Every Passover brought my family from our home in Massachusetts to my grandparents’ house in Maine, the one with a brown-and-green outdoor play structure filled with memories and a tire swing tied to an oak tree that echoed with laughter. It was more than a house. It was the heart of our holiday, where tradition nestled in every corner, and joy, mixed with the scent of my nana’s cooking, embraced us.

The noise level inside the house would rise and fall as aunts, uncles, cousins and friends greeted each other before being ushered into the dining room. The Passover table would be set with a haggadah placed at each plate. We would gather around the table, my nana at the end closest to the kitchen and my grandfather, “MG,” at the other.

“Are we ready to begin?” he would ask as we all took our seats. For years, my seders were defined by MG’s warm and loving voice guiding us through each page, prayer and song in the haggadah, providing insight when needed and helping when someone was stuck on a Hebrew word. When dinner came, he would make conversation with each relative, casting a Broadway spotlight on one individual at a time, highlighting something that made us special.

The search for the afikomen followed dinner. MG would tease that no one would find it, and most of the time, he was right, with us kids needing a hint to search the bookshelves or behind the television set.

These happy Passover celebrations came to an end in 2017 when MG passed away from pancreatic cancer. The first seder after his death felt heavy before it even began. The house was still filled with the smell of my nana’s cooking, but now those aromas mingled with sorrow and the ache of absence.

For a few years, our family experimented with different leaders: Uncle David, Aunt Amy, Cousin Kim and my dad. Then, four years ago, as I stood in the bathroom getting ready, the buzz of relatives’ voices drifting upstairs, my mom walked in and asked, “Jessica, would you lead the seder?”

I froze. Could I really lead a seder as an 11-year-old? How would I compare to my grandfather, with his stories, his knowledge and the way he made the holiday feel sacred yet celebratory every time? He was Moses, and we were the Israelites in the desert. I didn’t think I could fill the space he had left. 

Passover at its core is a holiday about the transformation of the Israelites into a nation. We remember not only what our ancestors endured, but also the strength they carried with them. Just as we dip karpas in salt water to recall their sorrow, we also drink wine to rejoice in their liberation.

And as a spring holiday, Passover marks a season of rebirth and renewal, when we reflect upon our lives, rededicate ourselves to faith and community, and embrace new possibilities.

With these thoughts in mind, I realized I didn’t need to be exactly like MG; I just needed to honor him by continuing what he started. As I led my first seder, I felt a stronger connection to my grandfather. Through my voice and actions, I was continuing his legacy and carrying our Jewish faith to a new generation. 

Passovers still bring my family to that same house in Maine, but we have all outgrown the play structure and tire swing. The house continues to echo with conversations, laughter and memories. More importantly, it now holds the spirit of my grandfather in every story we tell, every prayer we recite, every afikomen we hide and every tradition I now preside over.

Leading our family seder has become both a responsibility and an experience of immense Jewish pride and joy for me. 

Jessica Marill is a ninth-grader in Weston, Mass. She is a runner-up in the 2025 Hadassah Magazine and jGirls+ Magazine teen essay contest, which asked: Share an experience of Jewish joy and/or pride.