I

always loved that first bite of matzah.

I loved the crunch and way it dissolved into a dense crumb, stuck to the roof of my mouth. My father, at the head of the Seder table, would announce the “first matzah bite” grandly, and ask for silence to contemplate slavery. We chewed thoughtfully.

One year, in the throes of teenage rebellion, I felt especially sympathetic toward the Jewish slaves, as I had had my car keys confiscated and my curfew reinforced.

As a college student, having declared my double literature and history majors, I’d sometimes take the reins. “Okay, people!” I’d announce, “As we chew this matzah, let’s take a moment to also think about the plight of the African Americans in our country. Let’s think of racism, bigotry, and segregation. The Seder is a time to appreciate our freedom as Jews, but also to take responsibility as American citizens and think of others who have suffered.” Heads nodded, and the noise of chewing filled the room.

Our Pesach Seder was an event that brought some of the most intellectual and interesting people to our table. Heated discussions would ensue, and someone would have to watch the clock, to remind us to hastily eat our strawberry meringues and a bite of afikomen by midnight.

As our guests drove back home, we’d contentedly vacuum matzah crumbs from the floor and schmooze about the highlights of the evening. The rest of the week we took matzah and cream cheese sandwiches to school, and an exciting chometz feast would happen on the eighth night (like it’s done in Israel) at whatever restaurant boasted the best carbs.

Growing up as a Conservative Jew in New York, I felt proud and inherently Jewish. Even though I attended an elite, non-Jewish private school, I was surrounded by others like me, committed cultural Jews. My parents, both esteemed professionals, volunteered for many Jewish causes and organizations and took great pride in their commitment to tikkun olam.

We had Shabbat dinner each week and celebrated the holidays: Pesach was a hallowed yearly event, closely followed by Purim, Chanukah, Rosh Hashanah, and Yom Kippur. (There were a few years with a succah as well, but Shavuot was only for the people who davened in the other shul, and who had ever heard of Tishah B’Av? We were all at camp by then, after all.) I was one of the more religious in my peer group — smugly ordering the vegetarian option at restaurants and openly judging their seafood preferences.

I was accepted to a prestigious university in Boston, and as I entered my freshman year in college, I looked forward to connecting with the Jewish student body and the campus Hillel. I was also very swept up in the university culture, joining clubs and a sorority. I made friends with people from diverse backgrounds, and I loved my two roommates — a Serbian girl with a flair for drama and a witty Canadian whose great-grandparents had founded the Catholic church in her hometown.

I declared my Jewish studies minor and joined a class on modern liberal Jewish thought. The class showcased the different streams of thought and practice of Judaism, from Conservadox through to Reconstructionist Judaism. Sitting in a classroom with 150 other people — Jews and non-Jews alike — discussing my cherished religion in a cultural and sociological context, felt so stimulating and my heart surged with Jewish pride; I thought all of the different ways Jews made Judaism work for them was so inventive and dynamic. Like, for example, when Jews gentrified and moved out to the suburbs, the larger expanse of space meant that driving to shul was necessary and therefore accepted.

Except for some somewhat disdainful or sarcastic comments in a Jewish sociology class about population growth, there was no mention of Orthodox Jewry. For me, the magic was more in the inventive, relevant, and purposeful ways of integrating Jewish culture and practice into modern, secular society.

There were no apparent reasons for the early stirrings of yearning I felt. I was 19 years old and thriving in every way. My childhood and adolescence were idyllic and I wanted a life for my future children just like the one I’d been given. But it was there, a small, niggling urge to learn more and grow more; there was a magnetic pull toward the campus Shabbat dinners and Friday night services, even if these were followed closely by a wardrobe change and a jaunt to the local pub.

When the campus kiruv rebbetzin offered to learn with me once a week, I accepted, justifying it to myself as an extension of my Jewish studies minor. I asked to learn about women’s rights and issues. Shabbos and kashrus were easy for me to understand and to appreciate — even if I wasn’t keeping those halachos, I understood the value of those practices as a Jew. However, the “women’s issue,” thing triggered an internal battle: How could something so restrictive be attractive? It didn’t make sense for me, for my life goals, or for the feminist ideology I was proud to have inherited from my family.

When we reached the chapter on negiah, the rebbetzin exclaimed: “Lauren, you have such beautiful eyes! You can communicate anything you want with those eyes!” I looked at her like she had fallen from the sky. Secular society had taught me the opposite, that a woman’s power lies in her physicality, and I simply could not relate to what she was saying. I tried to envision thanking someone for an important interview with my eyes and laughed at the thought, and quickly ended our learning session.

Yet I kept skimming the surface of deep Jewish connection, despite being fearful of the tidal wave that could sweep me into full immersion. In my sophomore year, I walked into a bookstore in the Jewish neighborhood. What was probably a typical seforim store felt, at the time, like a suffocating closet of truth. I picked up a yellow book, touted as “A Woman’s Guide to Jewish Observance” — it was straight halachah. I opened to the page entitled “Modesty at the Beach” and was horrified to read that women may not swim with men, or even be at the beach together with them.

I was a swimmer. I lived for the sun. Yearly family vacations consisted of swimming in glittering waters and then drying off on white beaches. I shut the book hurriedly and ran out of the store, trying to shake the new knowledge out of my head.

After reading that one paragraph, I automatically saw myself telling my parents and brothers that I could no longer vacation with them. I felt my parents’ disapproval, then their rage. I felt humiliated by my brothers’ scoffing. As I walked away from the store, the range of imaginary emotions I experienced left me breathless. That’s it, I thought, I can’t go back to the Shabbos dinners and the learning program I’ve been attending. It’s all a hook to get you in, and then there’s just a series of suffocating rules and laws — especially for women!

I felt a deep sense of loss for what I could be experiencing, but the fear was too great. Restriction and strict boundaries were a anathema to everything else I valued and took pleasure in. By the time I turned the key to my apartment, 45 minutes later, the Jewish soul-searching chapter of my life was shut.

Fast forward to my senior year. I was inundated with graduate school applications, torn between the ever-so-practical law degree and a more fanciful Masters of Arts in creative writing. I was also preparing for a four-month backpacking excursion with three close friends to celebrate my graduation. I was still friendly with the campus kiruv rabbi and his wife, nodding politely when I saw them and joining them for the high holidays, so I wasn’t surprised when the rebbetzin called to tell me about a trip to Israel. The program consisted of studying half a day in the Old City and then trips in the afternoon.

I’d already visited Israel on Birthright, and while I loved the trip then, I didn’t feel the need to go back to see the same attractions. However, when she told me the cost, I realized that it would be less expensive to spend three weeks in Israel and then fly to Europe than it would be to fly there directly from the States. While I couldn’t interest my entire traveling group, I got one of my friends to agree to join me in Israel for the first part, as a smart ploy to frugally elongate our vacation at the kiruv organization’s expense.

Two months later, I was a proud graduate, with a backpack stuffed with bathing suits, flip-flops, and sunscreen, excitedly boarding my El Al flight. As the program unfolded, it became increasingly clear that I was in big trouble. I was enraptured by every class. The rabbis and rebbetzins invited hard-hitting questions, and the breadth of what was presented was completely engaging. I could ask “What’s so bad about a handshake with a man?” and get an answer that was meaningful and reasonable, even if I didn’t fully agree with it.

At a seminar that included Torah codes, I burst into tears, shakily calling my mother to share the news that everything in history is in the Torah. Ergo, everything in Torah is relevant. Until then, my faith had been constructed upon the understanding that laws and customs should be changed to keep Torah relevant and in line with secular society. “Mom!” I whispered late at night into my rented Nokia, “instead of twisting the Torah to fit in with society, people here follow the Torah and then have their own functional and fulfilling society around it.” It had never occurred to me that Torah, not secular society, could dictate my life.

My friend, who was more interested in what was happening on Ben Yehuda than what was occurring in the classrooms, was looking forward to joining our other two companions in Greece. But I lost interest in our tour of Europe.

I was offered a chance to extend my trip and go to Neve Yerushalayim. Several heated (read: disastrous) conversations with my traveling partners later, I was sitting on a hard wooden chair, hurriedly taking notes during class with some of the world’s most dynamic kiruv teachers. It was astounding how far my mind was being stretched; I was exhausted at the end of the day, overwhelmed with new information, concepts, values, language, and friendships.

In a way, my strong desire to learn was fueled by a hope that I’d uncover some horrible contradiction, or something intolerable. But each class chiseled away at the protective layer I’d so carefully constructed years earlier. Most shocking was the fact that the more I learned, the more expansive Torah Judaism became. There was a meaningful way to engage in every aspect of life. I was surprised when I learned that Hashem actually cares how I put on my shoes or if I return a lost object or not. Torah Judaism was all encompassing and wholly supportive.

My six weeks at Neve stretched to ten months (with my chosen masters program deferred), and during that time my understanding of the world flipped and refocused. I felt like I’d been living in a circus fun-house mirror before, all distortion and illusion. When I thought back to my life before, I saw all the ways in which I was actually enslaved to secular, liberal ideals: My days would be consumed with being the best student, the most fun partygoer, the most fit gym rat. There was a daily race for external and material pleasures that provided little emotional satisfaction, because the finish line was constantly being moved.

While I still respected a lot about secular society, particularly how my parents and my brothers lived, the irony of being so enslaved in such a liberal milieu was too jarring for me to ignore. Once a week, there was a book sale in the Neve cafeteria. One day, toward the end of my time in seminary, a halachah book caught my eye — it seemed clear and practical, so I bought it. I went to my favorite spot in the emerald-green gardens, eager to read. It took several pages until I realized that it was the same book from the crowded seforim store a few years back.

I became misty-eyed as I reflected on my growth. It wasn’t that I was happy to tell my family that vacations would have to look different, and that I could no longer have physical contact with my uncles and my male family friends. It’s just that I saw them as small sacrifices for an enormous gain. By then, I felt so close to Hashem, overwhelmed that there’s a loving G-d, active in my life, who drew me close when I could have remained far, that I would have done anything to maintain that sense of peace, security, and infinite love.

Years later, I sit with my husband around our own Seder table, flanked by our sons in their velvet yarmulkes and our daughters with their frilly socks and headbands, and laugh as they fight over the right to show off their school creations and answer questions. Fifteen years post-seminary, while some things have become second nature, I remind myself of that indomitable, forceful spark within that was the catalyst for a change that will impact generations. There is growth and new knowledge and new connections.

Yet some things remain unchanged; my father, from his seat of honor at our table, still announces that first matzah bite and encourages my children to empathize with our enslaved ancestors. And every year I linger, as salty tears mix with the floury paste of matzah, and I send a prayer Heavenward, grateful for my freedom.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 586)