“She’s so covered in Band-Aids, she could be a mummy,” I commented to my husband the other day. And it’s true — once applied, she’s reluctant to remove the Band-Aids. If said Band-Aid begins to curl at its dirty little edge, slowly hinting at its expiration, our little girl will cry out in utter panic.

“Band-Aid off!” she screams, her voice high pitched and plagued with deep anguish. This call can come at any time, even at two or three in the morning, when the house is silent and all its inhabitants contentedly sleeping.

For her, the Band-Aid is synonymous with healing. It has become the solution to all issues.

I chuckle at the illusion, at the simplicity of her complete faith in the trusty Band-Aid.

I want to keep laughing at the gift of childhood gullibility right in front of my eyes. But one morning, much to my dismay, I catch myself. Sure, I’m the mature adult who knows that a Band-Aid really doesn’t do much. I’m the wise one who knows the truth — that a Band-Aid is just that — a bandage that aids in dulling the pain. Oh, what age and time has taught me….

But have I learned the truth?

I see myself in this sweet two-year-old who holds my heart.

I think of all that hurts or threatens to cause me pain. And I think of the proverbial Band-Aid, and what I use to silence the pain, to reassure myself that all will be good, all is right, no more action is needed.

I admit, I’d be a spiritual mummy myself if I replaced these quick fixes with Band-Aids.

Sure, my Band-Aids are somewhat more sophisticated. They don’t come in neon colors, and they’re not patterned with princesses or little doggies. They’re certainly not of the see-through variety.

They look more like superficial pursuits. Maybe purchasing a new item or indulging in a delicious treat. It could be reading a new book, a moving and all-encompassing novel. Perhaps it’s even a self-help book, one that reaches my soul and touches me deeply. Maybe it’s even as lofty as making a meal for a neighbor in need. But when all is said and done, I have to recognize each one of these efforts as the Band-Aids they are.

It’s certainly easier to slap on a Band-Aid when something niggles at my mind, threatening to sting or itch until I pay it some more attention. It’s definitely simpler to silence that deep longing within by checking off a mental list of necessary chesed.

But what would happen if I allowed myself to endure the natural process of healing and regenerating?

I know what will happen, and I’m afraid of it.

Facing the emptiness head-on doesn’t sound very appealing. Looking deeply within and asking myself what I need to feel more fulfilled, more driven, and satisfied would require a dedication I’m not sure I have.

Because I know, deep down, under the Band-Aids and the quick fixes, that it’s going to take something that involves much more strenuous effort to fill that emptiness and to regenerate the painful boo-boos into reminders of what really matters.

As Rosh Hashanah approaches, and we crown Hashem King, I remind myself that in this act lies the purest and most absolute solution to any pain I may experience. It’s the healing of total surrender. It means allowing any silenced pain to surface and run its course, to scab over until it heals and leaves only the mark of its journey in its wake. It’s the acceptance of my purpose and my mission, a profound and lasting resolve to accept Hashem in every single aspect of my life.

I can try as many Band-Aids as I like. But each one will likely be about as helpful as the one sitting atop my toddler’s frizz, barely touching the surface, much less reaching the depths of the longing of the soul.

Perhaps it’s time I rip off the Band-Aid and face the true call of what lies beneath. But rest assured, it won’t go to waste. I happen to know a little someone who would happily reuse it — if she can just find an empty space to apply it.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 912)