I grew up hearing stories about my great-grandfather cheating death in Nazi Germany. Threatened by a regime who couldn’t be more ideologically opposed to his legal work protecting the rights of Jews, he escaped Berlin on the back of a motorcycle. I imagined wind flying through his hair as he careened down a country road framed by chartreuse grass– a champion of Jewish ideals, single handedly thwarting an evil empire to forge a path towards freedom for his descendents. 

Some 80 years later, I threw a fit on the floor of my bedroom and I begged my mom to let me stay home from Hebrew School. At 11, consumed by the woes of tweenhood, Judaism was an uncomfortable aspect of my personhood: complex, alienating, and above all a label that differentiated me from my peers. Many such battles later, worn down by my tears and insistence, my parents said I would never have to go to Hebrew school again. 

Lying in my twin sized bed that night, I was struck by a visceral fear that I was a failure to my lineage. I was slowly disentangling myself from my history, neglecting the hearth of tradition my forefathers had fought to keep burning. I prayed that God would forgive me for my selfishness, and my inability to be what a Jew should. 

My relationship with Judaism was seemingly paradoxical. My religious ancestry undeniably permeated my psyche, fostering intense emotions and spiritual strife; yet, I outwardly rejected aspects of my Jewish identity. I now believe this was because I was unable to reconcile the intensity of my ancestor’s experiences. It was easier to run from the difficult truths of history than fully recognize them as an aspect of what has made me who I am. 

Today, I still stumble over Hebrew script and my voice falters when I pray on Shabbat. Yet, entering synagogue fills an emptiness in my stomach that ached as a child. I don’t know if it’s God that is moving through me, or if it is the strength of my great-grandfather, fighting for his life so I have the choice to pray today.