Sometimes, I feel like that little boy with his finger in the dike, determined to hold back the tide.

It’s nothing in particular, just the air permeating my world lately has been thick. With mistruths, with lost ways and lies, with blindness. And I’m left confused, always confused. Should I should speak up? Keep the peace? Or hide away?

If it was a matter of right or wrong, it would be simpler. But nothing is right or wrong these days; everything has six sides and three opinions. And there are so many shades of gray, you forget that there are any other colors at all.

I contemplate this while my son draws a complicated mural on the floor with markers. It’s okay, the dingy tiles could use some improvement. “Park time,” I announce before he can reach for the nearby Sharpie. He pauses, slips on his flip-flops. I stuff the baby into her carriage, and we are off.

I need fresh air. I need to breathe.

I push the carriage out of the building and inhale deeply, filling my lungs, clearing my mind. My son chatters on and I revel in the simplicity, the purity, of toddler conversation. We walk around the corner to the park and settle on a bench.

I look around. The crowd consists of nine-year-old boys throwing around a ball and riding up and down on scooters. I lean against the back of the bench, lost in thought as my son runs to the seesaw.

Why do things have to be so complicated? Why does everything have to be such a battle? What is it You want from me? That last part was directed Upward. I hear a far-off rumble, but I’m not presumptuous enough to think it’s a personal response.

I space out and then blink when I notice a young boy just standing there, staring at me. I raise an eyebrow at him, irritated.

“Shachachti et habrachah,” he says apologetically, wrinkling his sunburned nose. Ah, so it was thunder. I shake my head. The one day I decide to go on a “cheer me up” outing, it starts to rain. I turn to answer the boy, who is still trying to remember the words.

“Shekocho u’gevuraso malei olam,” I say, my American accent clashing with his rolling r’s and Sabra tone.

“Todah!” he replies happily and runs off. I give a half smile and bend forward to play with the baby’s toes. She giggles, and the smile turns into a full-fledged one. It thunders again; a flash of lightning streaks across the sky. I say the brachah myself, chastened by the little boy. Then it starts to rain.

I sigh; so much for pondering life’s meaning in middle of the park. Time to run. I grab the carriage, disentangle my son from the slide, and walk briskly, hoping to minimize the damage. The boy scoots by, seemingly oblivious to the pea-sized droplets hitting his helmet.

“Bizchuteich, beirachti! In your merit, I said the brachah!” he shouts happily over his shoulder.

(Excerpted from Family First, Issue 612)