Finding My Jewish Voice in the Land of 10,000 Lakes

Growing up in New York, being Jewish was as natural as breathing – it was everywhere, woven into the fabric of daily life. Kosher delis dotted every neighborhood, Yiddish phrases peppered casual conversations, and finding a minyan was as easy as walking down the block. But when my job transferred me to Minneapolis three years ago, I discovered that being Jewish in Minnesota required something different: intentionality.

I remember my first Shabbat here, sitting alone in my newly-furnished apartment, scrolling through my phone in search of Jewish community. The silence felt deafening compared to the bustling Friday nights I’d known back home, where my mother’s challah perfumed the air and family arguments over politics were seasoned with references to ancient rabbinical debates.

“You’re moving where?” my Bubbe had asked when I told her about the relocation. “There are Jews in Minnesota?” Her question, though somewhat dramatic (sorry, Bubbe), wasn’t entirely unreasonable. The Twin Cities Jewish community, while vibrant, is more dispersed than the concentrated Jewish neighborhoods I’d known. Here, being Jewish often means driving twenty minutes to the nearest synagogue instead of walking two blocks.

But sometimes, distance creates something beautiful: a deeper appreciation for connection. I discovered this truth during my first Minnesota winter, when the temperature dropped to negative twenty, and I seriously questioned all my life choices. A neighbor noticed my mezuzah while collecting packages in our building’s lobby.

“You’re Jewish?” she asked, her face lighting up. “We’re having a Shabbat dinner tonight. Nothing fancy, just some soup and conversation. Want to join?”

That evening, as I sat around Rachel and David’s table with six other “Jewish transplants” as we called ourselves, something shifted. The chicken soup wasn’t my mother’s recipe (though I’d never tell her that I actually preferred Rachel’s version), but the warmth of community felt exactly the same. We were all seekers here – young professionals, grad students, newly married couples – each carrying our own version of Jewish identity and trying to figure out how it fit into this new landscape.

Over bowls of steaming matzo ball soup, we shared our stories. Sarah had moved from Los Angeles and missed the expansive Jewish dating scene. Michael, raised Reform in Chicago, was exploring more traditional observance. Hannah and Beth, an interfaith couple, were navigating how to build a Jewish home that honored both their traditions.

That dinner became a monthly tradition, each of us taking turns hosting. We celebrated holidays together, traded job leads, and even formed our own amateur Jewish cooking club (though our first attempt at homemade gefilte fish remains a story we try to forget). Through these gatherings, I began to understand something profound about Jewish life in Minnesota: here, every Jewish connection feels like finding water in the desert – precious, life-giving, worth the effort to maintain.

The intentionality required to be Jewish here has deepened my connection to tradition in unexpected ways. Back in New York, I often took Jewish community for granted. Here, every Shabbat dinner feels like a conscious choice, every holiday celebration a deliberate creation of sacred space. When you have to work a little harder for your Jewish moments, they become more meaningful.

I’ve learned that being Jewish in Minnesota means being an ambassador of sorts. At work, I’m often the first Jewish person my colleagues have known well. This has led to beautiful interfaith dialogues, chances to explain holiday traditions, and opportunities to bridge cultural gaps. When I brought sufganiyot to our office holiday party last December, it sparked a fascinating conversation about the similarities between Hanukkah and Christmas as festivals of light in the darkness – particularly relevant in a state where winter sunlight is a precious commodity.

The Twin Cities Jewish community has its own unique flavor – a blend of Midwestern warmth and Jewish tradition that feels both familiar and fresh. Here, innovation thrives alongside tradition. I’ve attended Shabbat services in coffee shops, participated in Jewish environmental initiatives at urban farms, and joined a Jewish meditation group that meets by Lake Harriet.

Three years in, my Jewish life here is fuller than I could have imagined when I first arrived. That initial silence in my apartment has been replaced by the joyful noise of community – the debates, the laughter, the shared meals, the collective celebration of life’s moments both big and small. My Bubbe, who finally visited last Pesach, had to admit she was wrong about Jews in Minnesota (though she still insists the bagels aren’t quite right).

What I’ve learned is that Jewish community isn’t just about geography – it’s about the connections we choose to make, the traditions we choose to uphold, and the ways we choose to express our Judaism in the places we find ourselves. Here in the land of 10,000 lakes, I’ve found my own Jewish voice, one that speaks in a Minnesota accent but sings in an ancient melody.

And yes, I still miss New York’s kosher delis. But I’ve discovered that home isn’t about where you can find the best pastrami – it’s about where you can find your people. In Minnesota, among lakes and snow and warm hearts, I’ve found mine.