Why is This Night...?

It's an unconventional Seder. 

The wine (Malbec, not Manischewitz) flows freely well before we are instructed to bless and drink the first cup. Our Humanist Jewish Haggadah mixes modern plagues, like terrorism, with the frogs and locusts. For as long as I can remember, I have stood, salivating in reluctant solidarity, with my friend who has conscientiously objected to her mother's delicious matzoh ball soup (too filling, an appetite spoiler before the delectable lemon chicken and asparagus with hollandaise sauce, the sinfully unleavened home baked cakes). We hurtle though the story of Moses as we sneak bites of matzoh and butter under the table.

For seventeen years, the door in suburban Chicago has been open to me and my New York relatives, not to mention countless others. We are diverse in our religious beliefs, but that only matters when, say, a Gentile newcomer tries to be polite and choke down her first bite of gefilte fish. She was shocked when I told her that's how it was for me with my first honey baked ham. It could have gotten ugly, but we let it go. 

We are diverse in our political beliefs, too, and this year, everyone was wise enough not to even bring it up. Closing the gap between gefilte fish and ham was difficult enough. 

It was our first Seder in seventeen years without my friend's father, who passed away in January. We have lost (and gained) others through the years, but he was our leader. The hander out of crisp ten dollar bills to all kids, young and old, no matter who found the Afikoman. An observant Jew with a sense of humor, tolerating our irreverence but keeping us in line. His absence was profound. It has been that kind of a year, but somehow, we move forward, with empty places at our tables and gaping holes in our hearts.

Thanks to iPads and iPhones, some absentees were able to join us for a while -- to read a passage, join in a song, even help with the Afikoman hunt. As usual, we opened the door for Elijah, knowing he would be a no-show but -- at least for those of us of a certain gender and age -- grateful for the gust of cold air. 

When we leave, stuffed and wondering how we will make it through our various second rounds the next evening, we all silently pray -- to whomever -- that we will see each other again next year. We hope that maybe some of the ones who were just here in spirit or digitally will be here in body, breaking matzoh with us under the table, sneaking wine before blessings, protesting or not protesting matzoh balls. 

Joining us in our reverent irreverence, at our unconventional Seder, where the door is always open.