Welcoming a Stranger Comes Full Circle

By Lucy Beckett

Years ago, I was hired to watch two young boys at a Jewish wedding. Despite not knowing anyone there, the family I was babysitting for felt somehow familiar. I remember watching the two boys run around with their cousins, laughing, completely at ease, and thinking to myself how special their relationship was. The older brother, maybe just 7 or 8 at the time, struck me by how kind and open he was to me, and how easily he made me feel welcome. I was a stranger in that space, but it still somehow did not feel all that foreign. At the time, I didn’t have language for what I was feeling, but I now realize I was experiencing something deeply rooted in Jewish life: the quiet but powerful act of making space for someone new, making them feel (even briefly) like they were never a stranger to begin with.

Years later, by total coincidence, I reconnected with that same family through Hebrew Helpers. I had the privilege of mentoring, and officiating the Bar Mitzvah of, that same older brother, the one who had been so kind and welcoming.

What makes Hebrew Helpers so special is that we often begin as strangers. I meet a young person and their family at the very beginning of their journey, and over time, through learning Hebrew, Jewish history, and values, we build something much deeper. That initial unfamiliarity turns into trust, connection, and eventually, a B’nai Mitzvah.

In many ways, it mirrors what I felt at that wedding years ago: the idea that even when you don’t know someone yet, there is already the possibility of belonging.

As we approach Passover, I am reminded that this idea is at the heart of the holiday. We retell the story of being strangers in Egypt, and because of that experience, we are commanded (36 times in the Torah exactly!) to welcome the stranger. At the Seder, we ritualize this idea. We set a place and pour a cup of wine for Elijah the Prophet. We open the door, not knowing if he will enter, but believing that if he does, it signals a future of peace. It’s an act of hope, but also an act of radical openness, of making space for someone we do not yet know.

In my work with Hebrew Helpers, I see how often those moments between strangers become something more. Someone unfamiliar becomes part of your story.

This Passover, as we open our doors, we might also consider who else we can make space for at our tables, whether it’s someone new, someone returning, or someone who simply needs a place to feel they belong.

Because sometimes, the stranger is not really a stranger. They are just someone whose story just has not connected with yours yet.