I recently had occasion to fly to Florida to visit my mother; a visit that was long overdue. The plane was overbooked so I knew I was going to be packed in next to SOMEONE. I boarded early and contemplated the tiny seats. Was it my imagination or had they gotten smaller since the last time I flew? I had a window seat and I dreaded the possibility of someone of large girth (is that diplomatic enough?) slipping into the seat next to me. I hate that! If you can’t fit into a single seat you should have to buy two. Sorry Fat lobbyists but that’s my position and I’m sticking to it. I buried myself in my book to mask my anxiety.

Moments later, an Orthodox Jewish man bustled up the aisle wrangling four children! One child slipped in beside me, three hustled into the row in front of me and the father sat on the aisle. I smiled, genuinely. They introduced themselves. I let them know I was Jewish.

I’m not orthodox; I barely practice. And I’m generally not a fan of orthodox anythings because they tend to want to hurt everyone else. Except Jews; I have a soft-spot for Orthodox Jews. In a world that seems intent on eradicating us, I’m glad they’re here and multiplying. In case there really is a God, I’m glad they’re praying. I find myself smiling uncontrollably when I pass a Chassid. I’m also a little afraid of them, as if they can see into my brain and know that I don’t really believe all this stuff. I do pray on occasion, mostly to plead for help, but I’m not quite sure who or what I am talking to and I’m pretty sure no one hears me.

And so I greeted the prospect of a three hour trip in close quarters with a man who brought nothing to read but a prayer book, a bag full of Kosher food and four equally devout children, each with a book (though more secular and diverse in content & some requiring a crayon) with a mixture of delight and dread. The children were charming; adorable, well-behaved, reaching their tiny hands between the seats to get a sandwich from “Abba”. Abba was warm and comfortable with them, speaking in a calm, cajoling voice, teasing them about saying the B’racha before eating. He washed his hands on behalf of all of them rather than parade them to the bathroom up the narrow aisle. He offered me a sandwich but I declined having just had a bowl of chili with sour cream and a Guinness at the airport bar. I prayed he couldn’t smell the unholy mixture on my breath.

He checked out all the channels and all the movies available for purchase and, deeming them inappropriate for the children to watch, he played the in flight trivia game. The children opened their books. I started to watch “The Daily Show” rerun on Comedy Central until I realized there was no way to shield the sweet little boy beside me from reading Jon Stewart’s lips. I opened my laptop. Abba asked me what I did and I told him. He too was in the business, producing educational videos. I doubted we had the same sensibilities. He asked if he’d ever seen me in something and, seizing the chance to prove my worthiness, I told him about my days in “Fiddler on the Roof”. I said I had a short film on You Tube that I wrote, directed and appeared in and he asked if they could see it. I said we’d have to wait until I could access the internet. As the plane climbed to cruising altitude I mentally reviewed the content of the film I had promised to show. I had cleaned it up considerably from the original version where a middle-aged couple cursed out passing drivers on the highway, swapping things like “C—ksucking, mother f—king sonova bitch” for milder epithets like “Goddamned” this and “Goddamned” that. I couldn’t show this kid my video!!!! So I told Abba that, on second thought, he should view the video first because of some questionable language and he told me that if the language was questionable, he couldn’t listen to it either. I felt like a repentant Klansman might feel at Grace Baptist Church. Mortification rose from my feet to my face in a hot wave.

The crew came around offering snacks and Abba carefully scanned the possibilities for Kosher symbols, rejecting everything except the pretzels. I got the pretzels too. (On the return flight, I would shamelessly order the biscotti minus the K or OU.) During the flight Abba would read a few passages to me that he found particularly enlightening. I smiled appreciatively, not understanding a word. When the air-pressure in the cabin became unbearable, Abba distributed Mike & Ike’s Lemon Drops. Surprised they were Kosher, I accepted one. As the plane began to descend and my eardrums felt like they would explode, I searched my bag for that pack of gum I’d thrown in. The kids all held the sides of their tiny heads with varying expressions of distress on their trusting faces. “Suck”, Abba instructed. “Swallow!” I stuffed two pieces of gum in my mouth and swallowed hard as the juices flowed in my mouth and stretched my jaw. My ears cleared. I searched the package for some sign that it would be okay to share my bounty with the suffering children. But there was no K! No OU! The boy looked at me and I shrugged helplessly. They would have to suffer.

When the plane landed, Abba gave me his business card so I could send him samples of my work. I accepted knowing full well I had never written anything clean enough to pass his litmus test. I grabbed my one carry-on bag, slung my backpack over my shoulder and beat it out of the terminal before I would have to meet Ima (Mom), Saba v Savta (Grandpa & Grandma) .

One of the things I have always liked about being Jewish is the idea that you really don’t have to believe anything and yet you are still a Jew. (This didn’t work so well for us in the 30s and 40s.) It is an ethical religion. Be an ethical person; be a good person; if there’s a heaven, you’ll get there. (Bernie Madoff probably skipped this lesson.) So why is it that when I am in the presence of such commitment, even though I really don’t believe in it myself, I feel somehow ‘less ’? Perhaps it is because they "know", while I'm still searching.