“We grew on each other,” she said now. “You know how seminary is, all those DMCs. I got to know her deeper side.” What she didn’t add was how astounded she’d been to discover that a girl like Dini even had a deeper side.

Avi had gotten halfway up the slide and now fell backward onto the ground with a thud. Bracha started to stand as if to go help him, then saw him get up and dust himself off. Shrugging, she sat back down. Ayala was always fascinated by Bracha’s parenting approach; she would have grabbed her son away by now and told him firmly that when we try to climb up a slide, we’re liable to get kicked in the face.

“Anyway,” Bracha continued, “Aside from the lack of judgment here, what exactly is bothering you about the dinner? After all, it’s Dini’s money. She can spend it how she wants. Are you worried that donors will find out and think this was tzedakah money being used?”

Ayala laughed. “Donors? What donors? Our donors are, like, my parents and in-laws, with the occasional hakaras hatov contribution from someone we’ve helped. No, it’s the principle that bothers me.”

She frowned. That sounded so nebulous; but how could she explain?

“This organization is for new olim who are struggling through a medical crisis with no support. We’re reaching out to them as the family they don’t have here. You know, we want them to feel as if their mother is here holding their hand, telling them it’s okay, you can count on me.”

“Great marketing pitch,” Bracha grinned. “Where do I donate?”

Ayala’s eyebrows shot up. Marketing pitch? No, no, no!

She closed her eyes, thinking back to her own days as a new, young married in Israel, weathering a medical crisis. When she’d first found out she was having twins, she’d been ecstatic. Having grown up with just one brother, she felt like she was being given a bonus gift. She got to start her own family with built-in siblings!

But then came the 20-week ultrasound, the anatomical scan that seemed to take forever as the technician peered at the screen, took more images, staring, frowning, her nose practically touching the screen, and finally, the concluding words, “I want you to make an appointment with your doctor right away to discuss these results.”

Further testing, and the doctor delivered his suspected diagnosis: a congenital heart defect. Pulmonary atresia: the valve controlling the blood flow from the heart to the lungs never formed in one of her precious babies. The stream of specialists spoke about medications, catheterization and surgery, but to the bewildered young parents-to-be, it was all a foreign language… in a foreign language.

And they were all alone. Naftali’s mother came for the birth, but as a school principal and mother of a large brood still at home, there was only so long she could stay. As for Ayala’s mother… she was at a stage of life when she needed caring for herself.

“Do you know how much it would have meant to me if someone had come and sat with me in the hospital when Tziri was going through her surgeries? Someone who knew Hebrew and got the Israeli healthcare system, and could give me the confidence that there was an adult in the room with me? I was just a 22-year-old kid who felt like she knew nothing.”

Bracha shook her head. “I can’t imagine you ever feeling like you know nothing.”

Ayala looked at her in surprise. Did she really give off such an aura of self-confidence? If Bracha only knew what a joke it was.

She pulled at a splinter sticking out of the bench. “It was a terrible time; and I didn’t realize how traumatized I was from the experience until much later.” Like when she needed to bring Tziri for a check-up the following year, and she started sweating and shaking so violently as she walked through the hospital doors that she had to call Naftali and beg him to leave kollel and race over there.

“That’s why I started Chesed Tzirel,” she said. “So that other young new families in Israel shouldn’t have to go through my experience. I want them to feel like they have a mother or sister looking out for them.”

Her fist clenched around the edge of the bench. “Not that they’re the recipients of some over-the-top pity chesed.”

Dini placed a laundry basket of clean socks next to the open suitcases on the floor of the salon. Looking up, she found Shuki lying on the couch, a book covering his eyes.

She pursed her lips. “The cab is coming at seven,” she said pointedly, even as her marriage mentor’s words rang in her ears: Change happens through positive feedback, not criticism.

Her husband sat up, put down his sefer, and stretched. Then he checked his watch. “It’s only two thirty! How long do you think it takes me to throw some clothing into my suitcase?”

“Lucky you,” she muttered. “It takes a lot longer when you have to pack for yourself and all the kids.”

Shuki scratched the back of his head and gave her his disarming smile. “And you’re so much better at it than I am. That’s why we appointed you the CEO of Operation Dress to Impress, and not me. Just imagine the state we’d be in if I were in charge of outfitting the family for Nussi’s bar mitzvah.”

Despite herself, Dini laughed. “You’d wake up now, run out to whatever store looks most expensive, and buy them the first dress that fits. And somehow,” she grinned. “You’d manage to pick a winner.”

Shuki winked and gave her a thumbs-up.

It was that coolness factor, that ability to be chilled till the end and still manage to do everything perfectly, that had so attracted her when they were going out. It was only after they were married that she discovered the utterly aggravating side of chilled.

Now, he lay back down and put his feet up. “Anyway, I’m doing my part for the family cause,” he said, picking up his sefer. “I’m preparing a devar Torah for the bar mitzvah seudah, just like you told me to.”

She’d told him to do this two weeks ago, but no point in quibbling now.

“Great,” she said brightly, as she started pairing socks. “Meanwhile, I’ll go back to packing and preparing snacks for the flight and putting together an activity kit for each kid plus pick them up from school and make them dinner and— Oh! Omigosh!”

Shuki’s eyes had been drifting closed again, but now they popped open. “What’s wrong?”

Dini jumped up. “Dinner! I totally forgot! I need to organize meals for the Teichman family for next week!”

“Didn’t you do that already?” he asked.

“That was for this week. We promised them two weeks of meals. I can’t believe I forgot!” Frantically, Dini ran to her laptop and opened up her file of Chesed Tzirel meal volunteers. “Please say yes, please say yes,” she muttered as she ran her finger down the list until she came to a local name. “I really don’t have time to make 20 phone calls right now.”

She felt Shuki watching her as she made the phone call and recorded Miriam Levy down for a Sunday meal.

“I don’t get it,” he said after she hung up. “You just told me how busy you are. Why are you doing this?”

Dini raised her eyebrow. “What do you mean? I told her I would. This is my responsibility.” She squared her shoulders slightly.

“Right. But instead of spending all this time that you don’t have making phone calls, why don’t you just, like, call a caterer and order food for her for the week?”

Dini looked down at her phone and frowned. Was she like that, too? Thinking the solution to every problem was to throw money at it?

“I can’t,” she said slowly. “Ayala had an absolute fit when I sent that takeout to Teichman the first night.”

“Why?” His eyes widened in genuine surprise. “What in the world was wrong with it?”

Dini shrugged.  She’d been annoyed when Ayala had confronted her. Had she not appreciated that Dini had gone above and beyond the call of duty to get Lani Teichman a delicious dinner delivered to her doorstep within two hours of being asked?

But somehow, Shuki’s reaction was bothering her now. “Chesed isn’t just about making a phone call to a caterer,” she said. “It’s about the sweat, and the effort, about putting your heart and soul into helping another person….”

She saw Shuki’s lips curling in amusement, and she felt the familiar exasperation rise up.

“Never mind,” she muttered, picking up her phone once more.

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 854)