The Time I Made My Grandfather Cry

"Girls do not dance with the Torah", my grandmother remarks sharply from her worn arm chair in the living room.

To this day, I am not quite sure how she heard my conversation with my grandfather which took place on their front porch in their humble Sukkah. But I have learned never to question or underestimate a Sefardic woman's ability to hear everything.

It is a humid night in Netanya, despite autumn technically having started. My siblings and I sit around the large wooden table in my grandparent's Sukkah, our eyes focused on our grandfather, our Saba. We are in Israel for the month of Tishrei, a month filled with festive holidays all of which we spend by my grandparents. My legs stick to the plastic chair with sweat as I lean in closely to my Saba as I respond to my grandmother's comment.

"But I want to dance with the Torah, and you are the Rabbi of the Shul! You can bend the rules for your favorite granddaughter, hanechda hachi tovah shelcha, can't you?".

I string my words together in a Hebrew with an American accent- something my grandparents laugh about often, much like the way my Saba responds to my plea.

"I don't see why not", was how he answered me at first. But that was before my grandmother interjected with her answer. Now that she has spoken, the matter is settled. Savta's words are the lay of the land in Rechov Ehud Ben Gera, and this case is no different.

The truth is, I really am just joking about wanting to hold the Torah and dance with it on Simchas Torah. While there are women that desire this deeply and shuls that accommodate it, I absolutely love and am perfectly content with the Chabad custom of observing the men dancing with the Torah from the women's section.

The reason I bring up this topic with my Saba a few days before Simchas Torah is to make him laugh, to get him to crack a smile, and (if I am being honest), maybe even to provoke my grandmother. They both get a kick out of my eccentric, unconventional ideas, and I would be lying if I said I didn't get a kick out of bringing my Saba and Savta joy.

So as we enjoy our Sukkot meal in my grandparent's modest hut, I bring up the idea of me dancing with the Torah for Simchas Torah, a holiday which occurs the very next day.

My Saba, always one to keep the peace, responds with a compromise:

"When we celebrate Simchas Torah tomorrow, I will make sure to sing your favorite song. Then, I will call you over to the men's section, and we will dance together- you and I."

My Saba's eyes twinkle as he presents this tempting alternative to me.

He knows I will accept his offer, and not just to make him happy.

The song my Saba is referring to, the one he called "your favorite song" is a beautiful melody called "Mi Pi Keil " It is a poem that describes the beauty of G-d, Moshe, the Torah and the Jewish people. Following the order of the Hebrew Aleph Bet, it is sung to an upbeat tune. It is my favorite, not only because of the beautiful lyrics or brilliant poetry, but rather because it is one of the only songs that Sefardic and Chabad shuls both sing, especially on Simchas Torah. Every meal I have with my grandparents when I am in Israel, I sing Mi Pi Keil with my grandfather. I call Mi Pi Keil mine and my Saba's melody.

So when my Saba offers me the opportunity to dance with him in his Shul as he sings Mi Pi Keil with his congregation, it is not even a question to me.

"Betach!", I shout through my massive grin. I accept the offer immediately.

I feel like I just won the lottery. And in ways I don't know yet, I did in fact win.

To celebrate the deal, my Saba and I break out into a duet of Mi Pi Kiel, right there on the spot.

"It's practice for tomorrow!" I yell between verses and over the clapping.

My family joins in on the singing, but allow me and my Saba to take the lead. They know how valuable this moment is to me. In my head, I silently thank them for allowing me this memory to myself

Joy infiltrates the wooden hut as we sing together into the night.

The next day in Shul, my Saba keeps his promise.

I am sitting in the woman's section of his small Shul, watching the men dance around the bima as I finish my prayers. They clutch the Torahs like a mother clutches her newborn- gently pulling it to their chests and embracing the ancient scrolls with love. My Saba's Shul has the Sefardic custom of adorning the Torahs with beautiful, silk scarves. I observe in awe as the scarves swirl with movement. I cannot help but think how beautiful those scarves would look in my hair.

Suddenly, I hear the familiar notes of "Mi Pi Keil" coming from the men's section.

They are singing our song, I think to myself.

And then, seconds later, I hear my name:

"Inbal, Saba wants you!"

A broad smile spread spreads across my face, as I look up. I see my Saba's humble figure from across the room. He has handed the Torah to a community to hold.

He is waving me over to the men's section to dance with him, just like he promised.

We are keeping the deal.

His congregants, many of them my relatives, following his every move, observe the invite with joy.

I jump out of my seat with the eagerness of a child and make my way to the men's section to my Saba's open arms.

I grab onto my Saba's frail hands and hold them tight. He returns the squeeze.

All around us, they are singing loudly, "Mi Pi Keil, Mi Pi Keil, Yitbarach Yisrael!".

The lyrics surround me and my Saba as we dance in a circle, our eyes locked on one another's.

My Saba and I, we dance and dance. We sing along to the song together, chanting the ancient melody as we leap back and forth.

My siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles clap to the beat as they witness this intimate moment between granddaughter and grandfather.

As the song comes to an end, I see tears in my Saba's eyes. My eyes reflect his and pretty soon, we are both crying as we give once last jump, our hands still holding tight.

"See? We danced!" he says through a massive grin.

"Yes, we did", I reply through my tears.

I hug him tightly and breath in his scent, a mixture of coffee and Bamba. His prickly beard pokes me as I plant a kiss on on his cheek.

I make my way over to my chair in the women's section of the Shul, still on a high from this beautiful moment.

It was not just the idea that my Saba and I danced that caused my heart to soar.- we dance every time we see each other.

Rather, it was the realization that, on the happiest day on the Jewish calendar, my Saba handed over the Torah to someone else, and instead danced with me.

And this time, all of Netanya got to witness it.

Fast forward two years, to yesterday morning.

Thanks to the pandemic, we have not been able to visit my grandparents in two years. For the last two weeks, We have all been worried about my Saba's health.

I FaceTime my mother in the hopes that I can see my Saba and wish him a Chag Sameach.

He is weak, tired, speaks in a low voice I can barely hear,

"Saba, Chag Sameach!" I shout through the phone. I smile big enough for the both of us.

"We need to sing our song- Mi Pi Kiel!"

He uses all his strength to muster up a small smile.

I begin chanting the song, "Mi Pi Kiel, Mi Pi Kiel, Yitbarach Yisrael!"

And as I sing the words, I feel tears burn my eyes.

I am crying as I sing this song with him, I think to myself, just like two years ago.

Except this time, I realize, they are not tears of joy.

They are tears of yearning and want to dance with my Saba.