Write To Life     by Elana Horwitz

Today I Am A Man

A Bar Mitzvah Story

Elana Horwitz

originally published in edited form in Yated Ne'eman


“He wants to know if he should buy the tie.”

My husband, exasperated, holds the phone out to me. Our very-soon-to-be-thirteen-year-old son is calling from the men’s store in Bnei Brak. It’s the third men’s store he has visited today.

“What color is it?”  I ask my husband brightly, ignoring the proffered phone.

“Gold with wavy black diagonal lines, apparently, but there’s a lot more to it than that,” he explains patiently, again.

“I hear you. It has to fit right; it has to tie right. What do I know about it? This is one of those father-son things.”

He gets back to serious negotiations with our son. “How much does it cost?”


My husband has been wonderfully helpful in setting up all the tables and borrowed chairs that we will need on Shabbos. I feel blessed knowing that I can always count on him. Exhausted but happy this Thursday night, he collapses on the couch.

“You know, it’s amazing,” I marvel, taking a seat nearby. “Suddenly we’re at a different stage in our lives. I feel like I’m playing the role of ‘mother of the bar mitzvah boy’.”

“Yeah,” he laughs. “It’s not like we didn’t have thirteen years of advance notice. But now that our own child is actually becoming bar mitzvah, I kind of find myself wondering…how did we do it?”  His look grows thoughtful. “We’ve had years of experience but dealing with the kids is still hard. Lots of things in our lives are hard. How do we do it?”

“Well, in raising our children, when I get frazzled about parenting things, you’re confident,” I venture.

“And when I’m too impatient, you’re calm with the kids,” he supplies the next puzzle piece. “How do we do it? My first answer is, bisiyata dishmaya. My second answer is, together.”

“Together is the only way,” I propose.

He reflects, considers the validity of this. Then with a slight shake of the head he appears to chase away dark shadows from his thoughts. His face remains solemn as his eyes take on a peculiar shine.

“ I wouldn’t want either of us even to imagine trying to find another way. And not just in raising our kids.”

By saying this you’re telling me how much you appreciate me…how much you love me. Your unconditional support gives me so much of my impetus to be just who I am and really live life fully. Both you and I have changed with the passing of the years. The Master of the World does us so much good in expecting us to grow in our acceptance of each other. Love is worth the effort.

My children are my glowing stars. My husband, you are my world. Am I for you what you are for me?
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It’s really happening. Tonight our oldest son is a bar mitzvah.

It’s Friday night. The men are at shul. I’m home with our younger children and the women that have come to Raanana to celebrate this milestone with me, to affirm my mothering of thirteen years.

Or maybe they just like a good party.

My mother-in-law, visiting from California, sits in the kitchen chatting with her cousins from Washington. My sister-in-law, who lives in New Jersey, gets to know my friends, Chevi and Rachel, who live in Yerushalayim with their families.

My eight-year-old niece scampers around the house with my eleven-year-old daughter, both giggling girlish secrets and delighting in their shared cousinhood. Both born on Succos, they have always shared a special bond. They last saw each other more than four years ago.

We have already davened Lecha Dodi. The Shabbos candles burn merrily as the preschoolers romp and the toddlers clamor for cookies, for juice, for a lap and a story.

We’re chatting pleasantly but all the women have one ear attuned to the window. We await my dear boy, the bar mitzvah bachur, the star of the evening. Tonight he is a man.

Faintly we hear the music winding its way to my home. Its volume increases. Suddenly the door opens. Six of my son’s friends from his cheder in Bnei Brak escort him inside, all the while singing songs of Shabbos and Torah.

My gorgeous son is grinning at the doorway, glowing in his brand new black suit, black hat, and gold tie with wavy black diagonal lines.


My heart leaps up at the heavenly song the cheder boys are harmonizing. My eyes swim at the sight of my beautiful baby, all dressed in black. The room fades and I am searching the clouds.

Searching, searching…where is she? It’s time; she needs to be here now!

I can’t find her! She can’t be gone; I need her here now! “Where’s my mother?” I hear my voice call desperately.

I feel Chevi’s arms engulf me. I’m back in the kitchen. My mother-in-law and her cousins are whispering and darting strange glances in my direction. Rachel says meaningfully, “She’s here. Your mother is here.”

She’s here. That’s nice. But, Mommy, you have gone. I don’t see you. Although you were so young, I accept that you have gone. But couldn’t you have come back just for the bar mitzvah? Just for one special moment? Just so we could share one loving look as our beautiful baby is escorted home to his family on the wings of musical prayer?


We are more than forty for the seudah and we’re eating in our home. We wanted to eat at home. We want to experience all this joy and support and mitzvah and make it part of our home.

We have room to seat all of our guests comfortably. It’s important to me that all the people are happy where they are sitting. I spent over an hour at noontime circling the tables, rearranging place cards.

And now Bruchie doesn’t like her seat. She’s only a little girl and her mother, my friend, Chevi, who looks lovely in her white lace apron, is trying everything to accommodate her. But it isn’t working. “She wants to sit next to her Tatty,” Chevi apologizes.

Oh, no. That really won’t work. We’re not really going to rearrange all the adults to cater to little Bruchie’s ADDing or whatever she’s doing. 

I hesitate. Bruchie whimpers and hides her face in her mother’s skirt. “Would you prefer to sit next to Tatty, zeeskeit?” Chevi coos helplessly.

Okay, we are going to change around all the seating arrangements.

I give up my fa?ade of control and find room in my soul for the One Who is really in control.
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It’s quiet. All the men and boys have gone to the Clevelander Rebbe’s tisch for a bracha. My friends and their young children have retired to their sleeping quarters at the neighbors’. My daughters remain with me.

My eleven-year-old daughter’s two friends, Nomi and Temima, are here too. Nomi is Rachel’s daughter. Temima is our friend Esty’s daughter. Rachel brought Temima here with her family for the bar mitzvah because Esty is spending Shabbos with her younger daughter in the hospital. She was recently diagnosed with a potentially fatal kidney disease.

We tidy up the house a little. My oldest daughter moves the flowers to a safe spot. “Mommy”, she calls wistfully. “When will the flowers die?”

Temima, reading on the couch, tenses visibly at the word “die”.

“It’s not fair,” my daughter complains tiredly. “These are gorgeous. Why do they have to die?”

No. We’re not going there. Not now, with Temima listening in. I’ll change the subject. Maybe bring out a bowl of popcorn. I’ll…

“Mommy? I’m asking you something.”

Temima picks herself up from the couch and silently joins us in the kitchen. She finds a clean plastic cup, walks towards the water cooler for a drink. She moves slowly, very slowly.

I take a deep breath. “Everything dies,” I say, my eyes looking straight at my daughter, but my heart beating as one with Temima’s. “If something won’t die then it isn’t alive. And if it’s alive, it’s precious. We appreciate it while we have it.”

My daughter nods and goes to her room to sleep. Temima sits alone on the couch, sipping her water thoughtfully.
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In the morning our son lains his parasha flawlessly. We throw candies and the children scamper to catch them. The Sefer Torah is returned to the aron kodesh. My husband is getting up to speak. He doesn’t usually speak but today he wants to address our son and our kehilla, the wonderful friends that make us proud to call Raanana our community kollel’s home.

“I want to transmit the essence of Torah to my son. I want him to learn Torah with love!”

He’s getting heavy.

“In this kehilla I see love of Torah and mitzvos! In this community I see love for Hakadosh Baruch Hu!”

Rachel fidgets a little on the bench behind me. Her husband is a solid learner who definitely would not go screaming in public about love.

“Sitting in the beis hamidrash is wonderful. But I want my son to share what he learns, to go out among our People and spread that love!”

Yikes! I’m in for it later with Rachel.

_____________________________________________________________________

The kiddush after shul is a cacophony of talking women dressed in beautiful Shabbos outfits, laughing with me, kissing my cheek, wishing me mazel tov. On the men’s side I get glimpses of the kollel avreichim’s black and white attire, mingling with the more casual spring men’s wear worn by the people in our kehilla.

I scan the tables to gauge the rate of food consumption. People are eating happily. The kollel wives are serving cholent. There is still plenty of cake out on platters. Perfect.

Our bar mitzvah bachur stands on a chair to give his dvar Torah. It’s hard to hear from where I am standing but it looks like the men are amused.

“Do you know the difference between a bar mitzvah and a chassuna?” one woman asks me.

I can think of several differences. I smile my “no” and wait for the punch line.

“After the chassuna your son won’t be going home with you.”

But he will still be my son.

“Wow, I can’t imagine that,” I offer, slightly jolted. Suddenly I feel the next few years slipping away. “ I mean, look at him standing right here with us on that chair…”

“When he’s a chosson hopefully he won’t need to stand on a chair,” she winks.
_____________________________________________________________________

We’ve all napped, sort of, and now Rachel comes back, bringing her children with her. Her kids and mine play noisily, joyfully in the garden. She sits with me on my living room floor, near the toys and our babies.

“Look!” I marvel. “Look how well your son can crawl down that step. My baby can’t but he’s trying! He’s trying to copy your baby. Look at the way he admires him!”

She is honest. “My son can crawl down the step. Yours can’t. But my child is two-and-a-half. Yours is a year old.

“But for a child with Down Syndrome, that’s pretty good!” I enthuse.

“Pretty good after about a thousand hours of physical therapy, yes.”

I question her with my eyes.

“I love my son. I accept him. He belongs with our family. You know that I wouldn’t have it any other way. But it’s hard. It’s painful.”

I stare. “It’s good for you to say that.”

Her face is strong, determined. “I have to be real or else I can’t do it.”

“I had thought that it takes time to get used to it,” I tell her softly. “But…you don’t get used to it.”

She seems more tranquil, relieved that I understand.

“You don’t get used to it,” she confirms with a sad, loving smile.
_____________________________________________________________________

Chevi lounges on the couch. “How’s your grandson?” I inquire, interested.

“Areleh? All right, I guess. I think his mother is weaning him but I wish she wouldn’t. I wonder about the effect it might have on his development. Maybe I’ll talk to my son about it.”

I’m flabbergasted. “Chevi, you know, if my mother-in-law would say anything like that to my husband I would be really upset.”

She looks insulted.

“ I mean, you’re my friend, but you’re also a mother-in-law now… I see what you’re saying from two opposing sides.”

She seems years ahead of me as she answers. “When you’re a mother-in-law too, and a Bubbie, you may see things differently.”
_____________________________________________________________________

The men and boys have gone to shul for mincha, shalosh seudos and maariv.

Our men. Always running. Always escaping our tagged on comment, our one last thought, the devotion in our eyes with our hasty “bye, love you”.

Like grains of sand, they slip through our fingers. We know the secret of the sand - when you hold it lightly, lovingly in your hand, you have it. It feels comforting. When you clutch it too tightly and try to confine it, it wriggles away. Then your hand hurts.

So we let them go. We send them away - to pray, to study the Torah, to sow seeds of goodness on our planet. Men will be men - they will run. And when true accomplishment is their destination we share both of their worlds.

The inspirational greeting cards we read as young girls predicted bittersweetness. If you love something, set it free. If it comes back to you it is yours. If it doesn’t, it never was.

Our men always come back.

King Shlomo said it millennia ago:

Smart women build homes.

Our devotion to our husbands - our acceptance of who they need to be - is the foundation of the sturdy homes we build. And their devotion to us - their appreciation of who we are - frees us to live and love.



My relatives are all eating shalosh seudos at my in-laws vacation home. My friends and their children are here with me.

I tried to cater to everyone’s different tastes. Some people are eating white challah with chocolate spread, while others choose lettuce salad and tuna. I fill my plate with a little of everything.

I ask Rachel’s seventeen-year-old daughter to say a dvar Torah. She demurs politely. But Rachel smiles and clears her throat.

“From the parasha we see the great importance placed on learning Torah…”

Uh oh, here comes her rebuttal of my husband’s kiruv speech. Now I’m in for it.

“I just want to say,” she concludes, “ that what I see at this table are three women whose husbands’ paths in life have taken very different turns. Each one learns Torah, and each one uses his kochos in Torah l’shem Shamayim. And we, as wives, applaud them for who they are. I respect that.”

Three women. Our three husbands. To put them in boxes: the ben Torah, the kiruv worker, the working chassid.

Our twenty-one kids. To stereotype them:  the remarkably talented teenage Bais Yaakov daughters. The as-yet-to-be-really-inspired singing yeshiva bachurim. The energetic  kids diagnosed with ADD. The plucky toddler with Down Syndrome. The young gifted prot?g?es. The boisterous preschoolers. The beautiful babies. The married son with a brand new son of his own.

At my simple dining room table sit the mothers of Your grand nation. It’s right here, this resourceful, complex Klal Yisrael.
_____________________________________________________________________

Rachel is trying to fit the suitcases in the van. “I’m worried about Temima. All those presents she sees her sister getting…I’m worried that she’ll think that the situation is really …you know…bad. I wanted to get her alone for a minute to tell her…” Her voice trails off uncertainly.

“What?”

“That’s it. I don’t know.”

My anxieties give vent.

“Rachel, if Esty’s daughter has such a serious kidney disease, how does she know that her other children won’t?”

Her face registers shock, visible even in the starry dark. She turns quickly to the van, instinctively hiding it. Never show shock at any question, I was advised at my kallah teacher-training course. Rachel is pretty good at that.

“Well, if they don’t have the same symptoms,” she mumbles.

I press. “And even after she recovers - b’ezras Hashem she will get past this scare - I researched it a little, you know, the recurrence rate is so high for this type of problem…when can Esty know that she will be okay?

She stands tall now, her back to the van. Our haunted eyes lock.

“She can never know. When do any of us know that our children will be okay? When they become bar mitzvah?”

We exchange a smirk. She really has to go. It’s a long way to Yerushalayim. But she waits for my answer.

The faint smell of smoke wafts through the air. Tonight is Lag Baomer. The neighbor’s kids’ bonfire is getting underway. Whom am I kidding with my claim of asthma and tiredness preventing me from attending? I face reality. I’m paralyzed by the thought of watching my children playing with fire.

I admit the truth. “We can never know if our children will be okay. We are all mothers forever.”
_____________________________________________________________________

“Mommy, help! Get this crazy tie off me already! It’s choking me!”

I try. I try to loosen my son’s constraints, lovingly and sympathetically. “You did a great job today, kid,” I compliment him playfully.

“Kid?” He unsuccessfully attempts a sophisticated lift of the eyebrows. He deepens his voice theatrically. “Today I am a man!”

You are, my dear son, one moonrise more of a man. As I am today a sunset’s worth more of a woman.

We learn. We grow…we can’t help it. Life is a process.

My son sighs shortly with relief.  Finally he tosses the tie on the couch and without a backward glance races the clock, runs breathlessly down the block, towards the safety of the children’s bonfire.