"What kind of a G-d wouldn't want a son to be with his mother on a Jewish holiday?" my mother asked, exasperated when I said we are not allowed to drive to visit her on the holiday. "For 36 years you didn't care about Shavuot. Now you care, but you can't bring your children to visit their grandmother?"

I knew I was in trouble.

"I'm glad you decided to live Jewishly," she continued. "But do you have to be so religious that you can't eat in your own mother's house?"

I brought the complaint to the rabbi who introduced me to Jewish observance.

"The Torah," he explained "represents the truth, and sometimes people don't want to hear the truth. But if you trust the truth, it will eventually lead you to where you want to go, though you may never know just how you got there."

My mother didn't buy it. Neither did my sisters. Looking back, I'm not sure I did, either.
Maintaining family ties is often painful for a baal teshuva [returnee to observant Judaism]. Religious observance can sometimes strain relationships with those you most love, often at the worst of times: weddings, Bar Mitzvahs and family gatherings.

The strain continued through my parents' final years. My family and I disagreed over the level of medical care to administer. The debate between "quality of life" and Jewish law was intense. My father passed away after a long illness. But heroic measures gave my mother six additional wonderful years.

We usually avoided such disagreements, choosing not to discuss spiritual matters. In my first years of Torah observance, I was somewhat provocative, projecting an "I've found the truth and you haven't" arrogance. I thought that my new community of religious friends could supplant my family, but I found this was wrong. I only have one set of parents, and two sisters. No one can replace them.

My wife and I invest a great energy in creating a Torah-observant family. I envision down the road my dining table filled with children and grandchildren. The table stretches forward through generations. Rabbis and scholars, businessmen and teachers, mothers and fathers all embracing the Torah. Though they embrace a Torah of truth and not sentimentality, my vision is very sentimental. I am very grateful for the life my wife and I are forging.

But no matter how wonderful my fantasy, it does not replace my love for my parents and sisters, or ease the pain when we are distant. So whenever we can, my sisters and I try to share our lives.

On my last visit to the U.S., my sisters and I visited our parents in the cemetery. It was very intimate. My sister brought rose petals fresh from her daughter's wedding and spread them over the grass under which lie our father and mother. I placed a stone I brought from Safed.

One sister read a beautiful piece about how you lose sight of a boat as it crosses the horizon, yet the boat still exists. You can't see it, but you know that others on the opposite side wait to welcome those on board. I brought a book of Psalms, from which I had intended to read one chapter. I read haltingly in Hebrew, my sisters in English. When we finished, one sister said, "Let's read another chapter." This continued for a half-hour, as we said a dozen.

Later, at lunch, my older sister told us she recently joined a synagogue for the first time. "I want to learn more about Judaism," she said. "Do you think I'm too old to start?"

My other sister told us that she attends classes with a rabbi, while her husband studies with the same rabbi at a "lunch and learn" several times a week. They were not planning to "become Orthodox," but enjoyed the depth of the learning.

I was pleased to hear this, but they meant less to me than the simple pleasure we shared at the restaurant and the closeness we felt at the gravesite. It was intimacy I sought, not religious confluence. I basked in our family unity and marveled at my parents' ability to keep us together, even in death.

On the ride from the restaurant, we all agreed that the visit to the cemetery was "just perfect." I was returning to Israel in a couple of hours, and when we said good-bye, we each said "I love you" to the others. I felt the presence of the other three who came to join us in this moment of parting, the three who created the bonds that continue to hold us together.

As we kissed good-bye, I felt we had been joined by my mother and father, who I knew were smiling; and that all of us were surrounded and enveloped by G-d Whose mystery and benevolence unceasingly unfolds in the most unexpected ways.

"But if you trust the truth-which means if you trust in G-d-it and He will eventually lead you to where you want to go, though you may never know just how you got there."

Reprinted with permission from The Jewish Homemaker