Why My Children Sit in the Main Sanctuary

This time of year is quite busy for Jewish families. We celebrate the new year with two biggie holidays, Rosh Hashannah and Yom Kippur. Each holiday is rich with tradition—and filled with hours of reverent prayer services.

This year, we elected to skip the babysitting, skip most of the tot and family services, and bring our boys to the main sanctuary for the morning services. The morning services that last about five hours. Five hours in Hebrew, a language neither of my children speak.

We were not immune to some of the side eyes, glances, and outright glares. My boys are relatively well behaved, but they are 16 month and 3 year old boys. No amount of spiffy suits or shiny shoes (or pockets stuffed with snacks, transformers and books) can keep them from acting like two little guys.

My boys are the products of an interfaith family. They proudly don their Buchanan tartan for the Celtic festival, have strong Scottish names, and open presents from Santa Claus. We keep a kosher home, light candles for Shabbat, and listen to Hebrew songs in the car. As their parents, we feel it is very important that they understand and feel connected to their roots, as unique as their particular set of roots may be.

But on the most holy days of the year, the High Holidays, we feel that it is essential that they participate in the real deal. We want them to see the real Torah, and not a cloth stuffed version. We want them to hear the prayers sung in the same way they have been sung for over 4,000 years, not a cutesy toddler tune. We want them to hear the silence pierced by the sound of the shofar, a real ram's horn, and not a plastic toy. And yes, we even want them to feel that bit of discomfort that comes with sitting and standing and sitting and standing over and over again. Its not always easy to be part of 5,772 years of history.

So when the Tatiman asked if he could sit closer to the Torah, we marched up to the very front and sat on the floor with an unobstructed view. We noticed the whispers, but we didn't care. When he asked, “What do we do to celebrate Yom Kippur?” we did not shush him. And when the Tatiman cried, not because we were still in services, but because we had to leave early to feed the Finny Bo Binny, we knew we had done something right.

We can not guarantee that our children will pass on our traditions. We can not guarantee that they will see value in being part of an unbroken chain. But we will do everything in our power to make them feel that their presence matters. That their voices are part of the music of the service. Hopefully, one day, they will do the same with their children.