Happy 6th day of Hanukkah, everyone!

Here’s an unpublished picture book/retelling I wrote a few years ago. Shared now because I figure we can use all the extra miracles….

Sometimes, we don’t believe in the miracles.

Sometimes, we can’t see anything ahead of us.

But we keep going.

***

A MIRACLE IN SNOW

One winter evening, when the sky was an ocean—deep and blue and full of hidden things…

A woman pulled on her heaviest coat. And stepped into her boots…

“Leah, where are you going?” asked Sarah. “Tonight is the first night of Hanukkah, and it’s nearly sundown. Time to light the candles!”

But Leah shook her head. “Hanukkah is well and good. But our woodpile is empty and there’s a storm coming. What if we lose power?”

“What if we don’t?” said Sarah “Stay with me, and celebrate the miracle of the oil.”

But Leah waved her hand in the air. “I’ll be back soon!” she called over her shoulder. “Miracles are a nice idea, but they won’t keep us warm.”

She opened the door, letting in a gust of wind, sharp as a knife.

Sarah pulled her sweater close. “Oh!” she cried. “I don’t think you have time. The snow is almost here. Can’t you smell it?”

Leah peered up at the sky and shook her head. “I’ll chop quickly and make it home before the storm,” she said. “I won’t go far.” And she left.

Sarah gazed after Leah as she trudged into the chilly dusk.

Then in the sky, stars began to appear, so Sarah quickly closed the door, turned, and ran… …to fetch her menorah.

She struck a match and lit the candles.

She sang the blessings.

Then she sat on the sofa, to watch the candles blaze in the front window.

As darkness swallowed the house, Sarah grew cold, but the glow from the candles filled the room with a warm light. And she began to doze.

Meanwhile, deep in the woods behind the house, Leah gathered sticks and swung her hatchet. She called out to the trees. “Miracles, ha! Who needs them?”

And when she had filled her sledge, Leah stood back and admired her handiwork, in the light from her lantern.

“Now, THERE’S a miracle,” she boasted to the night sky. “A job well done.”

The sky answered her with a sudden howl of wind, and then… The snow came.

It began in a dizzying burst of huge flakes that swirled and rushed like dry leaves.

In an instant, the world was a blur, a confusing flutter, and Leah was lost inside a blizzard.

She could see no trees.

She could see no path at her feet.

She could not even find her sledge.

Then… Leah stumbled, fell against a stump, and hit the ground, shattering her lantern.

Her feet became numb. Ice gathered in her hair. Her eyes drifted shut.

But in her dream… she caught a glimpse, a fleeting vision of Sarah, dozing in the glow of her candles…

It warmed her, and she sat back up.

“Oh, if only…” she said sadly, “If only I had stayed home. What I wouldn’t give for a miracle now.”

And that might have been the end of the story. But a moment later… Two tiny lights floated before her, a few feet away, As if a pair of fireflies were dancing side by side.

“It’s not possible,” Leah said. “…and yet…”

When she stood and reached a hand towards the lights, they began to move, to drift away from her.

Leah took a step.

And then another.

In this way, she left the woods, moving slowly through the snow that stung her cheeks.

Leah squinted into the shrieking wind And though she was still trapped inside the storm, always, always… the lights drifted before her eyes. Fading and flickering, but never going out.

Hours later, Leah found herself before her own front window.

Where, as she watched, the two drifting lights disappeared. On the OTHER side of the glass. Just as the sun began to rise.

“But…” stammered Leah. “That’s impossible!”

When she opened the door and fell inside, Leah startled Sarah awake.

Sarah gasped at the snow-covered figure. “My stars…” she cried. And after that, “Oh, Leah, thank goodness!”

She jumped up and pulled the icy coat from Leah’s shoulders, replaced it with a warm blanket.

Then Sarah turned, and frowned. She pointed at two burnt wicks, still smoking in the menorah.

“It’s very strange,” she said. “I’ve been sleeping here since you left, but the candles are just now dying. How on earth did they last the night?”

Leah shrugged. “Oh, I suppose it’s just a miracle,” she said, kicking off her boots.

“A miracle?” said Sarah. “I thought you did not have time for miracles.”

Leah smiled. “Let’s make oatmeal,” she said. “I’m cold and hungry. That will be a miracle too.”

But in fact, Sarah and Leah did not eat right away.

Instead, they sat together by the window, and stared at the menorah a little longer.

They watched as two last wisps of white smoke curled from the burnt candle-ends, drifted into the air, and vanished.

And suddenly, beyond the window, an extraordinary sunrise turned the entire glittering world to morning.

THE END

Okay, so… ZIPPY IS COMING.

At last.

Zippy, my sweet Zipporah.  My anxious bat-mitzvah girl. My lonely Jewitch.

I began writing this book years ago, in another time.  It seemed like a really good idea, back in 2019. Mose had just become bar mitzvah, and Lew was heading into the same intense experience. I was deep in that moment, and I thought it would be a good idea to plumb the depths of it, to dig into what kids REALLY think and feel about Judaism and adulthood.

I remember asking Lew one day, “Do you believe in God?”

He looked at me, thoughtfully, and replied, “Of course not. Do you? Does anyone, for sure?”

So I began THERE.

As he studied and began his mitzvah project (working on the farm at Concrete Jungle), I dreamed of a girl named Zippy, a girl who wasn’t sure she believed in God, though she DID believe in something.

Then, in March 2020, the world changed.  We postponed Lew’s classes, stopped attending synagogue. The bar mitzvah was on hold “for a few months.”  When I called my dad, told him we’d be rescheduling for August 2020, he said, “Two to four years, Laurel. Plan on two to four years.”  I refused to believe him, but of course he was right. (he’s usually right, my dad).

And I couldn’t finish the book after that. I found myself scribbling weird poems late at night, for the first time in years. But when I sat down to tell Zippy’s story, she refused to join me.  She simply wouldn’t show up. I think that probably the sadness of Lew’s bar mitzvah (now indefinitely postponed) hung over her like a raincloud, kept her away.

I did write a book!  But it wasn’t real. Didn’t feel true to me. And when my editor read it, he agreed.  So, along with Lew’s big day, we postponed the book. Again and again, the bar mitzvah and the book got pushed down the road, as we waited for the variants to stop, the vaccines to work.  I didn’t want to publish just any old book. I needed Zippy to come back to me, tell me her story.

And finally. At  last. She did!

So, here she is, a little later than expected. Zipporah Chava McConnell. ZIPPY THE WITCH!  She’s worried and lonely and watching the other kids grow up faster than she is, all around her. She’s missing her best friend, who seems to have left her in the dust. She’s fighting with her parents and eating her rice pudding and casting her spells, in hopes of managing her life and the world. In hopes of controlling something.  And then, one day, she’s discovering she has a far greater power than she knew!  And she’s writing that story down, for you, the reader. Which is, of course, another sort of spell…

The only magic I know. Even if sometimes, I have to wait for it.

I hope you’ll get to know Zippy. I hope you’ll love her. She could use some love.

We all could.

We all could use some love.

After a long long break, I have a new book out, with Dan Santat, and I could not be more excited.  After two “endless” pandemic-years, I’m incredibly hopeful about this spring, and really do expect to be hitting the road again, visiting with bookstores and libraries and schools and friends all over.  I’m booking some events now, and will keep you posted!

ENDLESSLY EVER AFTER is a big big picture book. In some ways, it’s actually more of a story collection.  When you read it, you’ll be able to choose your own version of the fairy tales you know and love, follow Rosie as she wanders along a number of different paths, and discover where you both end up. You can read it over and over without reading the same story twice!  Dan and  I have been working hard on it for years, and we can’t wait to share it with readers.  I’ll post some art below, so you can see how it works…

You can preorder now, from a number of sellers, but my own local children’s bookstore, LITTLE SHOP OF STORIES, is all set up for signed and personalized copies, if you’re interested in getting a special surprise for a friend. I’ll pop over and sign them, just as soon as the books arrive. And if you’re interested in setting up a bookstore event or booking me for a festival, please email me at laurelsnyderauthor (at) gmail.com. As usual, schools can reach out to The Author Village about visits (in-person or virtual).

SEE YOU SOON!!!

And I wrote him a poem.

**

Just a Dolphin

For Lewis, on his bar mitzvah, in the middle of a pandemic

“Get in the water,” I tell him.

“There’s no shark, and you won’t drown.”

We’re at the ocean, and there is a shark.

There’s always a shark somewhere.

Also, the tide never stops hunting,

only rests from time to time.

This is how we live, by lying.

By stepping  into the surf

with our eyes closed,

for the simple reward of lunch on the sand,

hair all tangled, lips salty, eyes bright.

When I tell my kid he’s going back to school,

he looks at me like I’m the sun,

squinting into my gaze

as though he can’t quite see me or anything else.

“It’s not safe,” he says.

“The teacher pulls her mask down to talk.

Everyone’s always touching everyone else.

Four kids were out today,

and Anna was coughing in science.

Did you know I have to take my mask off

to eat lunch? If I want to eat.”

“You want to eat,” I say sharply.

But he’s looking at me like I’m the sun again.

Like I might hurt him.  He’s scared of the world but also me,

and I’m not certain.

So I nod and say it louder,

like it’s a thing I actually know.

“You want to eat.”

Only for some reason I shake when I say this.

“You want to eat you want to eat

you have to want to eat,” I say. “Okay?”

“Okay,” he nods.

And suddenly, we’re just two people

sitting in the sand and I’m not the sun anymore.

He’s not squinting. Instead, we’re staring

at the waves, the world.

“Everyone’s always touching

everyone else,” he says. “It’s awful.”

“I know,” I say.  “I’m sorry.”

And when in the distance, a gray fin

breaks the surface of the water,

we watch it rise,

then disappear.

“That was a dolphin,” I say quickly.

I look at my kid, beside me.

I see him breathing  and remember to breathe too.

He stares at the water, then back at me.

“I know it,” he says.

“Just a dolphin,” he says.

Then, suddenly there’s a dazzle,

and I have to squint to look at him.

He’s too bright.

He’s fierce and shining

with what he’s learned to do.

And we began to emerge…

**
I have my second shot on Tuesday, in Alabama (a whole other story).  Now, I’m looking into whether the boys can go back to school for a few weeks, see non-family humans again, laugh and joke and learn with their friends.  I’m allowing myself to hope that I might get to teach in person again, this summer. I’m thinking about travel and school visits and book events. I’m crossing my fingers that we can have some sort of in-person bar mitzvah ceremony/celebration for Lew, a year and a half late. We have grandparents coming to visit (all of them are fully vaccinated, for which I’m so grateful).  And I’ll see two of my three siblings for spring break in the mountains.

We have so much catching-up to do!  We need dentists and doctors and clothes that fit and ALL the hugs. I miss the world so much.

And yet… we’ve learned a lot this year. About ourselves, and the things from the Before-times that we maybe don’t want to return to. Life before was busier than it needed to be, maybe a little over-full. As we emerge, I want to be sure I don’t let the world swallow me. I like gardening, and journalling, and eating meals together. I like spending lots of time in my office. I am thankful for the friendships that have deepened in this season, however remotely, and for the new things I’ve learned to do.

But oh, I’m looking forward to the world.

Isn’t it interesting how the pandemic hits you differently, from week to week? One day, things feel okay. You enjoy your family and make soup, and take walks, and watch a movie, and you think, “I can totally do this.”

But then, the next day, you wake up in the same house, with the same people, and the same cats. You eat your eggs, but life overwhelms you, so that you’re choking on your sense of loss, sadness, fear. You’re too tired. Too worn from vigilance. From sameness.
For me, personally, THIS is the hardest thing– the inexplicable difference between any two moments, the dissonance in how I feel from one day to the next, even when the days themselves are identical.

Tonight, I found myself listening to music, driving around alone. Nothing was actually wronger than usual, but I couldn’t stand my house anymore, felt a desperate need to get out. Craved, paradoxically, both aloneness and people. Because I’m in quarantine right now, I couldn’t actually GO anywhere, so I just drove and drove.

Eventually, I ended up here. I’ve driven here maybe 15 or 20 times over the last few months, just to stare at these words, but never after dark. And something about the place was so lonely and deserted, but also familiar. I felt better, but also very sad. This is a thing I do sometimes. Push on my own sadness. Like a kid pushing on a scabby knee, to see how much she can take.

There’s a scene in My Jasper June where Jasper teaches Leah about this, about what she calls The Sad Game. She explains that sometimes, it’s worse to try to be okay, and better just to give in to the sadness. Jasper is smart.  So I did that, played The Sad Game. And tonight, it felt right.

On the way home I listened to a song that I knew would make me cry. And when the tears came, I was grateful for them.

Everything Will Be Okay. Also, everything absolutely won’t. Living with that understanding, that discomfort, is something I can do, but it’s incredibly hard for me.

Still, here we are… In the same place, if a different moment.

A decade ago, I published a book that’s now out-of-print.  It changed my life,turned me into a “Jewish children’s author!” and opened a million doors for me.  Have you ever met Baxter, the Pig Who Wanted to Be Kosher?

Now, here we are, in the Days of Awe, and the world is totally upside down.  But I thought folks might like to read the “Jewish Fallidays” Baxter story I never published. I love Baxter, and have quiet dreams that someday he’ll find someone to reprint him.

In the meantime, welcome to BAXTER’S BIG FALL!

1

Leaves were turning yellow.

Smoke was in the air.

Baxter had new socks on, and…   IT WAS   FALL !

2

Down at the grocery, there were things to see.

“What’s this?” Baxter asked a small woman with a large dog.  He held up a round red thing.

“Why, that’s a pomegranate!” said the woman.

Baxter had never seen a pomegranate before. “What’s it do?” he asked.

“You eat it, silly!” said the woman.  “On Rosh Hashanah. Everyone knows that!”

“Oh,” said Baxter.   He didn’t know.

3

Baxter made his way to the counter, where a man was stacking jars of honey and whistling.

“Excuse me,” said Baxter.   “I wonder—can you tell me what a Rosh Hashanah is?”

The man smiled.  “Of course. Rosh Hashanah is the new year. The start of the fall holidays.”

“You mean like Halloween?” said Baxter.  “Thanksgiving?

“Not exactly,” said the man. “But I don’t have time to explain today. It’s my busy season!”

“Oh, okay.”

4

Baxter left the deli, munching his pomegranate. It did not taste very good.

5

The next day Baxter went to visit his friend Rabbi Rosen, at the synagogue.    She smiled when he trotted into her office.   “Can I help you?”

6/7

“I was hoping, “ said Baxter, “you might tell me about Rosh Hashanah.”

“Oh, it’s wonderful!” said Rabbi Rosen, setting down her pen.  “It’s when the book of life is written, and everyone starts fresh!”

“Book of life?”

“If you want to know more, you should come on Tuesday!”

Baxter nodded.  He certainly didn’t want to miss the book of life!  It sounded important.

8

That Tuesday, Baxter returned. Sure enough, Rosh Hashanah was terrific, full of cheerful prayers and bright songs. A man blew a horn.

And Baxter discovered honey cake.

9

“What comes next?” he asked a little boy who was being dragged to a car.

“Yom Kippur!” called out the boy. “In ten days!”

Ten days? That seemed a long time to wait for more honey cake.

10

Ten days later, wearing a new tie, Baxter arrived at the synagogue.

He looked for honey cake, but didn’t see any.

And why was everyone being so quiet?

11

Baxter excused himself to the lobby, where he found a man in suspenders.

“I wonder, sir, if you know what’s happened to all the honey cake?”

The man knelt down.  “This holiday is different,” he whispered. “On Yom Kippur we say we’re sorry for all the things we’ve done wrong. We think of ways to make the new year better.  It’s not fun, exactly, but it’s important.”

“And the cake?” asked Baxter.

12

“No cake,” said the man. “In fact, we don’t eat a single bite until sundown.”

“No eating?” said Baxter. He wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that.

13

Still, he stayed, and spent the day listening and thinking, hard…

When Baxter left the synagogue, he didn’t feel exactly happy. But he felt—better.

And also hungry!

He went home and ate fourteen bagels.

14/15

A few days later, Baxter returned to the synagogue.

He had so many questions!

But the rabbi was busy with power tools.

In fact, the entire neighborhood was out in the yard, banging and pounding.

16

“What’s that?” asked Baxter.

“A sukkah!” said a girl with brown braids, “for the festival of Sukkot!”

“Another holiday?” said Baxter.  “What’s this one about?

“You’re looking at it!” said the girl.  “It’s the feast of huts.”

“Huts?”

17

“Sure, we build a hut, fill it with fruits and things, and celebrate the harvest.”

“Ooh!” said Baxter.  “I like fruit!  Can I help?”

“Of course! “ said the girl. “But we’re almost done.”

“Then what will you do with it?”  asked Baxter.

“Plenty,” said the girl. “We’ll eat, and play, and dance, and pray.  We’ll do everything in the sukkah.”

18

“Everything?”

“Everything!”

Baxter wasn’t sure he had the energy for everything.  But he got to work, banging and pounding.

When the sukkah was finished, it was beautiful!  Baxter felt very proud.

19

That week Baxter brought his lunch to the sukkah each day.

He read, and talked with the rabbi.

When the kids had a party, Baxter danced and grooved.

It was all very wonderful.

But…

20

Baxter was getting drowsy.

And droopy.

He was plumb tuckered out!

21

“Come, Baxter” said the rabbi one day, “Join us in the synagogue. Today is Shemini Atzeret!”

“Shemini what?”

“It’s a holiday!”

22

“Another holiday?”

Baxter could feel his feet trembling. His eyes glazed over.

The rabbi chuckled. “You know, Baxter, though it’s a mitzvah to do everything in the sukkah, you are allowed to take a break.

23

“I am?” said Baxter.

The rabbi nodded. “Certainly,” she said. Nobody can do all there is to do. The world is too full of wonderfulness.

Baxter thought about that.

24

“In that case,” said Baxter, “do you know what I would really like to do in the sukkah?”

“I can’t imagine,” said Rabbi Rosen.

“I would like—” said Baxter, “to take a nap!”

25

Rabbi Rosen laughed.  “Luckily,” she said,  “that is a mitzvah too.”

26

With a sigh of relief, Baxter fell over in a little heap.  Right there, with the green leaves above him, and the smell of apples in the air, he curled up and began to snore.

27

There he slept.

He slept and slept, through a day and a night and another day.   He was that tired.

28

Baxter was sleeping when they took the sukkah down around him.

He was sleeping when everyone went home, and when they came back!

30

And when the thumping feet and the clapping hands of Simchat Torah began, Baxter didn’t stir.

31

But that was okay.

There was always next year…

32

And in the meantime, the songs and sounds from the synagogue were sure to give him lovely dreams…

I’m missing my school visits, and the kids, so right now I’m developing some new online programs.

Of course, I’m always happy to present my traditional author visit online, and can condense or expand it to fit different time limits. And for groups that have read one of my books, I offer FREE 20 minute Q&A sessions. But I’m currently working on creating some online writing workshops for all ages.  These are interactive small-group sessions in story-building and poetry craft.  So please reach out if that interests you!

I do not want to center the white experience, but I heard Jason Reynolds say this week that it’s important for white people to speak to white people, and that feels true to me. So here goes: