It was a small gesture, Yet it took root, sprouted, flourished, And became a towering tree
20 readers share acts of giving
The Carpenters of Tzfat
“Everything? They stole everything?”
My husband’s voice shook as he answered. “Everything. Right down to the last drill bit.”
The previous evening my husband had, as always, left his carpentry tools on the job site in Rosh Pina when he went home to Tzfat. This morning, he returned to find the toolshed lock forced and everything gone. He reported the theft at the local police station, and then, for want of anything better to do, had come home again.
It was a disaster for us, and not only because he couldn’t continue work on that particular job. Professional carpentry tools are expensive, and it had taken my husband years to acquire his set. With no tools, he had no way of earning a living. But without him working, there was no way we could afford to replace the tools.
As we sat staring at each other, wondering what to do next, the phone began to ring… and ring… and ring….
News travels fast in small communities. By now, all the carpenters of Tzfat had heard what had happened. One by one, every single one of them called my husband to offer condolences — and to ask what tools he could loan him. By the end of the day, he had enough tools to go back to work.
Several months later, the police notified us that all the tools had been found, in the storeroom of a thief from a nearby village. All the loaned tools were returned to their owners and my grateful husband resumed work with his own equipment. We will never forget the kindness of the carpenters of Tzfat.
— Ann Bar-Dov, Eshhar, Israel
I’m here for you
There’s nothing like that moment when a newborn lets out his first cry. Like any first-time mother, I was ecstatic when I heard that sound. But there’s nothing worse than noting the doctors’ grim expressions and being told that your baby needs to be sent for further examination.
Ultimately it was nothing serious, but we still spent the week visiting the NICU and seeing our little prince attached to numerous horrible wires. It was a trying time for me in my postpartum emotional state. By night number four, I was extra tense. I called my husband Sruly, hysterical, and told him I needed him to stay for the night.
When he arrived and settled in the hospital armchair, I finally relaxed and slumbered peacefully. Sruly assured me he was comfortable and stayed for the following two nights as well, until we were finally discharged.
Weeks later, I discovered that those nights in the hospital had not been simple. Each time Sruly closed his eyes, a different nurse roused him with a reminder that it was a fire hazard for him to sleep there, lest they’d have to wake him in an emergency. So he paced the bikur cholim room and tried to lay his head on the table, in the end resorting to drinking endless cups of coffee to keep awake. Later he told me, “I never worried about the baby, but I was terribly worried about your state.”
When I see my one-year-old babbling incoherently, I barely remember those tumultuous days in the hospital. But there was one thing I gained — a newfound appreciation for my caring husband.
—Tova Schorr, Israel
Kindness in a Basket
I was a tall, awkward fifth-grader. Somehow, I was different. Maybe it was my penchant for big words, inherent bookishness, or rotund figure. Reading my way through recess instead of jumping rope couldn’t have been too helpful, either. I had some vague “friendlies,” but that was it.
Purim season came. The class was abuzz with girls excitedly exchanging gaily wrapped parcels. This activity was strictly illegal, but it continued unabated. Classmates would covertly exchange packages and wink their way through recess and lunchtime, expressing various code words for “yum.”
A few classmates did approach me with mishloach manos of their own. I demurred. In addition to my perpetual battle with my weight, I was also on a strict diet to manage my psoriasis, yet another bane of my existence. No white flour. That cut out everything semi-palatable for a fifth-grader with a strong aversion to vegetables. No tomatoes. There went pizza. Ditto for potatoes — kugel was banned.
Spurning these gifts felt right, somehow. Maybe then, someone would notice me? Perhaps I’d get attention for something other than knowing the answer to that tough vocabulary word? But my heart tightened. I badly wanted those sweets; I could taste the oozing taffy on my tongue. And more than anything, I wanted to belong.
The next day, two classmates shyly gifted me with a wicker basket. Seeing the refusal written on my face, they explained: We made this just for you! Inside lay two whole wheat rolls, tuna, and some salad. I blinked back tears of gratitude — someone remembered! And amazement — someone cared! Time has erased the memory of what else was inside, but the incredible warmth I felt is a feeling I still tap into today.
A lot has changed. I morphed from an awkward fifth-grader into a successful woman. Some things, however, you don’t forget. So, Esty and Malky, wherever you are... know that your kindness so long ago has made the difference. You may not remember — but I do.
— S.G., Brooklyn
Blizzard
Hashem works in mysterious ways. We all know that.
Recently, I learned it again. It had started snowing on Motzaei Shabbos, and the snow continued all Sunday. My husband, Rabbi Paysach Krohn, had a bris to perform on Tuesday morning, and I had to be sure he could get the car out.
On Monday, I hired a couple of men to help shovel the driveway, and the job took until 4 p.m. At five, I looked out the window and saw a little blue car stuck in the snow. As I watched, two men stepped out of the car. They began shoveling the snow to free the blue car. I went outside. “Please don’t shovel that snow into my driveway,” I requested. “We worked all day to clear it.”
“Well, we have to shovel them out,” they answered. “There’s a baby in that car!”
I indicated an empty spot where they could put the snow and turned to go back inside. When I got to the porch, I thought: A baby, stuck in the bitter cold, stuck in the snow... I went back to the street and knocked on the window of the car to get the attention of the woman inside.
“You’re welcome to come and wait in my warm house.”
She was grateful for the offer. As she walked into the house, I noticed that her coat was very bulky.
“Is that the baby in there?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“How old is the baby?”
“Thirteen hours,” she said.
The baby had been born at home, since 911 wouldn’t even take her call, and she couldn’t get to a hospital or a doctor. She unwrapped a beautiful baby boy with a mane of black hair. I brought out coffee and cake. She was very grateful to be safe and warm.
Then my husband came in and introduced himself: “I’m Rabbi Paysach Krohn. We’re happy to welcome you into our home.”
“Oh, my goodness!” said the new mother. “Rabbi Paysach Krohn! We wanted to call you to do the bris for our newborn son, but we didn’t have your number!”
By now the woman’s husband had safely parked the car and joined us inside. He pulled out a yarmulke, placed it on his head, and confirmed that they’d like to schedule the bris.
They had been heading to the hospital to have her and the baby checked out. I called a local doctor, a member of Hatzolah, who came over and confirmed that the baby seemed well. A Hatzolah ambulance soon followed and took the woman, her husband, and the baby to the hospital.
Before they left, I packed up sandwiches, drinks, and snacks. They were grateful for kosher food and told me the next day that, due to the snowstorm, the hospital had no food deliveries and there was no food to be had for anyone.
The next Monday, the bris was held, with much simchah. The baby’s name?
Raphael. What else?
Today, Raphael is growing nicely, having gotten an unusual start as a full member of the Jewish faith.
— Mrs. Miriam Krohn, Kew Gardens, NY
No limits
A bitter divorce, both parents’ remarriage while I was in high school, lots of kids between the families, and suddenly there were more steps in my life than in a three-story building.
I had a lot going for me, but deep down I felt that no one would ever want to marry into a broken home. I was a great student, obedient and inquisitive, so there was never a need for anyone to pay me extra attention. As for my difficult home situation, many teachers probably didn’t even know about it, and if they did, no one mentioned anything, and definitely never asked how I was doing. In the ’90s, sharing was not in style.
That is, until my wonderful science teacher came along. Almost 20 years later, I remember little of nucleotides and ribosomes, but I do remember an encounter that lasted less than a minute.
As I was leaving the class one day, she put her hand on my shoulder. She said that her son had gotten engaged to a girl named Chana. Then she said quietly, “My new daughter-in-law lost her father a few years ago. Her mother remarried, but Chana didn’t get along with her new stepfather. It was messy and she moved out of her home. My son is a wonderful boy and he admired the strength she gained through her situation.” And then she murmured words that would eventually alter the course of my life: “Don’t limit yourself. You’re a good girl. You can marry whomever you choose.”
That’s it. That’s the whole story. Nothing dramatic, just a few words that she did not have to say. Information that she could have kept to herself, but she thought it would help me so she took the time to share. I kept those words close to my heart during my dating. I believe my wonderful husband and children are the ripple effects of this kindness.
— Shoshana Stern, Brooklyn, NY
Clean & clear
During my last pregnancy I was diagnosed with an alloimmune condition. Put simply, my body was creating antibodies that were attacking my unborn baby’s platelets. If left untreated, it could lead to brain hemorrhage or death. My youngest son had suffered a near fatal brain hemorrhage at birth, six years earlier, so I understood the gravity of the situation.
I naively envisioned that treatment would involve a couple of injections a month, and life would go on pretty much as normal until the birth. I distinctly remember the panic and fear when my doctor gently informed me that treatment would involve three to four weekly infusions lasting five to six hours, through the rest of the pregnancy.
I’m squeamish at the best of times; how was I going to survive five months of daily needling and the accompanying side effects of treatment?
It wasn’t easy. The frequent needling on my arms created a patchwork of bruises, and then there were the side effects of the medication — extreme fatigue and anemia often accompanied by muscular pain.
One day, about a month into treatment, Sari, a close friend of mine, called and informed me that she was sending me her cleaning lady, all expenses paid, once a week, for two and a half blissful hours… for the next five months.
It took me almost three weeks to say yes to the gracious gift of a clean and orderly house. Perhaps if I really pushed myself, I could somehow pull off the cleaning as well… but I couldn’t.
I was deeply touched by her caring. Her gift helped me find the physical and emotional courage to push on each day until the birth of my precious, healthy baby girl.
It was a challenging time, often overwhelmingly so. But her gift freed up precious reserves, allowing me to see the sweetness within the challenge.
— B. C. Bar, Israel
Flying high
It happened about 18 years ago, but each time I think of what she did, I’m overcome with warmth. The night before I went to Israel for my seminary year, I was filled with anxiety. No one could calm me. I was worried about everything. It would be my first time on a plane — and for a long flight. It was my first time away from home for an extended period of time — for an entire year. My stomach was in knots.
Suddenly, behind my closed bedroom door, in the midst of my angst, I heard my name being called. A family friend walked in with a bunch of helium balloons and a phone book. She handed me the phone book; it was already filled with contacts of those I could be in touch with in Israel, including her future sister-in-law’s information — their family lived two buildings away from my dorm. My friend called them and told them I was coming to town, asking that they welcome me.
As soon as I landed, I looked up these contacts, and they helped me adjust.
My friend long forgot this act of kindness, but it stays with me. When I revisit the memory, I’m overcome with endless gratitude.
— Chaya Feldstein, New york
We missed you
I was in that awkward stage — needing to live alone, and yet really, honestly, needing parents. When I made the leap and moved into an apartment, I reveled in my freedom. I breathed easier, knowing I could walk around the entirety of my home, alone, alone, alone.
And yet, sometimes... the wonderful freedom could turn into oppressive loneliness. And then I would feel alone, alone, alone.
Uncle David used to come check up on me. Make sure I had everything I needed, that the boiler was working, that I wasn’t working too hard, that I was remembering to eat and sleep....
When a close friend out of town sat shivah, I traveled to be with her for the week. When I returned home, there was a yellow sticky note on the door. We missed you!!
I smiled. My neighbor Debra really was too sweet. We were friendly, but I wouldn’t have thought she’d notice I was gone. It gave me a warm feeling, like I wasn’t coming home to an empty house at all.
I’d just put down my bags when there was a familiar strong knock on the door. I ran to open the door. There was Uncle David.
“Hi, welcome back!” He handed me a shopping bag. “Brought you some milk. Figured you’d be out.”
I grinned and held the door open.
“Hey, what’s that?”
He pointed at the sticky note on the door.
I smiled happily. “My neighbor is really nice.”
He carried the bag inside and put it on the counter. “Was me.”
“Huh?” I asked, confused.
“I left the note on your door.”
I was at a loss for words.
I left that note on my door for a long time. When I moved, I stuck it on the inside windshield of my car, so it always stared at me.
We missed you!!
My travels took me to many places, most of them unhappy ones. At one point, my car and I were separated for a long, long, time.
I finally made the long trip to pick it up.
There it was. The note.
We missed you!!
It stayed there in my window, keeping me company when I felt so alone.
A few months later, my car was towed. When I got it back, the note was gone.
It was just a small yellow sticky note. It meant the world to me.
We missed you!!
Somewhere, I was missed by someone.
— Chana S., Cleveland, OH
Heavenly Food
Our baby was sick. She was in the hospital with a serious respiratory infection. It was three days before Rosh Hashanah, but meal planning, simanim, and matching napkins were not on our radar. The morning of Erev Rosh Hashanah the doctors sent us home with IV supplies, antibiotics, and warm wishes for a shanah tovah.
We were a young couple living in Geula, without many friends or much family. We went home and my husband immediately began contacting chesed organizations that provide food for people with no food… people like us.
Then he remembered that I had a new outfit sitting at the seamstress, and he urged me to pick it up.
“I won’t need it,” I protested. “I won’t be going out.”
“Go anyway,” he urged.
I went.
The Russian seamstress berated me for coming so late — after all, it was erev chag for her, too. “Well,” I said, “my baby just came out of the hospital, and I haven’t been home for a few days.”
She tsk-tsked, and gave me my new outfit. I left.
I wasn’t the only person picking up clothing. A young girl overheard our conversation. When I left, she asked the seamstress where I lived.
An hour later, there was a knock at our door. This young girl came in laden with food: challos and simanim and desserts and, of course, meals. We were in shock. That a young girl, who didn’t know us, would find out our address, and that her mother would pack up enough food for a three-day Yom Tov, was incredible.
Right after Yom Tov, I bought flowers and went to find this family. In typical Yerushalmi fashion, they shrugged it off. We were introduced to a new “siman” that year; cooked lungs for a “lange yuhr.” Well, that kindness stayed with us far longer than a year.
— Rena Goldzweig, Ramat Shlomo, Israel
Words of warmth
A seed is like a word; you plant it and it grows. It changes someone’s day, it builds up confidence, and sometimes it can even change someone’s life.
The story I want to share is about my mother. My mother was a teacher, and every day she complimented her students. She’d say, “I love your shoes,” “Your coat is so fancy,” or “Your headband is adorable.” The girls would feel noticed and special.
One day, a girl came in with a black coat in a previous year’s style. My mother said, “I love your coat, it looks so warm!” The girl smiled and the day continued.
Later that day, my mother got a call from someone who had met this girl’s mother. The girl’s mother passed on a message: “You don’t know what you did. Just this morning, my daughter threw a huge tantrum about how she hates the coat and she doesn’t want to wear it. But then you gave her a smile and told her how much you love her coat. My daughter came home and told me how she loves the coat and wants to wear it.”
My mother was amazed. She was just being her regular self, giving compliments. She hadn’t realized that her words would warm this girl all winter long.
—Leah R., age 11, Lakewood, New jersey
Party time
It was eighth-grade graduation day, 1982. Hair done, uniform pristine. I was so excited. At the hall, we all eagerly waited for our own families to come. I looked and looked, but my parents were nowhere to be found. The teacher announced that we should begin marching in. My parents weren’t there.
The program was well under way when they finally arrived. I was devastated. After the ceremony, most girls had parties with their families. My family and I just went home and everyone went back to doing their own thing. We were not a dysfunctional family, but my grandmother had passed away that year, and my parents were preoccupied with caring for my grandfather.
Still, by the time I got home, I thought no one cared about me. Quietly watching me, my sister Fraidy called me down to the basement. I’ll never forget the sight before me. Set up all around the floor were every doll and stuffed animal we owned. Pretzels and potato chips were in neat little bowls. “Surprise!” she yelled. “Congratulations on your graduation. All of us here”—she waved her hands at the crowd—“are so excited for you.”
We ate and schmoozed and just acted silly. It was a party that was one of a kind.
—Rivka, New Jersey
Hungry no more
On a recent trip to Israel, we stopped in a small pizza shop in Geula. We sat near the back, with a good view of the street, so we could watch the late afternoon bustle. A Yerushalmi boy — he must have been around nine years old — with a cherubic face and big brown puppy eyes, slowed his pace as he passed the pizza store.
He made an about face, walked up the step into the store, and stood in front of the glass-covered counter, eyeing the falafel and pizza. He stood there for what seemed to be a long time, caressing the glass as if he were imagining fingering the food. The owner didn’t ask him what he’d like to buy, and I imagined that this was a daily occurrence.
I went to the front and asked the boy if he’d like anything to eat. He lowered his eyes and whispered, “I’m hungry...” I told the owner to pack up a few portions of falafel and chips and I handed it to the boy. With his prize in hand, he ran out to the street. I don’t know if he finished his food before he got home, or if he saved it to share with his siblings, but I do know that I thanked Hashem for giving me the opportunity to do this small act of chesed for a wide-eyed, hungry little boy.
—Tziporah, new york
A few words
just have to let u know what an incredible son u have! He rly helped out my MIL today. A true gem of a boy!!”
Shira pressed send and continued on with her day, promptly forgetting that she’d sent the message.
In another home, Esther sighed. She knew learning wasn’t for everyone, but why did her son have to be included in that category? How she wished she could just be proud of Yossi for who he was and find positive things to say to him, rather than look at everything he did with a critical eye.
As Yossi pulled up in the driveway, he wondered in what mood he’d find his mother and what minor infraction would cause yet another argument. He wanted to please his mother, but somehow, since he had left yeshivah and started working, nothing he did was good enough.
He got out of the car, turned his key in the door.
Her phone buzzed. She read the message.
And she looked up and greeted her son with a welcoming smile.
—Mirel Jacobs, London, UK
A Bowl of Hope
She found me wandering the halls, infant in arms. She must have seen something in my face. Loneliness? Need? Despair? It was more than just the typical baby blues. A formal diagnosis and treatment were still a week or two away, but I was feeling the effects of postpartum depression. It was hard to imagine, but capable, cope-able me had been brought to my knees by a little thing like having a baby.
My husband, bewildered by the change in his usually independent wife, had returned to work and his long commute. It felt like the walls were literally closing in on me, panic surged in my chest, and I was filled with a crushing confusion of love mixed with fear of this tiny creature who was so dependent on me.
That’s how she found me in the hallway of our apartment building. It was early evening, and she was about to serve supper to her own brood. Dinnertime is not easy in any household, but that didn’t deter her from warmly insisting that I come “keep her company” for a little while. She sat me down on the couch and kept up a reassuring chatter, offering sympathy to my “new mommy” complaints as she fed her children.
She had me use her own bedroom to feed the baby, making me feel that it was the most natural thing in the world for her to give up her own space, privacy, and time. Then she sat me at her kitchen table and handed me a steaming bowl of chicken soup. I hadn’t eaten a real meal in days, but it was the warmth of the gesture that nourished me more than the broth.
There was goodness in the world. There was normalcy in the world. There was a Father in Heaven to turn to and He had kind representatives down here on earth.
It was just a bowl of soup, but it gave me hope once again.
—Elisheva Licht, Oak Park, Michigan
Morah & me
Morah Esther was the morah every mother dreams of having for her child. She was warm and caring, attuned to the needs of each child. But she was human, and she had a favorite. Luckily for me, my daughter Aviva was her favorite. Morah Esther simply adored her. She told her all the time how beautiful she was, and wrote notes in her notebook with effusive praise for any progress Aviva made. Cynical mom that I was, I wondered why Aviva’s morah loved her so much.
I wondered how she could look past all the paraphernalia, the wires and the oxygen and the pulse ox and the feeding tube, and simply delight in what she saw. I was bewildered by how this nine-month-old, who had only started crying with sound a month before, who communicated happiness or dissatisfaction by the numbers on her monitor, so captivated her morah. But she did.
When Morah Esther came to the hospital on Rosh Hashanah to visit Aviva who was hospitalized in ICU — she could not stay away — she mentioned that people wonder how she can love these kids so much, even as she mothers her own three little ones. “It’s no contradiction,” she asserted, then mumbled under her breath, “but none of my kids have blue eyes.”
Slowly, her love and enthusiasm began to melt my cynicism. It was impossible to remain unmoved by her absolute adoration of my daughter. Little by little, I began to see what she saw, the child who was at her core simply a precious little girl thirsting for love and determined to overcome her many limitations.
A child with a complex medical situation brings so many touching gestures of kindness into your life. But the greatest kindness I experienced was from the morah who taught me to love my daughter.
—Chedva Silber, New York
Dive in
I don’t know why she took any interest in me. Frizzy hair, glasses, too tall for my age. I was markedly uncute. Being in one of the youngest bunks in camp had its perks, but it had its downsides, too. If you were small and squeaky, you were dubbed “adorable.” Otherwise, you were just a little F.I.T. (freshie in training) and largely ignored.
To my nine-year-old self, sleepaway camp was a lonely and confusing place. I was so busy being miserable that I didn’t even notice how everyone around me was having a blast.
Things would have continued this way for all four weeks of camp if not for the sharp eye of Mrs. Ackerman. Mrs. Ackerman was neither the camp mother nor the division head of the younger bunks. She was head of the lake and in charge of the specialty staff members. She wore a black snood with a denim baseball cap on top, and she and the lakeside lifeguards were the coolest people in camp. So go figure why she noticed little me.
“What’s your name?” Mrs. Ackerman asked.
“Devorah Fish,” I mumbled.
“Fish! Great name! You must love swimming!”
“Um, I guess so.”
“Do you know how to dive?”
“No. I’m scared.”
“No reason to be scared. I’ll teach you.”
That day, Mrs. Ackerman tagged along with my bunk for our double swim activity. Way at the end of the deep side of the huge Olympic swimming pool, she patiently coached me on how to dive perfectly, how to slice into the water and barely make a splash.
I listened to her instructions, nodded, and then cannonballed into the pool. But Mrs. Ackerman was ecstatic. “Such progress!” she shouted. “You’re a natural!” When I managed a stomach-burning belly flop, I surfaced to hear her applause.
Fifteen minutes later, I was diving beautifully. As I walked back to the bunkhouse at the end of swim, camp seemed to be a fun place after all.
That summer was the first of what became the best nine summers of my life. And it all started with Mrs. Ackerman’s diving lesson.
—Devorah Nestlebaum, Yerushalayim
Fast connection
it was midday on Tzom Gedalyah when my father stepped away from his busy workday and hurried to Minchah. As he weaved through the Manhattan bustle, a man tapped him on the shoulder. He asked my father for directions to the closest kosher eatery. The man was Jewish, but obviously far from religious.
My father gently told him that it was a fast day and invited him to join him for Minchah. The man happily went to daven with my father, participating in what was likely the first minyan of his life. After Minchah, my father continued on with his busy day and forgot about the encounter.
A while later, Aish HaTorah organized a shabbaton, and my family hosted three college-aged men for Shabbos. During the Friday night meal, my father described to the men his daily schedule as a lawyer, including his chavrusas and davening breaks. One of the men suddenly exclaimed, “So that’s where I recognize you from!”
He explained that he was the man who had stopped my father in the street. My father didn’t recognize him and hardly remembered the incident. The man, though, relayed how that small act of kindness on my father’s part had led him to where he was today. He felt so warmed by my father’s consideration, and that small action led him on the path toward teshuvah. We all marveled how Hashem had guided him to our Shabbos table, many months later, so we could all learn how far a small act of kindness can go.
—Miriam Krasnow, Yerushalayim
Right of way
It had been a particularly grueling day at work. Busy season, charged atmosphere, mountain of work.
While in the middle of an important discussion, I received a call from my husband. Bad news: There was a bump in the road from a school we’d been trying to get our son into. I tried to give my husband some chizuk and then suggested he call our rav for more help. I’m not sure if my chizuk was real chizuk or if it just riled my husband up more, but I tried my best….
Although I was disturbed by our conversation, I tried to focus on work, and I left the office later than I’d intended. I raced to my car, worked up from the day’s events. How would I ever face my kids cheerfully and patiently?
As I drove home, I tried to push my workload out of my mind and digest the school news. I was driving down a busy street and needed to make a left. There was one car ahead of me that needed to make a left as well. The streets were busy, and I figured I’d probably have to wait for the light to turn red, and then to get the green left-turn arrow before I could turn.
All of a sudden, I saw the car in front of me make a left. The car going the opposite direction had stopped specifically to let the car in front of me go. I saw that same car flash its brights to me, gesturing to me to make the left as well.
I was shocked. I felt like someone had lifted me out of my anxiety and put a smile back on my face. Someone cared enough to take time out of his busy day to stop and let me through in a situation where he had no obligation to do so. That person gave me the lift I needed to greet my family with peace of mind.
I try to pay it forward. When I’m heading to work, and every minute counts, I remember this fellow. He probably doesn’t even recall what he did. But I do. And I think, I know I’m in a rush, but can I find one spare minute, if it will potentially make someone’s day?
—Tehila Ney, Lakewood, NJ
Candyland at Shivah
As a seven-year-old, I found shivah to be... odd. Grown-ups filled the house, and my father and older siblings sat in funny low chairs. While I liked being near my father, I didn’t like that all the adults were looking at me. So I wandered the house, my sadness smaller than my loneliness.
My first-grade teachers came to be menachem avel.
How odd, I thought, my teachers are in my house.
I liked the attention; I didn’t like the weirdness. What was I supposed to do? Nod and cry and say grown-up stuff? I was so young. I didn’t want to be an adult. Yet when asked if I wanted to go back to school for the last two days of that week (“We’re having our 100th-day-of-school party on Friday!”), I demurred. I was too old to go back as if everything were normal. And so, the days of shivah were strange.
One day wasn’t strange at all, though. A good friend of my mother a”h offered to play a game with me.
A game? With me?
I picked Candyland, and we spread out the board across the kitchen table in the back of the house, where it was quiet. As our menschies advanced across the board, skipping along cheerfully colored squares, I myself felt more cheerful, more normal. At some point, we decided that after picking a card for our turn, we’d shout out the color in Hebrew.
“Tzahov! Kachol! Adom!”
I was so proud of myself for knowing the words. Neither of us remembered how to say “purple” in Hebrew. Instead, we yelled out, “Puy-ple!” in the most exaggerated way we could. I loved the simple, warm attention. Something, something in my life was regular and happy. It was the antidote to all the strangers murmuring in the living room and to the pitying looks adults gave me.
The game ended, probably. Someone won, probably. I no longer remember. What I recall and what I cherish is the memory of that simple kindness.
—L.M., Yerushalayim
Erev Shabbos Traffic
Many summers ago I set out with my husband and three young boys from Far Rockaway to Monsey for a Shabbos bar mitzvah. We left a little late, but we thought we had enough time. But after spending 40 minutes stuck in slow-moving traffic, with reports of impending thunderstorms and standstills on bridges, we realized we had to turn around.
We knew we’d make it back perilously close to Shabbos. And we had no food.
Thank G-d for cell phones. My first call was to a friend asking if we could come for Shabbos lunch.
“Of course!” she said. “Drive by my house on the way home, I’m taking challah out of my freezer for you.”
My next call was to a friend with a large family: “Can I please come by after licht bentshen to pick up three pieces of chicken? It’s all we need, just please keep it warm for me.”
“No problem,” she replied. “I also have kugel for you.”
My third call was to my neighbor; I had told her my driveway was available for her visiting mom over Shabbos. (In our neighborhood, parking spaces are elusive or inconvenient, and this is one way we do hachnassas orchim.) I asked her to please have her mother move the car, so when we arrived home last minute we could park in our driveway.
Thirty-seven nerve-wracking, stomach-churning minutes later, we arrived home. Alerted by our parking request, my neighbors realized I must not have prepared for Shabbos. Several neighbors raided blechs and freezers and set up my own hot plate with yummy, inviting Shabbos food. They even thought of little touches: remembering that my children like pickles and freshly baked Duncan Hines Brownies. We had so much food that when one neighbor sheepishly admitted her potato kugel was burnt, I was able to share!
One neighbor even went through my house turning off bedroom lights and turning on the right lights for Shabbos.
It was a stressful drive, but when we finally entered our home, it was to the aroma of Shabbos and the warmth of friendship.
