The question has followed me from New York to London, then Tokyo, and now even Haifa: Where is the Jewish table that always seems to have a place for me?

In Israel, many of my dearest friends spend Shabbat and the holidays surrounded by their children, grandchildren, and even great-grandchildren. I see the dynasties they have created gathering around long tables, passing food and traditions from one generation to the next, laughing, singing, and reciting the Blessing After the Meal in exquisite harmony. The contrast to my own life can be painful.

This year, my two children will be in Tokyo for Rosh Hashanah, while I remain in Haifa with my dog. Does that sound pathetic? “Woe is me,” as my mother would have laughingly framed this temptation towards self-pity.

What pushes my buttons is not only being without my children this year. It is the familiar question I have been scrambling to answer for much of my adult life: Where will I go for the holidays?

For many years, I solved the problem by becoming the host myself. But here in Haifa, my closest Observant friends live a pretty grueling 500-step climb to the top of Mt. Carmel. Although I have other dear friends whom I love, I have become accustomed to the prayers, the traditions, and the heart-warming atmosphere created when Torah wisdom is front and center at the table.

So where does a Jew go when the family table is thousands of miles away—or when the people we love relate to faith in ways very different from our own?

For me, the answer has been Chabad.

Chabad has made it possible for a Jew almost anywhere in the world to find a Shabbat or holiday table. Calling a Chabad House does not require tremendous courage, just a telephone call or a WhatsApp message.

Call us lonely hearts, if you like. Or call us people who simply do life differently.

At Chabad, we come as we are. Some of us are separated from our families by geography. Some by ideology. Some by a yawning difference in how we relate to faith. Others may never have married or had children, or their children have built lives in distant countries. Some are travelers. Some are searching.

There is usually no interrogation about why we have arrived alone or about whatever street clothes we happen to be wearing. During the meal, instead of just asking, “Who are you?” the rabbi may turn to a guest and say, “Please, say a few words.”

Almost invariably, the person's face lights up. Someone who entered as a stranger is being asked to contribute something only they can bring to the table.

One unforgettable memory of Chabad hospitality began on a sweltering Shabbat in Tokyo, when Adrianne, my mother, flew in from Florida for a visit. With her clipped London accent, she was perspiring heavily in a formal knitted cardigan she had added to her outfit for the occasion.

Rebbetzin Efrat Edery immediately saw how uncomfortable she was.

“Adrianne, make yourself comfortable,” she told her. “You don't need to sweat here!”

That small moment captured the beauty of Chabad hospitality for me. Efrat had her personal standards of dress, yet she welcomed my mother exactly as she was.

Accepting Jews wherever they are on their life journey is hardwired into the Chabad philosophy. For me, it took nearly 18 years before I realized that I had gradually switched gears from being a Chabad celebrant in Tokyo to becoming a rather pious baal teshuvah in Jerusalem.

No one pushed me to become more observant. Instead, I had begun asking questions. Why are these Chabadniks so happy? Why are they so accepting? Why are they so gracious and generous with their hospitality? Why does their Judaism feel so genuine? What are they doing that I am not doing?

Those questions led me towards an idea rooted in the words spoken by the Jewish people when they received the Torah from Moses at Mount Sinai: Na'aseh v'nishma—“We will do, and we will hear.”

I came to understand it in my own way: First we follow. Then we understand.

I did not have to comprehend every commandment before allowing myself to experience it. I could light the candles, sit at the Shabbat table, listen to the words of Torah and experience in my heart what they awakened in me. Understanding came when something in the weekly parshah related to something happening in daily life.

Chabad became such an important part of my life in Tokyo that seven episodes from my memoir, The Wagamama Bride, recount my experiences with Chabad in Tokyo. They were later published on Chabad.org.

Years later, when I decided to buy an apartment in Haifa, I first checked whether there were Chabad Houses within walking distance. G‑d gave me a bonus. He threw in a yeshivah next door to my new home, so I could hear davening through the kitchen windows.

This Rosh Hashanah, I will miss my children in Tokyo. Jerusalem may be where my heart wants to take me, but then my little dog looks up at me with those enormous eyes and reminds me that perhaps I should not stray quite so far.

So I’ve sent a WhatsApp message to the Wilschanski family, who, in addition to hosting these wonderful meals at their Chabad House near Haifa's Bnai Zion Hospital, keep a spiritual eye on patients too.

Jewish time does not necessarily wait until I feel sociable. But the Jewish holidays ask me to step beyond my own whims and conveniences. They ask me to be with other Jews on Torah time.

And for that, I can thank Chabad.