It was Shabbat afternoon. I was about to take a pot of dafina out of the oven; the pot of dafina that had been there since before Shabbat started, and the only hot food we have on Shabbat afternoon. I was really looking forward to this particular pot of dafina. I had worked hard, and taken the time to prepare it right. I had been slicing and dicing ingredients and soaking beans since Thursday, and it was going to be great.
It was when I was bending over to take the heavy pot from the oven that my son came from a friend?s house and into my kitchen with the news: ?Did you hear about the space shuttle? It blew up.?
I dropped the pot of dafina. The heavy iron pot fell on its side, and, as I watched, the warm contents of my family?s Shabbat afternoon meal ? the sweet dates, strong peppers, beans, lentils, eggs, and meat ? spread out across my white linoleum floor. It was steaming hot and it smelled delicious, but it was gone. There was little left in the pot when I righted it and heaved it up on the cutting board next to the sink.
I was shaking.
?Momma, are you okay?? my son asked. He was pale, concerned that he was the cause of the calamity.
I sat. I didn?t move to wipe the floor. I couldn?t. I sat.
?Ilan. Ilan. Ilan,? I repeated the words softly. I didn?t know the man, but I felt like I did. I took his death personally. I wished I could have taken the deaths of every one of those seven astronauts personally, but I didn?t know them. I didn?t know them like I knew Ilan.
My sons and I had watched and read and discussed everything about the trip. He took that tiny book of the Torah from the Holocaust. He wanted to keep halacha in space... the kosher food, tefillin, Shabbat.
Shabbat. Why did they order him down on Shabbat? Why? It was a stupid question, really. They did what they did for the safety of the crew. For the preservation of life. They thought they were doing what was right by ordering the shuttle down on Shabbat.
Ilan followed orders.
My two smaller sons came in and looked at the mess on the floor.
?Momma,? my youngest said, ?What happened??
?I dropped it,? I began to cry. A tragedy, and no food for my family on Shabbat. Everything was not going as planned. I got up, tears in my eyes, and got the broom and the dust pan, thinking it was the best thing to use to tackle the mess.
?Momma,? my middle son said, ?don?t cry. Just think of how good the kitchen will smell for the rest of Shabbat. And there was that little bit left in the bottom of the pot... and a few eggs that are okay.?
So, I did what I could to restore order, I pulled more cold salad out of the refrigerator, and we ate.
My sons treasured the dafina that was left, ?This is the best dafina you ever made, Mom.?
?I wish that I hadn¹t spilled it,? I said.
I was really more upset about the tragedy of the shuttle, but I had now placed my sadness in loss, all losses, and the spilled dafina was as good a place as any to direct my feelings. My eyes were filling with tears again.
?It?s good because there is less of it,? my second son said.
?What?? I looked up.
?It?s more precious,? he said, while he wiped the bottom of his bowl with some challah.
?Absolutely,? I paused for a long time. Then, I continued, more to myself than to them, ?What is gone can?t be recovered, but what we take from that loss can be, and it becomes, more precious.
What did we learn from Ilan? What did he teach us? What kind of hope and love and togetherness did we share, what can we draw from this experience?
My son was right. It was the best dafina that I ever made, made more precious by the loss.
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Michelle Nevada lives in a small town in rural Nevada. She can be contacted at [email protected].
It was when I was bending over to take the heavy pot from the oven that my son came from a friend?s house and into my kitchen with the news: ?Did you hear about the space shuttle? It blew up.?
I dropped the pot of dafina. The heavy iron pot fell on its side, and, as I watched, the warm contents of my family?s Shabbat afternoon meal ? the sweet dates, strong peppers, beans, lentils, eggs, and meat ? spread out across my white linoleum floor. It was steaming hot and it smelled delicious, but it was gone. There was little left in the pot when I righted it and heaved it up on the cutting board next to the sink.
I was shaking.
?Momma, are you okay?? my son asked. He was pale, concerned that he was the cause of the calamity.
I sat. I didn?t move to wipe the floor. I couldn?t. I sat.
?Ilan. Ilan. Ilan,? I repeated the words softly. I didn?t know the man, but I felt like I did. I took his death personally. I wished I could have taken the deaths of every one of those seven astronauts personally, but I didn?t know them. I didn?t know them like I knew Ilan.
My sons and I had watched and read and discussed everything about the trip. He took that tiny book of the Torah from the Holocaust. He wanted to keep halacha in space... the kosher food, tefillin, Shabbat.
Shabbat. Why did they order him down on Shabbat? Why? It was a stupid question, really. They did what they did for the safety of the crew. For the preservation of life. They thought they were doing what was right by ordering the shuttle down on Shabbat.
Ilan followed orders.
My two smaller sons came in and looked at the mess on the floor.
?Momma,? my youngest said, ?What happened??
?I dropped it,? I began to cry. A tragedy, and no food for my family on Shabbat. Everything was not going as planned. I got up, tears in my eyes, and got the broom and the dust pan, thinking it was the best thing to use to tackle the mess.
?Momma,? my middle son said, ?don?t cry. Just think of how good the kitchen will smell for the rest of Shabbat. And there was that little bit left in the bottom of the pot... and a few eggs that are okay.?
So, I did what I could to restore order, I pulled more cold salad out of the refrigerator, and we ate.
My sons treasured the dafina that was left, ?This is the best dafina you ever made, Mom.?
?I wish that I hadn¹t spilled it,? I said.
I was really more upset about the tragedy of the shuttle, but I had now placed my sadness in loss, all losses, and the spilled dafina was as good a place as any to direct my feelings. My eyes were filling with tears again.
?It?s good because there is less of it,? my second son said.
?What?? I looked up.
?It?s more precious,? he said, while he wiped the bottom of his bowl with some challah.
?Absolutely,? I paused for a long time. Then, I continued, more to myself than to them, ?What is gone can?t be recovered, but what we take from that loss can be, and it becomes, more precious.
What did we learn from Ilan? What did he teach us? What kind of hope and love and togetherness did we share, what can we draw from this experience?
My son was right. It was the best dafina that I ever made, made more precious by the loss.
--------------------------------------------------------
Michelle Nevada lives in a small town in rural Nevada. She can be contacted at [email protected].