We’d created a haven for them to unburden their hearts, and sent them away with the sweetness of home cooking

I’ve always hated selling raffle tickets. When our children received those little raffle booklets from school with instructions to sell as many tickets as possible to raise money for the educational institution they attended, I’d smile — then groan inwardly.

“We’ll go out after school,” I’d say, and, trailing a bevy of expectant children, we’d knock on our neighbors’ doors. I understood why the children balked at going out alone and wanted me to accompany them. It was hard to knock on doors and request a donation. Often, I’d just give in and my husband and I would buy all the tickets ourselves.

Years later, we watched our precious son-in-law go up and down streets collecting for his kollel. As his enthusiasm gave way to despondency, and his stories of having doors firmly closed on him or being left on the doorstep in the rain tumbled out, we began to think about what we did when the doorbell rang. I made a silent promise to myself that we’d never treat anyone that way.

So between eight and ten in the evening, we opened our doors to everyone who knocked. The mitzvah evolved slowly. At first, we invited our visitors inside to sit in the warm living room. One day I realized they might be hungry and thirsty, so I made a large batch of cookies, brought every collector into the dining room, and sat them around our table. The staple became chocolate chip cookies, but sometimes I also made a kokosh cake — things I knew they’d enjoy.

I’d wait for their brachos and answer “amen.” I’d hand out paper bags to fill with goodies to take home. One evening saw me frying endless batches of doughnuts. They were consumed before I could get the next batch on the table.