A Letter to My Son

by Rob Bloom

Dear Jonah,

I don’t know what to say. To be honest, I’m at a loss for words right now because this whole thing feels surreal. Yes, I know. This is the part where, if we were having this conversation face to face, you’d say, “Dad, don’t cry.” 

Sorry, can’t help it. 

And I can’t promise you that I won’t be filled with tears next fall when you’re standing on the bima, reading from the Torah, and becoming a bar mitzvah.

Because, like I said, it’s surreal.

I mean, it wasn’t that long ago that I was standing in your shoes (though, being the early ‘90s, mine were Reebok Pumps), and I was studying to become a bar mitzvah myself. I remember sitting in my bedroom with the cassette tape I got from my mitzvah tutor.

So anyway, there I was, staring at a bunch of funny-looking letters and listening to the cassette on my boom box. I’d listen, hit stop, realize I had no idea what I’d just heard, and I’d listen again. 

And that’s pretty much how my studying for the big day went for the first several months. Play. Stop. Rewind. Play again. Stop. Rewind. Play again. Go get a snack. Play Nintendo. Remember I’m supposed to be practicing my Hebrew. Play. Stop. Rewind. 

You get the idea. 

I didn’t think I’d ever learn my Torah portion. It was hard and, no matter how much I practiced, it just didn’t seem to get any easier. Until one day when, all of a sudden, it did. Suddenly, I was listening to my cassette tape and not only managing to chant along but also managing to say the right words! Veeeeeeery slowly but surely, the practice was all coming together. Which is when something else started to come together for me: the realization of how important this event was going to be in my life. 

I realized my bar mitzvah was a really, really big deal. Not just because I was going to have an awesome party (and, if you’ve read my columns in J Life before, you know that a WWE Hall of Fame wrestler made a surprise appearance at my wrestling-themed reception), but because I was continuing in the tradition of the Jewish people. Of my ancestors.

When I realized the gravity of what I had been studying for all these months, that’s when I started to look forward to the service as much as the party. I thought about standing on the bima and reciting the same prayers Jews had been reciting for thousands of years. I thought about getting my own tallit – and no longer needing to play with my dad’s at High Holiday services. I thought about the ark being open, holding the Torah, and then actually reading from it.

Up until then, I’d been thinking that the bar mitzvah was just about me. I was wrong. It was also about my ancestors. Those I was related to and those who I was tied to through Judaism. It was about my parents and my sister. It was about my grandparents being there to participate in this milestone – including one grandfather who, only months before, had suffered a stroke and whose driving motivation to improve was to be there that weekend and to see me become a bar mitzvah. 

So, boychik, as I sit here today and write this letter, my head’s already at your bar mitzvah weekend. I’m thinking about what an amazing job you’re going to do as you read from the Torah and as you share your heart with a personal speech. But I’m also thinking about what the weekend will really be: a celebration of you, a celebration for our family, and a celebration that continues in the tradition of our ancestors. 

Love,

Dad

P.S. I’ll write a follow-up letter next year after you’ve become a bar mitzvah. And, no, I can’t promise I won’t cry while writing that one, too.