I was nearly ten years old, and some of my friends were signed up for sleepaway camp. To my limited knowledge, there was only one religious camp that we Chicago kids could attend: Camp Moshava. But my parents never sent me. Was it the expense? We were four children and my mother stayed at home
In the myriad of “coincidences” scattered across merely one lone day of my blessed existence, I know that Hashem cares for His daughter, just as He knows the location of every lowly grain of sand
I see them everywhere. Mothers and children, children and mothers. Mothers picking up children from preschool, hugging them close, reading the notes teachers pinned to little backpacks. Mothers coming to shul every Shabbos at Mussaf’s end, propping little ones up against the mechitzah, peeking and pointing at their fathers davening. Children going food shopping with
Dearest Mommy, We are yours. You wait for the validation of a baby’s first cry. Then, at last, you will feel that you deserve the title “Mommy.” But you are no less a Mommy than all the mothers around you. We are your neshamalehs. We are a paradox. We are the easiest children and we
It is from their pockets that I learn what they love, what they have eaten, how they have behaved in school, and just the little things that they hold dear.
