By Julia Loeb, WLCJ International President
Now that Passover is ending, I find myself in that familiar in-between moment, still vacuuming up the last crumbs of matzah while everyday dishes quietly make their return. The Passover bins aren’t put away yet, but our once-a-year Passover pots, pans, and dishes are already packed until next year’s celebration. The kitchen feels suspended between the heightened awareness of the holiday and our everyday routine.
In our home, Passover is filled with traditions that make the holiday both sacred and deeply personal. There’s the inevitable debate over sweet or savory matzah brei. There are the well-loved, slightly mismatched editions of the Goldberg Haggadah, each marked with memories (and the occasional wine stain) from Seders past. And then there’s our carefully curated plague bag, complete with our rubber locust, squishy frogs, and collapsing cow toys for cattle disease, each one bringing both joy and meaning.
What I appreciate most is the way we make space for something new alongside these familiar rituals: a recipe we’re not quite sure will work, new guests at the table, or questions that shift the conversation in unexpected directions. The Seder is never exactly the same, and that’s what makes it exciting.
And then, almost suddenly, it ends. After a brief Havdalah and the repurchasing of chametz, we return to our regular routines. This transition can feel abrupt, as if the sense of holiness we experienced during the holiday is limited to those days alone.
Then, on Shabbat, we read Parashat Shmini. It opens with a moment of extraordinary spiritual height, the inauguration of the Mishkan, when God’s presence is revealed to the people. It is a peak experience, not unlike the drama of a Seder night, when ritual, memory, family, and meaning come together.
The Torah then shifts to the laws of kashrut, the meticulous details of what we eat and how we live. It’s a remarkable transition, moving from an extraordinary moment to the routines of daily life.
During Passover, everything feels heightened. We are more aware of what we eat, how we prepare it, and how we tell our story. But Shmini reminds us that holiness isn’t meant to exist only in those peak moments; it is meant to continue every day.
Most of our lives are not lived at the Seder table or in carefully constructed rituals. They unfold in the in-between—in our kitchens, our conversations, and the quiet ways we show up for one another.
So, as we put everything away this year and settle back into routine, I find myself asking not how to hold onto the exact feeling of Passover—that would be impossible—but how to carry forward even a piece of that awareness. How do we ensure that the holiness of the holiday doesn’t simply fade away?
Maybe it begins with something small: paying a little more attention, being a little more intentional, and remembering that even in the most ordinary moments, there is always the possibility for something sacred.
Julia Loeb
WLCJ International President
jloeb@wlcj.org
