The greatest strain on our marriage, my wife and I agree, is building our sukkah. It’s always a project left for the afternoon before the holiday of Sukkot starts, with only a few hours before it needs to be finished, while food sits on the stove and children dart around us, trying to “help.” A bamboo pole or two will conk me on the head and I’ll start to lose my temper; we’ll mutter in mutual frustration when I forget, as we try to put the roof up, that I’m five inches taller than her.

This space we’re commanded to “dwell” in during Sukkot, is where we will spend much of the next seven days.