Every year the yellow liner peers through the translucent ivory tablecloth embroidered with a chain of floral design. On top sit the timeless Royal Copenhagen white dishes and equally elegant silver flatware, crystal candle holders, the plate Mom painted with the seder symbols decades before paint-your-own-pottery places proliferated, and all the Kiddush cups that the house possesses.

Every year that three (and, briefly, four) generations of the family sit around the dining room table, with the folding table jutting out as a T, no matter who sits where, the table is a constant, but for the place cards that arrange us carefully so as to intermix the generations, keep children engaged, and place the various frog toys near those who will be perfectly distracted by their playfulness. Every year, for as long as I can remember, it’s been like that, even as faces, hair, and heights at the table change.

Every year themes and stories are retold with flourish – the exodus, of course. And then the family lore – when toddler Ryan loved numbers and called them all out; when brilliant absent-minded Fred drank Elijah’s cup – oh, wait, that was every year; when “Elijah” rang the bell and did a ding-dong ditch – or left a note. When I began singing in the wrong key for the crowd – wait, that’s every year, too; when others brought their instruments; when Mom decided her five then young grandchildren should take over seder leadership. That became an institution, replete with skit, costumes and typed menu.

Every year before that it was Dad leading at the table’s head, his haggadah meticulously marked in red and blue pencil, the two-ended kind that you flipped over to use the other color. Every year, until 1994 when he handed off leadership to me and I accepted reluctantly, realizing he did it with joy and relief, and not because he was throwing in the Pesach towel. 

Every year the food is deliciously predictable: tiny personal seder plates for each person, apple matza pudding, gefilte fish and red horseradish on small plates in the living room before dinner, strawberry shortcake, individual ones made with handmade whipped cream, for dessert. Pesach chicken in between. 

Every year, until now. Months ago, I emailed the cousins, hopeful. But, uncertainty and life thwarted our return to that table, and I returned to the busy-ness of my days, which was easier than confronting that the night would be different. The year would be different. Maybe something miraculous would occur. Then I rounded the corner into April and smacked face to face into Pesach preparation. Where am I?

Liminal. I first heard the word in a detached, academic kind of way. It was in a rabbinical school class, taught by the professor who opened the door to the sacred drama of ritual in a life-changing way, building on a base built by the other life-changing professor, the one who taught the concepts and arcs of theatre to this undergrad years earlier.

Liminal are the times in between, the times neither here nor there. The moments of transition, abounding in opportunity for words and action, for scripts to be written with the words and action of sacred drama. 

Liminal are the moments defined officially and those less defined but as meaningful in their in-betweenness. Like before a mourner was officially one, after a death and before a burial. Liminal was when the couple was betrothed but not married. Liminal, were the moments when the evening arrived, and when the morning peeked through. And wasn’t it leil shimurim, the guarded evening before the exodus, when the angel of death was coming to Egyptian homes and our Israelites ancestors, needing protection, marked the doorposts with blood to say, “Don’t come here!” They must have been holding their breath, praying that the doorpost marking worked!

That detachment became inspiration when theatre and prayer came together. Aha! I could mark time in ways old and of my own creation. I could bridge moments of life with performative action and deliberate words, taking age-old words and actions as is, or reinvent and re-engender.

Still, even as I did, for oh so many years the word liminal was a distant friend that intrigued me, but one I kept at arm’s length and embraced when needed, knowing it was there to consider when I wanted to create space and mark time for others in my calling. I sat in hospice rooms listening to fading breaths, met with bereaved families before funerals, awed by the love and story of the one who died, and accompanied students to the mikvah as they entered of one faith and emerged as Jews.

Over time I brought liminal close like a wise, dear, reliable friend who energized me. Approaching motherhood, I gathered strong women in my living room to share sage counsel about that role, from their learnings as mothers or children. When my father died suddenly, I traversed the Jell-o-like ether stunned, seeking that which I knew as a professional, and making my own traditions. In the weeks after his burial as our nanny fought for health, I couldn’t make it to a minyan to say Kaddish as much as I’d liked, so I stood by the Lake Michigan beach whipped by wind and snow, saying Kaddish next to my minivan while my babies slept. Six and a half years later, wrestling for a new status in separation and divorce, I figured out how to free my soul in my own way, immersing in my beloved lake surrounded by friends who held the sandy, sunny space with words ancient and new. 

And then, liminal moved away for a while, as friends do sometimes, back to that professional place, inspiring my thinking to guide others, imbuing the transitional with meaning – phone call Shehechyanu after a civil divorce, or accompanying a friend to my beloved beach for a mikvah of her own making. Bringing new blessing to deathbed confession, deepening equality of naming daughters, reinventing Yizkor and its remembrance so mourners had space and speech. In each instance, opportunity beckoned and energized. 

Until that day when liminal returned home, frankly, uninvited, and became angrily personal. I head to Lake Michigan to talk it out on the beach, the uninterrupted pacing and talking of hitbodedut, just me, the waves and the Divine. I look to the week ahead, to Passover.

Questions surround me like a storm of speech boxes in a cartoon: Seder? No seder? How? Who? Will Mom make it to the table? Will this be her last seder? Will my children be sad and cranky with no cousins for a seder skit? Can I be present as a child and parent? Can I make it fun if I’m crying inside? Or can I just go duck and take cover to escape my favorite time of the year avoid the deep sadness, mournful longing, and unflattering jealousy that have kicked me hard in the gut.

Here I am, betwixt and between, as Mom would say, neither here nor there. Usually I could claw my way out of such a ditch, with a stack of research, a spark of creativity, and the ritual I’d create to meet the moment. I long for resolution. I long for a nechemta – a conclusion of comfort – as I wonder from this in-betweenness, “Where am I?”

First written 2022 approaching Passover. Posted 2025 approaching Passover, in loving memory of Betty Greene/Mom, and Barry H. Greene/Dad, with boundless gratitude to my teachers, Rabbi Larry Hoffman and Professor Catherine (Kaki) Marshall.