Years ago, we showed up late for Sunday school, coming straight from a flag football game. My son was still in his jersey with some totally unnecessary eye-black streaked on his face. The teacher said, “Thank you for taking the time to be Jewish today.” At the time — and in the years since — that phrase did not sit well with me. We were Jewish at the football game. We were Jewish, eating breakfast before the football game. We were Jewish on the drive over from the football game. We didn’t need to be at synagogue to be Jewish.

But on the first night of Passover this year, I looked around — at strangers and friends who had gathered together in a banquet room at the Hard Rock Hotel in Punta Cana, Dominican Republic, on Senior Spring Break to take time and recount the story of the exodus from Egypt — and those words popped back in my head, and I smiled.

Thank you for taking the time to be Jewish today.

So how did this ragtag group of exhausted kids and more exhausted parents end up here?

Well, for me, when I exercised questionable judgment in parenting and agreed to take my son on this ridiculous milestone in American teenage life, I just did not look at the calendar. I did not realize that spring break had been scheduled during my favorite Jewish holiday. I did not realize I was foregoing brisket, matzo ball soup, and gefilte fish. So, several months later, when I was looking at the calendar, I banged my head on the table and informed my family that I would not be hosting the traditional seder with coloring-book haggadot and Passover finger puppets in my basement.

In the months leading up to spring break, a few families got together and deciding that we should have a small seder for our five families. Easy. Twelve people. We would stash a box of matzah in our luggage and be fine. 

But then, as happens, our Jewish instincts kicked in. You cannot host a seder and leave other Jews in the cold (or in this case, the warmth). Just like the extra cup for Elijah, if there is a Jew without a seder, you add another chair. Or table. Or ballroom.

So we set up a Google Form to see if, by chance, anyone was interested. And they were. We eventually cut off the registrations at 65 when we hit the room's capacity — but in true Jewish fashion, we sent out a message that day that if anyone wanted to bring a friend, we would make room. 

While the seder wasn’t traditional, with a generous donation to Chabad of Dominican Republic we got matzvah and seder plates and grape juice. The food wasn’t exactly Kosher for Passover, but the hotel promised it contained none of the five prohibited grains. The wine also wasn’t KFP, but it was plentiful. And I still don’t know what was in those bright blue drinks the hotel was serving at the bar when we came in the room, but they were tasty.

As the planner I am, I had worries leading up to the big night. What if the Chabad order didn’t show up? What if the hotel stuck bread on the tables? What if the sound system didn’t work? What if no one came?

But then one of my fellow planners distilled it down to one sentence: Our job on Passover is to tell the story of the Exodus and we will tell the story of the Exodus. 

And that is how, on the first night of Passover, several dozen Jews from metro Detroit gathered together (with finger puppets that I had brought in my suitcase) and heard the story of the Exodus and took the time to be Jewish in the midst of Senior Spring Break.

Thank you to Josh Levine, Emily Rosenberg, and Jason and Lisa Klein. Next year in Birmingham!