The drive was long, with dark, threatening clouds looming in the sky, and the occasional rainstorm. When we finally reached our destination, dusk was setting in and a cold wind blew a chill from the sea.

The parking lot was pandemonium. Children spilled out of cars, reveling in their freedom. Teenagers shepherded younger siblings, all with rucksacks on their backs. Mothers tried to pacify hungry babies. Fathers dragged overfull suitcases.

Many families were old hands, but we novices eyed the chaos with disbelief. “It’s too late to go home,” one participant whispered to her husband. “Let’s just stay the night.”  They stayed. We all stayed. We even returned again and again.

Converging in the entrance hall, we found a welcoming array of refreshments. While the children were settled down with refreshments, we were gifted folders containing maps (and yes, we needed the maps, the place was a maze), an itinerary of the learning program, and badges that we were meant to wear. There was even a list of participants that we came to treasure.

Our room evoked disbelief. Back home, our house was comfortable and snug, with central heating, carpets, and everything we could want. Here, we were expected to sleep in what was obviously a dorm with iron bedsteads and a cracked linoleum floor. Our four girls, just next door, were delighted to find bunk beds and immediately began to choose where they were going to sleep.

A shortage of cribs meant that the smaller babies slept in drawers. Our son, just two, qualified for one of the precious cribs — a wooden structure that creaked every time he moved.

The big dormer window was cracked. Wind howled through, rattling the doors and shrieking like a banshee. We stuffed the hole with newspaper, and my husband rigged up a blanket to deaden the sound.

But that was just the first shock.

It was a school. There was no privacy to clean your teeth. Instead, there were rows of white, enamel basins in the middle of the long corridors. The showers and baths were large rooms with partitioned cubicles. It was a far cry from home.

Somehow, we stayed. Friendships were cemented as we cleaned teeth and shepherded our children to bed.

We stayed in spite of the frozen milk at breakfast. “One lump or two?” was the joke of the week.

We stayed in spite of the food, which was sometimes so spicy we could not eat it.

We stayed because the preconceived ideas we had of religious people were shattered. We found not just warmth and friendship, but that they, too, fed babies, walked them through the night, played games with their children, laughed, had fun, and still stayed grounded in Torah.

We stayed because, in my children’s words, “We had the best time ever!”

Long after the night programs had ended, we would drift to the communal lounge and talk about everything in the world with rabbanim who spiced the discussion with Torah wisdom.

It changed us and many of the other participants.  We began to understand that, to have children who followed the path of Torah, we had to give them an unwavering example. Together, we embarked on a new life, forged in those unbelievable conditions, becoming a unique family – Family Weekers.

It was one of the hardest journeys of our lives.

When we returned home, I covered my hair, much to the horror of our family and community. I knew that it was the only thing that would cement our new commitment. We visited the school of one of the rebbeim and, bowled over, immediately transferred our children there.

We were not alone. Our fellow participants all journeyed together with us, helping, encouraging, there for each other in simchah and sadness. Even today, more than 30 years later, we are still family… all with the encouragement and love of those wonderful mentors, too many to mention.

And we have never regretted it — not for one moment.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 911)