“And [Yosef and his brothers and their households] came to the threshing floor of the thorn bushes… and there they held a very great and impressive eulogy [for Yaakov]… The inhabitants of the land of Kena’an saw the mourning at the threshing floor of the thorn bushes, and they said, ‘This is an intense mourning for Mitzrayim.’ ” (50:10–11)

The Midrash Rabbah quotes Rav Shmuel bar Nachman saying: “If you review the whole Torah, you’ll never find a reference to this place — the threshing floor of thorns. Rather, this is referring to the Kena’anim, who deserved to be threshed like thorns, but were saved in the merit of the chesed they did with Yaakov Avinu.

What was that chesed? Rav Yehudah bar Shalom says they pointed a finger when saying, “This is an intense mourning” (Rav Shach, Meirosh Amanah)

The year was 1946. Life was very difficult for the Yidden living in Yerushalayim. My grandparents lived in a two-room apartment in a line of courtyards behind Meah Shearim. Two rooms meant exactly that — no kitchen, no indoor plumbing. My grandfather was a milkman, who rose at the crack of dawn to complete his deliveries before going to learn at Kollel Ohel Torah, together with many of the greatest Torah scholars of our generation. My grandmother would send platters of cakes to local shuls, so those who had no home and slept in shul would have a homemade taste of Shabbos.

One day, word reached my grandparents that the British were on their way to arrest my grandfather for allegedly spying for the Haganah. My grandmother quickly bundled him out the back window; he escaped as the British were banging on the door.

The Midrash stresses that we need to learn a lesson here for ourselves. The Kena’anim didn’t even use their feet or body to do this chesed. They merely pointed with one finger and this was enough to save them from punishment.

Bnei Yisrael do chesed constantly with the young and old, with our hands and feet. With these merits, we’ll surely be saved.

Growing up with these heroic stories echoing in my mind, I always felt so puny. No indoor plumbing? No bedrooms? Here I sit complaining about the amount of time I run the washer and dryer, and the dishes that pile up in my three sinks. Enemies banging on my front door? I’d probably become paralyzed in panic.

Just two short generations later, my lifestyle and challenges are so dramatically different, leaving me feeling so inadequate.

My father-in-law quotes Rav Yitzchak Zev MiBrisk, who relates a story passed down in their family from Rav Chaim MiVolozhin. The wife of the Vilna Gaon used to go collecting tzedakah together with another woman from Vilna. The two made a pact that whoever died first would come to her friend in a dream and tell her what goes on in the world Above.

The second woman died first and came to the wife of the Gaon in a dream. “Shamayim doesn’t allow me to reveal what goes on here,” she said, “but because I promised I’d come to you, they gave me permission to tell you one thing.

“Do you remember that we went once to collect tzedakah at a woman’s house and she wasn’t home? Then we were walking on the street, and you saw her, and you picked up your finger to point across the road and said, ‘There she is!’ We both crossed the road and she gave us tzedakah. In Shamayim, the merit of tzedakah is written for both of us. However, there’s an added merit recorded for you, since you lifted your finger and pointed to where she was walking.”

Recently my family hosted its annual (often triannual) Family Strep Summit.

This year my body decided to join. Never a grand idea to have a mother shaking with fever while her kids are aching and arguing.

“Look, Ma, see the picture I drew!”

Yitzi’s voice was all congested, but that didn’t stop him from jumping onto the couch, where I was wrapped in a blanket staring into my tea.

“It’s my bestest picture ever!”

His words exacerbated the din in my already clanging head. All I wanted was to waft away in the steam of my tea, leaving aches, pains, and kids behind.

“Ma!” He shoved the drawing into my rheumy eyes.

I blinked a few times and zeroed in. “It’s gorgeous,” I rasped. “I love how you made the grass so green.” I lifted a finger to point out the bold strokes as he beamed with pleasure.

Heroics? Hardly. But one small gesture for Mommy; one giant leap for love.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 622)