayer shawl and took his place at the podium.

And there he stood. My little/big man. In front of this wide window overlooking Jerusalem’s ancient walls. Surrounded by his loving family, his father and his grandfather overlooking from close behind, and the prayer shawl of my late father embracing his shoulders.

MB stood alone on the Podium with the Rabbi. And he led the reading of the Torah scroll. He sang it loud and clear. Without a flaw. Even swaying to the tune at times. Little children ran around him, unable to sit still during the long service. But he was undeterred and unwavering. He was focused on his mission. It was just him and his God.

After the service even a local janitor came up to me and congratulated me on his performance. “I often hear Bar Mitzvah boys read,” he said. “But your son, he read without a flaw.

The rest was a breeze: the lunch on Saturday with friends and family; the dancing party on Sunday, in which everything surprisingly turned out perfect (without any fights with any service providers- quite an amazing feat for Israel). And most importantly, we all had a great time, especially MB.

At the end of the party, when we were all tired and sweaty and happy from the dancing and good food, my Dutch mother in law came to me and gave me a hug. “Enjoy this day,” she said. “A Bar Mitzvah party is like a wedding.” Then she leaned in conspirationally. “But it is even better than a wedding,” she said. “Because you get the party but you also get to take you son back home with you.”

On that note I leave you. Mazal Tov!