I have told the Passover story over and over, year after year – tasting bitterness, weeping salty tears, making mortar for bricks, and baking flat bread. And then we were liberated – with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm, with signs and wonders – and I danced joyfully with Miriam, tambourine in hand. Dayenu. It would have been enough. Throw in some macaroons and those jelly fruit slices… Dayenu, indeed.
Last week, however, I not only felt the Passover story, I watched it unfold before my eyes.
At 6:50 a.m. last Friday, my wife Julie and I drove to Skokie... Read More