For a frozen moment, my eyes rove over the destruction. Shattered pieces of branch, a partially cracked car...and the kids!

T

hose early summer days have a song of their own.

You know — Pesach comes and goes, but it’s still chilly. When everyone is shopping rompers and shorts and talking summer plans, but the sky is the color of ash. And it’s raining.

And then one day, the sun happens. It comes out, and it’s warm and strong, and you can smell it. The wind is a kiss on your cheeks. The sky is bright, and blue, and the children are spilling out of tiny homes and cramped Brooklyn apartments, running up and down the block, climbing gates, no longer cooped up, unfettered and free.

It’s been an entire week of rain, but now we can play outside.

I want to sing, but I postpone the urge. We’re going out now!

We’re standing in a circle, a bunch of neighbors, marveling at the weather and the babies who’ve gotten so big since last summer. The kids are wildish, but who’s stopping them? They’re so happy, and so are we.

Suddenly, there’s a fast, ugly crack. A ripping sound. Then, CRASH.

A long, wide, massive branch snaps off a tall tree. Falls onto the pavement, fractures into fat hunks of wood.

Have you ever felt your heart in your mouth?

For a frozen moment, my eyes rove over the destruction. Shattered pieces of branch, a partially cracked car...and the kids! Wide-eyed and curious, they stand a few inches away. The car alarm wails.

I swallow my heart and try to breathe again.

The kids. A whole bunch of them, little girls in pink shoes and roller blades, boys on bikes with training wheels, in zip-up hoodies, clutching snack bags. Rosy cheeks and shining eyes, edging their way around the fallen branch toward their mothers. All of them, standing on their own two feet. All of them, alive.

For a few minutes, everyone’s talking. We run to gather our kids, our babies. We speculate and wonder. There’s no wind and this is a big, mighty tree; how can something like this happen?

We raise our eyes up to the bright blue sky and whisper words of thanks and terror and relief.

For a few minutes more, we talk. Then it starts getting late, the sun loses her sparkle, and we all head inside. Life’s calling; hungry kids, grimy kids, tired kids. (Um, dinner, baths, and bed.)

But something inside me is tight, so tight. It’s partly my tendency toward speculation (which is good), partly superstition (which is bad), but I’m left wondering. Everything that happens has a purpose, I know. If Hashem made me witness this, it’s meant to teach me something. Why did this enormous branch crack off a tree on a gorgeous spring day, splinter and crash to the ground inches away from where my beautiful children were playing?

My first thought: It’s a warning. I suddenly remember things that should never have been said or done. Things I should have said or done. Surely Hashem is showing me I need to shape up.

I can’t stop there, though. Why did this branch fall?

(Excerpted from Family First, Issue 648)