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When Rebecca Thornton fell in love with a man from a traditional Jewish family, she didn’t think twice about how it might affect their relationship – until they nearly had to call off the wedding…
Would my in-laws-to-be turn up ot my wedding?
It was a beautiful day for a wedding. After much heartache, the decision had been made that Oliver and I would have a blessing ceremony for our nuptials in France. Altogether, 180 family members and friends had travelled over to celebrate with us. We had asked a family friend, Humphrey, a retired Anglican bishop, to officiate. He had created a special service just for us. No mention of religion. Just love, happiness and the future.
Just before the ceremony was due to start, I was having a quiet moment. I was dressed, make-up done, ready to go. The sun shone through the windows, and my best friend and I were having a laugh about something. An usher came in.
‘Everyone’s ready,’ he said. I got up to go but the look on his face told me something was wrong. ‘Everyone’s fine, but the groom’s family aren’t here.’
I sat back down and waited. An hour passed and there was still no sign of them. I thought about the angst we had all been through to get here. The tears, frustration and arguments. The fact that Oliver was Jewish and I wasn’t had derailed our relationship more than once. But, by now, his family had accepted me – or so I thought.
As the sun sank beneath the windows, I thought back to how Oliver and I had got to this point. We met in Sydney, Australia. I knew instantly he was the one. He mentioned he was Jewish. He told me about his mother’s chicken soup, how it was healing. And he described how every week his family would gather together for Friday-night dinners – but that was it. I didn’t think about it again. And then real life hit. We went back home to London where we both were on a mission to find jobs, to grow up.
The first hint of trouble came a few months later when Oliver asked me to be his date to his brother’s wedding. I was thrilled; we had taken the next step in our relationship. I thought about what to wear, wondered what his parents would make of me. Then there was no more mention of it. Oliver seemed as though he was hiding something from me. He was edgy, reluctant to talk. I put it down to starting a new job. Two weeks before the big day I wondered whether I should at least book a ticket to Glasgow, where the wedding was taking place. I asked Oliver. He looked at me and said, ‘I’m sorry. It’s too difficult.’
In hindsight, I should have known he was trying to tell me something on a deeper level and I should have pushed the subject. But in typical me fashion, I didn’t ask again. I assumed the worst and waited for the inevitable ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ conversation. But that didn’t happen. The wedding came and went and we grew closer than ever. So close, in fact, that I was forced to ask Oliver outright why I hadn’t yet met his family. After all, he’d spent a lot of time with mine. He looked at me and said three words that would nearly break us: ‘You’re not Jewish.’
I didn’t reply for a while. A few days, in fact. I was unable to rationalise it and wished that the channels of communication had been opened earlier so it
wasn’t such a shock; so that I could have put it all in context. Although his family hadn’t met me, I took it personally. I felt isolated, hurt, angry and indignant. And it got worse. Much worse.
I was eventually to meet his family, but not by their choice. Oliver’s nephew was getting circumcised. A brit milah. I had been invited by his brother and sister-in-law, who accepted me with open arms. Oliver’s close family would also be attending.
I arrived at where the circumcision was taking place and was shocked to find the ladies were separated from the men. Everyone chatted around tea and cake, waiting for the scream that would let us all know that the cutting of the foreskin had taken place. For that hour or so, not a soul spoke to me in that room, aside from Oliver’s sister-in-law, who welcomed me despite having other things on her mind.
With everyone else, I tried. Having foolishly thought I could win everyone over with grace and charm, I made an effort to introduce myself to all the women. It didn’t work. More than one person turned their back on me with a look that said, ‘Don’t talk to us again.’ Oliver explained their fears to me: ‘If they accept you,’ he told me, ‘it’s giving the go-ahead for their children to marry out.’
A year or so later, I met Oliver’s parents for supper. The atmosphere had been chilly, but when they realised I wasn’t going anywhere, it led to a Friday night dinner invite. I went. It was a truly lovely evening. Oliver’s mother and father warmed to me, and I to them. They explained their traditions. Oliver’s mother blessed the Friday night challah bread and the candles, moving her hands around them. She didn’t seem to notice when I, thinking she was trying to snuff them out, blew frantically in a bid to help. They gave me warming, sweet-tasting chicken soup, roast chicken and a delicious pudding.
Oliver told me his parents were being pressurised not to accept me by other members of his family, but very slowly, they welcomed me into their home. I thought that was courageous, given their previous stance, and that of their relatives.
Soon afterwards, I got a job as a writer in Jordan. It was 2005 and three hotels had just been bombed in Amman, killing around 60 people. Oliver’s parents forbade him to visit me, thinking it was too dangerous for him as a Jew, but he booked his ticket. ‘I’m going,’ he told his parents. Nobody could stop him.
When I came home from Jordan, the huge and painful divide over his family’s feelings towards me continued. Oliver’s grandfather pulled me aside on one occasion. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, hugging me. ‘This religious stuff is all a load of crap.’
I laughed, but when Oliver proposed, things didn’t seem so funny. When it came to organising the big day, no one could agree on how to do it. My father wanted a Christian wedding in a chapel. Oliver’s parents were against this idea. There was talk of me converting. I said an outright no. What was meant to be a special day turned into something fraught. There was screaming, hurtful accusations and tears. In the middle of it all were escalating rows between me and Oliver.
Eventually, my father made a lovely suggestion – to have both a priest and a rabbi conduct the service. He wrote to the chief rabbi to ask him how to deal with this. He got a reply soon after from the rabbi’s office. It went along the lines of, ‘You should understand how very disappointed Oliver’s parents would be.’
Although the reply didn’t help us, I understood the rabbi’s office had to uphold their religious ideals. But this was when things really kicked off. Oliver and I reluctantly decided to call off the wedding. It wasn’t going to work.
After some time apart, Oliver appeared at my front door. ‘We’re on the same side,’ he told me. ‘Come on, let’s do this.’ We discussed everything alone. He reassured me that none of it mattered and – with or without his family’s blessing – we would grow old together. We finally agreed to transfer the stress of the wedding ceremony from our home town, and all its associations, and marry in France.
So there I was, a year later, in a beautiful wedding dress, wondering if the groom’s family would turn up. I looked out of the window and saw Oliver. He was walking up and down the front courtyard, looking upset. I sat and wondered how I was going to tell everyone the celebrations were off.
Then I saw a large car driving through the gates. They had arrived. Oliver was stabbing at his watch and holding up his hands towards his parents. I could see someone gesture towards the vehicle. As far as I could gather, it hadn’t arrived to collect them from their hotel.
A couple of hours later than planned, Oliver and I were married. Now my in-laws are the best I could ask for, supportive and kind. They have risen above their fear and accepted me for who I am. Despite a residual awareness that I’m not Jewish, the two constants have been love and loyalty. The rest of Oliver’s family have also accepted me and are wonderfully welcoming, treating me with love, kindness and respect.
My mother-in-law told me recently how much pressure she was under when her son wanted to marry me, given how traditional her family is. ‘But life has changed,’ she said. ‘We’re in the 21st century. I wouldn’t have it any other way.’
Oliver and I now have two sons. If they ever marry, I shall tell them this: people talk about marrying in, marrying out. Don’t listen to them, please. Just this: marry forward.
Rebecca’s debut novel The Exclusives is published by Twenty7, price £7.99*
What was meant to be a special day became fraught. There was screaming and tears