When I was about ten years old, a Messianic Jew came to our Lutheran Church and taught us how to celebrate Pesach (Passover) by holding a Seder meal. My parents were captivated by the ritual: the lifting of the afikomen, the passing of the bitter herbs, the salt water on the tongue.

It is commonly held, though not entirely un-debated, that the bread broken and the wine poured for the disciples by Jesus at this last meal were remnants of their Passover feast. And my folks, much enamored with the connection, decided to invite a few friends to our home for a Seder on Maundy Thursday – the night of Jesus’ Last Supper, which is celebrated the Thursday before Easter.

This was in the 70’s, during the recession, when Dad sometimes had extra ‘vacation’ (unpaid layoffs) and we seemed to eat a lot of peanut butter and jelly on bread purchased at the day-old factory outlet. So when the invitations for the Seder spread via word of mouth, and the numbers of attendees snowballed, my mother worried over how to make our meager food budget spread to so many. Dad prayed, and Mom prayed—and Mom probably mentioned her worries to one or two of the other church ladies. Like manna from heaven—or perhaps more appropriately, like quails in the wilderness—chickens appeared on our doorstep. Frozen chickens, ready to be made into Matzo Ball Soup for our Seder supper. So did wine, and bottles of grape juice—freeing my parent’s budget to purchase the horseradish and the matzah bread, the apples and the honey. By the night of our Passover celebration, the bounty had spread so far that my parents had to abandon our small track-house dining room (really a glorified eat-in kitchen) and Dad resorted to borrowing folding tables from the church, setting up a dining hall in the two-car garage. Mom hung sheets to mask the tools hanging on the walls, we three kids helped polish silverware, and finally it was time for Pesach.

My father read from the Haggadah, and we passed the ceremonial foods down the long tables. Around the third cup of blessing, we ran out of grape juice, so the older kids got to drink a very-grown-up-feeling glass of wine. I distinctly remember sitting next to several of the Lai children (there were seven) and their ancient Grandmother, who had the funny habit of greeting you repeatedly with her only English phrase, “How-are-you-I- am-fine.” Young and old, we were together, all we goyim, passing this and reading that, and experiencing, actually experiencing, the journey our spiritual ancestors had made in the desert when they fled from captivity and into freedom.

Now, as a mother myself we continue that pattern my parents established long ago, hosting groups of friends so large we have to lay down make-shift plywood tables from one end of the living room, through the dining room, and right up to the kitchen door. My favorite part of the Passover meal is diminishing the cup of joy – in which the leader reminds us “A full cup is a symbol of joy, but we cannot fully celebrate when our siblings suffer. So we diminish our glass to remember those held hostage by the plagues of old, and by plagues of modernity.” Then together all the guests dip their fingers into their glass of wine, removing one drop for each of the ten plagues, and for the modern plagues of hunger, slavery, war, and injustice. Every year, it moves me to tears.

This year, our Passover platters and Haggadot were on a slow boat to Europe, trapped somewhere in customs while our interfaith date for Passover passed us by. Now that our things have arrived, Pesach his here too, but in our new country we are only we four, passing matzah and haroseth around the table. Still, even in our quite celebration we are, in our own flawed and unorthodox way, joining millions of our siblings who every year stand in remembrance and say, “by the strong arm and outstretched hand of G-d, freedom can be found.”

During this season of Peach, this silly goy girl would like to honor her Jewess sisters who are blogging away about the wonder and challenge of being a practicing Jew. Danya Ruttenberg’s book Surprised by God recently received a good word in Publisher’s Weekly. Phyllis Sommer over at  ImaBima helps new practitioners out by providing a list of music for Pesach (reggae anyone?) and list of books to help you host a Seder. For the little’s, A Mother in Isreal has a great craft idea for the tiny tots – a simple pictorial Haggadah you can cut, color, and paint. Anddid you know that after years of persecution, it’s suddenly hip to be Jewish in the USA, according to Yo Yenta. And finally, in the most poetic entries of the bunch, Rachel Barenblat over at Velvteen Rabbi offers one of my favorite Haggadot (to download, click on Ceremony Archive), while Barbara at Women on the Verge of Thinking writes a lovely birthday card to the nation state of Israel. Happy 60th Birthday Israel! May peace greet you this year and every year of your long life. L'chaim!