Last week, Jewish people all over the world cleaned out pantries and changed dishes — getting rid of all signs of leavened foods — in pious (and arduous) preparation for Passover, the celebration of the Jews’ exodus from Egypt.

I was busy getting ready, too, trying to figure out how to wrap bacon around matzoh balls and making a playlist in keeping with the theme for my seder this year, “Passover the Musical.”

In the end, the bacon strips were too short, the matzoh balls too big and I couldn’t find the toothpicks. But the mix turned out great — I crowdsourced on Facebook, gathering Passover-inspired suggestions like “Take Me to the River” by Al Green (I went with the Talking Heads version), Lesley Gore’s “You Don’t Own Me,” and “You’ve Gotta Fight for Your Right to Party” by the Beastie Boys. Perfect music for mingling over deviled eggs and seating arrangements, as we managed to cram 33 people, two large dogs and a cat into my tiny backyard on a perfect spring evening.

Sacrilege? Yeah, most of it. But it’s also how I get my family — and certain friends — to participate in Passover without complaint. Previous themes have included “Passover on a Stick” and “Pastel Passover,” but this one was my favorite.

There was bacon and beer but there was also brisket and wine and two kinds of charoset. We said (most of) the prayers and the youngest kid read The Four Questions. We also read passages by David Brooks, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, and a favorite student in the writing workshop I’ve taught forever with my dear friend Deborah, who led the seder.

Then there was the music. Anyone brave enough was invited to perform. Ray played Metallica’s “Creeping Death” on the guitar, and even passed out copies of the lyrics so we could all follow along. Deborah’s daughter Anna performed a beautiful song by Debbie Friedman. Annabelle gave Adam Sandler a run for it with an original song she wrote and performed on the ukelele (“P-A-S-S-O-V-E-R — Today is Passover, so shout hurrah”). Then Sophie and Abbie sang.

Sophie had been wandering around all night with her school choir notebook, so I wasn’t surprised when she opened it, but I was shocked when Abbie opened her mouth. Abbie is almost 20, the daughter of one of my oldest and best friends, Trish, and while she’s all grown up and absolutely lovely, I think of Abbie as quite shy — as my flower girl 17 years ago, she all but refused to walk down the aisle. These days she’s quiet and confident, not an attention seeker. But Abbie loves Sophie, and Sophie wanted her to sing, so the two of them offered a beautiful rendition of Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide.”

And there, under the full moon, after half a glass of wine, I had a religious moment — or as close as I get.

Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love?
Can the child within my heart rise above?
Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?
Can I handle the seasons of my life?

That’s my kind of prayer. Stevie Nicks is back and forth in interviews over whether she wrote it for her father, but hearing our kids sing it, I knew the song was meant for the parents in the crowd. Earlier in the night, Trish teared up when she saw that Sophie’s now wearing braces. “She looks so grown up!” she said, wiping her eyes. I felt my own well up as Sophie perched on Abbie’s lap and our “little” girls sang, Abbie’s voice clear and beautiful, Sophie’s unmistakably her own.

So what does “Landslide” have to do with Passover? Well, nothing, really. And everything. What is religion if not an attempt to handle the seasons of our lives? Whether it’s heavy-duty prayer in synagogue or some silly twists on tradition in my own backyard, for me it’s about figuring out what our place is in this crazy universe, how we fit in and how we can work to make it a better place. We do that by building our own communities, our congregations, the people who enrich us, educate us, make us better, catch us when we fall. People like Deborah and Trish, Anna and Abbie.

Passover was a big success (if I say so myself), even if we should have had place cards and next year I promise there will be (a lot) more beer. Now I have to figure out what to do about the B’nai Mitzvah, the joint Bat Mitzvah for the girls next year that’s still in its earliest planning stages, mostly because I’ve been stuck trying to figure out the most basic logistics. My Passover seder had all the elements I’m looking for in a celebration of my daughters’ coming of age — some religious education (Annabelle actually did quite a bit of research for her song), good food, good music, some twists on tradition, celebration of heritage, and important people from our lives. (Hopefully we’ll have more seating at the B’nai Mitzvah.)

I know I want the girls to study hard for their B’nai Mitzvah, but just where should that studying take place? I haven’t gone to synagogue regularly since my own Bat Mitzvah, and looking back, the time I spent in temple and religious school was among the emptiest of my life, time spent staring at the clock and wondering why I was bothering, since I’d decided at 7 that I didn’t believe in any of it. I’m jealous of those who do find meaning within the walls of a synagogue, community within a congregation. It’s been tougher to find it outside. But I have found those things in my own way — and I need to remember to hold them close.

I bought myself a knock-off Jadeite cake plate for Easter. And my Passover gift to myself is a promise that I’ll quit feeling guilty about not joining a temple, about not taking the girls to services and religious school. We’ll figure out this B’nai Mitzvah thing on our own terms, terms that make sense to our family, that educate the girls about their heritage and help prepare them to be young women.

As for the particulars, I like said, those have yet to be figured out. But I do hope Abbie will sing “Landslide.”

I’ve been spending quite a bit of time in synagogue.

No, I haven’t found religion. It’s bar/bat mitzvah season. Those kids my friends and family had 13 (or so) years ago are all grown up (sort of) and many are participating in the traditional coming-of-age ceremony for Jews.

I love watching these kids get up in front of dozens of people and practice what others have preached for centuries — continuing traditions, creating their own community, demonstrating pride in their heritage.

I want that for my own kids. Ray agrees. He was raised Catholic, but abandoned that ship long ago and we’ve raised our girls as Jews — if you count apples and honey at Rosh Hashanah and seders with themes like “Heavy Metal Seder” and “Passover on a Stick” at Passover. They’ve had no formal Jewish education; they are certainly not ready for bat mitzvahs.

And yet, if it’s going to happen, it’s time. Past due, actually.

So this afternoon, I have an appointment with a rabbi. I’m starting at the temple where I was bat mitzvahed. I called last week to get on the rabbi’s schedule and the receptionist asked me to spell my last name. I started very slowly then stopped and said, “I guess I don’t have to spell so slowly for you?”

She laughed. In Phoenix, one grows accustomed to spelling an “exotic” name like  Silverman several times — no one ever gets it right. I often find myself translating Yiddish terms,  explaining even the most basic Jewish holiday. My high school was lily white; as a Jew, I was the minority. I still am, most of the time. So are my girls.

Before Annabelle was born, Ray told me, “I want the girls to know they are Jewish. I don’t want someone else telling them.”

I loved that. But actually educating Annabelle about Judaism has been awkward, since she announced when she was a toddler that she doesn’t believe in god.

No surprise, springing from our firmly agnostic household. I stopped believing when I was in first grade — I remember where I was standing in the Temple Solel arts and crafts room, shellacking a challah or gluing macaroni into the shape of a Star of David, when I suddenly stopped and thought, “Oh, this is all supposed to be about god? Well, that’s ridiculous.”

I did enjoy the arts and crafts, though. And the music and feeling of community. But after my Bat Mitzvah, as I like to tell people, I took the Lucite and ran. (If you were around in the mid 70s, you’ll get the joke.) My religious education ended there — and I was guilty about that for a long time. I’m not anymore. I no longer went to services, and yet, my Jewish identity remained. I’m proud to be Jewish, and I still remember the words to the prayers, which I murmur along during all those bar and bat mitzvah ceremonies, feeling connected — to something, if not a traditional sense of god.

It’s hard to imagine Sophie having a bona fide bat mitzvah, which is on my list of things to discuss with the rabbi today. I have talked about it with the girls, and they decided they’d rather have a b’nai mitzvah, which means two people doing it together — and I love that idea. Annabelle says she doesn’t want the spotlight all to herself, she’d rather be there to help Sophie. Sophie says she’ll leave the Hebrew to Annabelle. I think they will both find meaning in studying Judaism and learning a torah portion (a story from the Old Testament), and Sophie’s already planning her “mitzvah project,” which involves giving back to the community in some way.

For my part, I like the idea of educating our friends about our heritage, putting together a program that explains the meaning behind the traditions. I haven’t seen a copy in years but I still remember the program my mom made for my bat mitzvah; she cut out tiny illustrations from The New Yorker and put them between the prayers and it made me feel so special.

Ray has been okay with it so far. “Huh?” he asked, when I told him the latest plan. “A benign mitzvah?”

That sounds about right to me. This morning I called to confirm my meeting with the rabbi. “Wait a second,” his secretary said. “He wrote it his calendar himself. Amy Silverstein?”

I’m not religious but I’m big on signs, and that might be a sign that this won’t be the right place for us. We may go rogue — but we’re going to do it, one way or another.  I’ll let you know when we have a date.