It took a long bath and a lot of soothing before my son was clean, calm, and coherent enough to explain

I’ve always found Avraham Fried’s song “The Little Leaf,” touching.

It tells of a tzaddik who wonders why a leaf fell from a tree. He asks the leaf, the branch, the wind, and finally, the Ultimate Boss, Who reveals that the leaf fell to shield a kleiner verimel, a little worm, from the sun’s heat.

In the care shown to a little worm, I feel cared for, too. I think about the song when I experience kleiner verimel moments, when I’m gifted with a glimpse of a chain of events orchestrated for me.

Like the time my three-year-old fell into a ditch.

When my son burst into the bungalow Sunday morning, drenched, filthy, and crying hysterically about having fallen into the water and being unable to get out, I was mystified. I couldn’t think of any place that jibed with his description.

My macho boy shook in my arms, clearly traumatized. There was a nasty-looking bump on his forehead, near two almost-gashes. This could have ended with stitches, I thought.

It took a long bath and a lot of soothing before my son was clean, calm, and coherent enough to explain.