Even the Litvak in me can admit my neshamah was touched

We’re Litvaks in America, so we don’t really do Lag B’omer. Maybe someone has a fire pit in their backyard with some marshmallows to keep things exciting, but that’s probably it.

If it’s your thing, you listen to music first thing in the morning (it’s mine, and my kids planned out an entire playlist of songs starting with “Al Abba Lo Shoaylim Sheilos,” by Moti Weiss, then “Fire,” by Shmueli Ungar, followed by “Brighter,” by Zusha). There are haircuts and maybe a wedding; my boys’ yeshivah takes them to a park to play baseball. But Rabi Shimon bar Yochai, the bonfires, the bows and arrows… not a thing.

Except for kids in the younger grades. Probably because it’s more fun to have a celebration, and there’s a story that comes with it, and which little boys don’t get excited about fire, weapons, and food? So when my four-year-old came home and asked about our bonfire, I smiled, thought it was cute, and moved on.

I moved on so thoroughly that I didn’t think about it again until we were finishing our supper on Lag B’omer and my four-year-old started crying. “It’s a big aveirah if you don’t have a bonfire,” he announced.

Oh, the way that little ones classify what’s right and wrong. It’s so cute and misguided, but there’s a purity to it that I didn’t want to ruin.

I looked around my house. We had nothing for a bonfire. It was a shame — my older son’s friend had asked if we could host a small Lag B’omer fire pit party in our backyard. His parents weren’t going to be home, but they would supply everything we needed. My husband and I had turned him down.

But then, things came together, thanks to a just-go-with-it attitude and some siyata d’Shmaya.

There were some extra bricks sitting next to our patio. They shouldn’t have been there; my landscaper was supposed to get rid of them last week, along with the tree beside them, but my husband had fired him instead. Now, my 11-year-old took the bricks and built a cool, authentic-looking fire pit.

I ran the two minutes to the local supermarket and bought marshmallows, chocolate chips, and graham crackers. As I walked through my house to the backyard with the goodies, I grabbed the Bluetooth speaker and found a playlist of Lag B’omer music.

My kids gathered cardboard and twigs and branches, and with a little lighter fluid, we were rolling.

We sang along and danced to the chassidish and Sephardi versions of Bar Yochai. I was particularly spirited in my renditions — years ago, I had sung a solo of Bar Yochai in Camp Bnos’s cantata, and it was one of my fondest memories of camp.

We roasted marshmallows, made s’mores, fed the fire, and danced a little more. It was sweet, wholesome fun.

Did we think about Rabi Shimon? No. Do my kids have any concept of Meron? No. We did all the right activities, but with none of the thoughts or intentions.

But we touched on something that day, in those elusive moments. Something like this is family. Like this is who we are together, and a recognition that we like each other. And the even rarer thought — I’m a good parent.

“That was the best bonfire,” my eight-year-old said.

“This was the best Lag D’omer,” said my four-year-old.

“Next year, let’s get hot dogs, too,” my 11-year-old suggested.

“We’ll talk about next year when next year comes,” I said.

But I think we’ll do it again next year. This Litvak is still cool and intellectual, but there’s a something here that even I can admit touched my neshamah.

Next year, maybe I’ll even listen to a shiur, catching fire Litvak-style.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 943)