The Husband and I have been invited to an aufruf. It turns out that this is not a traditional haimishe foodstuff, though clearly that’s what it should be (I could definitely manage a little almond aufruf or two with my mid-morning coffee), but a rabbinical blessing for a couple shortly to be married.
For my fabulous friend and her fiancé, it’s round two for each of them, and they have grown-up children and grandchildren. Bucking the received wisdom that women of a certain age are more likely to be struck by lightning than to find a decent, eligible bachelor, my friend has managed to meet a truly lovely man via an informal shidduch (though this seems borderline greedy as her late husband was also a treasure), and they are going to tie the knot.
The service will be at the bride’s shul, which is Masorti, and she tells us that the service starts at 9.30 with the Torah part proceeding at around 10.30, the same as it is at our own shul (Reform). The groom will be called up for an aliyah then they will both receive the special blessing. My husband suggests we get there around 10am, a compromise ensuring that we will neither arrive with too much service still to come nor show up only a nano-second before the main event. Since I have crummy knees and a bad back, my enthusiasm for attending services (which was always rather muted as enthusiasms go) has diminished somewhat. I sometimes have to step out mid-service to stretch and move around like a fractious toddler who might otherwise create a disturbance, so timing has become critical.
When we arrive on Shabbat morning, there is a bar mitzvah in the main sanctuary downstairs, while we are upstairs in another room for the traditional service. Here, men and women sit on the same level but separated, either side of the central aisle. The Husband and I therefore can take our seats in the same row but distanced about one metre apart so as to preclude the possibility of any shenanigans.
Even though, after 22 years of marriage, we are usually able to ignore each other quite happily for much of the time, now that we are compelled to sit apart, I find we are sneaking sideways looks and flirty smiles at each other as if we are 14 and he’s a boy I fancy on the bus. Any more of this and I might feel compelled to pass him a clandestine billet-doux across the aisle. It reminds me of another dear friend who included a reading from Khalil Gibran’s The Prophet at her wedding:
…you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.
But let there be spaces in your togetherness,
And let the winds of the heavens dance between you….
Honestly, this could have been written for The Husband and me because we definitely get on brilliantly – as long as we’re not forced to spend too much time together.
We love doing things as a couple, especially eating out, seeing films, and walking (for me, the greatest proof of his love is the fact that he takes great care in researching manageable-level walks for us to go on together even though he can still happily hike up a small mountain), but – and I’m assuming we are not alone in this – we have the capacity to drive each other completely crazy, too. Flaws that drive us mad include inability to listen (him), being pedantic (me), excessive optimism so failing to prepare for setbacks (him), excessive pessimism so failing to enjoy the good times even while in the midst of them (me).
We have always each had friends we see on our own, and we know we cannot be around each other 24/7 if we want to pre-empt the possibility of crockery-throwing. But the spaces we allow in our togetherness, the spaces we cherish, in fact, are undoubtedly also part of the strange glue that holds us together.
Despite our many differences in temperament, in outlook, and our polarised views on certain foodstuffs (with the exception of the dressing for a Caesar salad, can there really be a dish that’s improved by involving anchovies in the proceedings…?), he remains my best friend and the person I always turn to first for guidance or support.
Although I am something of a pessimist, I am deeply soppy about weddings, and as the betrothed couple stand together in front of the ark while their wonderful rabbi offers a few well-considered words, I find myself on the brink of tears. There is something profoundly moving about an older couple electing to take this most serious step into the future when most people of their age are perhaps thinking that their best days are behind them.
With so much of the world in turmoil, it feels – above all else – to embody not just love and joy but hope emblematic of our precious capacity to look for light even in the darkest of times.
