The Secret Society

Last week my husband held a celebration for six of my grandsons - the ones who were just Bar Mitzvah and the ones who are about to become Bar Mitzvah. It was a lovely evening.

It was also a very unusual evening for me. I was the only woman there, and that was only because someone had to take pictures. Once I had finished my photographic duties and dinner arrived, I was graciously excused. Apparently, this was a boys-only occasion.

My husband - let's call him “Sabba” - wanted the boys to have the spotlight. Just them. No womenfolk. And I think I understand why.

For the past year, Sabba and his boys have had a little secret society going. Who knows? They may even have had a secret handshake. They called themselves The Tefillin Team.

Once a month, six of my grandsons met with Sabba in the lower level of a synagogue. It was the sort of place that is usually empty except for Shabbat Kiddush, which made it the perfect headquarters for a secret society.

The boys would arrive carrying their blue-and-white striped paper bags. Inside were two books. Books about tefillin.

You see, when each of our grandsons was born, Sabba bought him a pair of tefillin. Even little Chaim David, who is three, already has his pair waiting for him, IY"H.

Sabba didn't want the boys simply to put on the tefillin one day because they had reached Bar Mitzvah age. He wanted the boys to understand them. To love them. To appreciate the mitzvah and the incredible tradition they were becoming part of. So he decided to learn with the six boys every month.

This sounds simple. It wasn't. Six boys. Three different communities. Six busy schedules. Yeshiva. Basketball. Swimming. Babysitting. Youth group. Tests. Life. Coordinating a meeting between these six boys was sometimes more complicated than a military campaign.

But Sabba was determined. He called. And called again. And called again. Eventually, they found a date that worked.

My Part in this Enterprise

And where did I fit into this very male enterprise? Well, someone had to get them there.

Sabba picked up two of the boys. I picked up the two who lived farthest away, and we all met in the middle. I became, for lack of a better term, the Tefillin Team's Uber driver.

I also became the official food-delivery service. Every month I picked up hamburgers with all the works on the side, along with two giant trays of French fries - which are called “chips” here - and delivered everything to the boys. Then I left them to learn.

While the boys studied with Sabba, I played with my granddaughters. It was a win-win arrangement.

Except for the part where I eventually had to get back into the car and drive the boys home in the dark. Have I ever mentioned that I am not a fan of driving in the dark? Night driving is not my favorite sport. (Then again, I got to see my far-away kids and share some kisses, so another win!)

Friends, for months, this was my view of the Tefillin Team.
Transportation.
Hamburgers.
French fries.
Granddaughters.
Dark roads.

And then, when I started writing this blog, I realized something rather embarrassing. I didn't actually know what happened at those meetings. I wasn't there for any of it - not the boys' questions, not the moments of real learning, not whose stomach growled loudest waiting for those hamburgers.

So I asked Sabba to tell me some stories. Had anything funny happened? Had one of the boys surprised him? Did they ever ask questions he didn't expect? Did he notice friendships developing between the six cousins? Anything. Something. Please! I wanted to bring the story to life.

He looked at me. “I can't tell you any of the stories that happened between me and the boys.”

Excuse me? I wasn't asking him to name a boy who threw a spitball! I just wanted a cute story for my blog. But apparently, I had stumbled upon the first rule of the Secret Society: What happens in The Tefillin Team stays in The Tefillin Team.

So I am left to imagine.

Six boys, ages ten to thirteen, each with his own personality, his own level of knowledge, his own sense of humor, sitting with their grandfather in a synagogue basement.
Learning ancient laws.
Asking questions.
Figuring things out.
Probably laughing.
Probably teasing each other.
Probably not always sitting perfectly still.

And, I hope, slowly realizing that they were doing something pretty special. They were learning with their grandfather. And Sabba was doing something even more special. He was passing something on.

At the celebration, he told the boys how proud he was of them and that he had learned from them, too. Then he told them about the future he hoped they would have.

He hoped that one day, when they were grandfathers themselves and bought tefillin for their grandsons, they would tell them, “When I was a boy, I learned the laws of tefillin with my grandfather, and now I am learning those same laws with you.”

Well. I was taking pictures and videoing his speech. And I started crying. Of course I did. I am a grandmother. One of the boys noticed his grandmother crying and started laughing. What can I say? Grandmothers are emotional folks.

The "Graduation" Ceremony

Each of the boys received a certificate. Then they ate falafel. And just like that, the first year of The Tefillin Team came to an end.

Except I don't really think it ended.

Because the whole point was never just the twelve meetings. It was the connection. A grandfather who loves a mitzvah. Six grandsons learning from him.

Six cousins who became, in the truest sense, a team.

And a tradition that, if Sabba gets his wish, will keep traveling down the family line.

Someday, perhaps, one of those boys will be sitting with a grandson of his own. Maybe he will take out his tefillin. Maybe he will remember a blue-and-white striped bag, a synagogue basement, a hamburger dinner, six cousins and a grandfather who cared enough to keep calling until everyone could make it.

And maybe he'll say, “When I was a boy, I learned this with my grandfather.”

Because in the end, isn't that what we want for our children and grandchildren? Not just that they know the mitzvah. But that they know they belong to something - that they're on a team.

And that, I think, is the real secret of The Tefillin Team.