Poor, overworked Elijah
By TED ROBERTS, the SCRIBBLER ON THE ROOF
“Is it time already?” said the slim, gray-haired man in jeans and the “Pesach Is Coming” T-shirt.
“Certainly,” boomed the voice from the cloud. “TRADITION, you know. Tomorrow night is the first night of Pesach.”
“But sir, I’ve been doing this for 3200 years. It was easy at first. Maybe 8000 households. I downed a few barrels of wine. But now, even with that time-manipulation trick you taught me, and the ultra large, expandable intestinal capacity you blessed me with, it is indeed laborious. Millions of glasses of wine. I’m lucky to be a prophet with miraculous capabilities – or even on the first post-Pesach morning I’d have a hangover that would bring down your holy mountain of Sinai. Let’s cut the visits down to a million or so. Or at least let me relax, stay home, and read your Holy Book on that second Seder. Instead, let us send Jeremiah – he’s hardened to future tragedies.”
“No!” thundered the Lord G-d of Hosts. “Remember TRADITION. And that means you.”
“And don’t forget the brisses,” added the overworked prophet. “I must attend every one and your people are so fertile. And they seem to be overwhelmed with sons, not daughters. I never get a day off. And as you well know, I am the prophet who knows all of yesterday, today, and tomorrow. I surreptitiously sip a glass of wine at the Greenberg Seder table – all happy and harmonious with family smiles. But unseeable, I frown with gloom and frustration because I know that young Billy will break his leg playing basketball next week and Becky’s coming down with the flu and soon there will be an empty chair where Bubbe now sits. A million visitations – a million tragedies. Sometimes I wish I were a well digger instead of a visionary.” So complains Elijah. But annually, he continues to make his rounds.
At my Seder we have a few tricks just to make sure the grandkids join in the Pesach spirit and discard their worldliness. “Yes, David, he does come to every Seder. Look at his glass of wine – it’s half gone!” There’s nothing like spilling a hot bowl of knaidlach soup to distract a six year old. As the kids grow older and wiser it sometimes takes two bowls of soup. And while mama is cleaning up, a quick gulp of wine is not difficult. “Look, Elijah must have been here!”
Year before last we did even better. I paid one of my grown sons to dress in a ragged shepherd (or prophet’s) cloak – complete with staff. He marched in the back door and out the front. He tossed a friendly smile at the group clustered around the dining room table, then paraded out the front door.
“It’s gonna be a great year,” I announced. “See the smile on his face.”
Yes, we have a few tricks. Guess where I hid the afikomen last year? In the matzoh box, naturally. Just for fun I let the adults join in the quest. They mutilated the house. Prize: a 20-dollar bill. No winners, of course. Who would suspect my trickery? I bet even Elijah would be stumped. And I’m sure he comes to 1521 Somerset Drive every year.
“Who was that?” shouted the kids.
Me, with a spoonful of soup halfway to my lips, “Oh, it was Elijah, of course.”
We’re well known. Famous, you might say, in our neighborhood. “They actually saw Elijah at their Seder!” say the gossips. The kids spread the word. Maybe next year, the Mosiach.
