As my mother’s one-year yahrzeit approached, my father mentioned that he would be sponsoring a kiddush at his shul in her memory. The custom is to share words about your loved one, and he asked me to speak. When I thought about speaking at this kiddush to honor my mother’s memory, I was at a loss for how I would come up with the right words. How would I express myself in a way that would make me and everyone else feel comfortable when the loss was still so personal and raw? My epiphany came to me as I read an essay that my mom had written for her writing class. She wrote about the time she mentioned to a friend that she was joining a writing class at the senior center, and her friend’s response was to tell her she was very brave.
My mom wrote, “I had no clue what she meant. I found out soon enough, when I went into the classroom. What in the world was I doing there? The only thing I ever wrote were some thank you notes. I also had to take a few English courses in college. I had to write some compositions but none of them were memorable. This writing class had people who had been writing for years, some who had items published, English majors and people who seemed to have writing skills as part of their DNA. How would I exist? It was a dilemma because I knew I was out of my league but I also knew I had to listen to all these beautiful and creative writings even if I never wrote a solitary thing.”
She wrote about how she put forth her best effort and wrote about a true experience. Unfortunately, when she finished reading it aloud to her fellow classmates no one, including herself, was actually aware of what she was trying to say. “It was not my finest hour. How will I be able to survive in this class?”
She then recalled the famous chasidic story about Reb Zusha. Reb Zusha’s pupils ran to him as they heard him crying in anticipation of standing before God. They said to him you have no reason to worry. You have lived a life in which you’ve demonstrated kindness like Avraham Aveinu and humility like Moshe Rabeinu. What do you have to worry about? He replied to them, I’m not worried that Hashem will ask me why weren’t you more like Avraham or Moshe but instead will say why weren’t you more like Reb Zusha. He questioned whether he had lived up to his own potential. My mom wrote about how this made her realize that she shouldn’t compare herself to others and she should just do her best in the class to reach her own potential.
She continued her essay, “What is the purpose of this class? Some would say to be a better writer. I don’t know and I don’t care. More important are the benefits I reap every Monday at one o’clock.” She continued relating how the class was a place where people can share their personal stories and where sensitivity and honesty are exhibited by both the teacher and her classmates. “It is a place of respect, comradery and good fellowship. A place where you learn new things and where people actively listen. A place of wonder, amazement and laughter. No matter what, it’s the place I want to be on Mondays at one o’clock in the afternoon.”
As I finished reading these words, I realized what I wanted to say in honor of my mother’s memory. Many times in life, it’s the process, not the product, that counts. Achieving better writing skills would be nice but the positive connections with her classmates is what made her class a success and what made it meaningful for her. It occurred to me that this special ability to step back and savor what really matters most in this fast-paced, goal-oriented world was woven through all aspects of my mother’s life. A trip to the supermarket was not merely to restock the fridge but an opportunity to connect with others by engaging in conversation with the cashier and customers next to her in line. My mom played with and read to her grandchildren with the exuberance of a youngster, rather than looking at the activity as an obligation. When she invited a stranger to our Pesach seder it was not to check off a box of saying I did chesed today. She really wanted to get to know this new guest as an individual and realized she had much to contribute to our family. When my mom went for a leisurely walk outdoors, it was as if the world around her had been reprogrammed in slow motion and her senses came alive. The interesting mushrooms, the chirping of the birds, the changing colors of the leaves and the feeling of the crisp air against her skin, these are all the things that may go unnoticed by many but never for her. When my mom took my kids to see the mushrooms, she would gush with excitement. I don’t mean to raise her up to angelic proportions but I believe she found even the task of washing dishes enjoyable. Warm soapy bubbles filled the sink, and her family has clean dishes to eat off of the next day. She may not have heard of the word mindfulness, but she was the poster child for it.
Taking pleasure in the simple things made her a person full of gratitude who would always talk about the many “blessings” she had in her life. She would always ask my kids, “Did you say you modeh ani today?” Why was it this specific prayer that she was so concerned about? It was due to the fact that the modeh ani represents feelings of gratitude. When you wake up in the morning you thank God for allowing this to happen and modeh ani is a daily reminder not to take this for granted. It is literally and figuratively a wake-up call that every day is a blessing and every moment is a gift from Hashem. My mother lived appreciating this gift every day.
I reflected on what this means to me and all of us living in this fast-paced, digital world. My mom would call herself a dinosaur and without an email address or a cell phone many would agree. Though I would never turn in my cell phone or turn off my internet, I think there is something to be said for a slower-paced lifestyle that allows for greater connection to others and to our surroundings. One of the most important lessons I’ve gained from my mom is to notice and embrace the seemingly insignificant moments that are in actuality the most meaningful. When my mother was on hospice reflecting back over her entire life, one statement she frequently repeated was that her most wonderful memories were when she went on walks in the park with her small children. I could sense the feelings of peacefulness and joy that these memories invoked within her.
I have tried to internalize this and carry it over into the raising of my own children. Kids are naturally able to find joy in the mundane things in life. A bug can be studied for great lengths of time, a leaf pile turned into a sensory delight, and a cardboard box transformed into a rocketship or anything that a child’s mind can imagine. The trips to Disney, the trophy ceremonies or our kids’ academic achievements are all great, but they are not what really matter most in the journey we call life. What matters are the connections we make. Our walks-in-the-park moments when time is paused to share a mundane experience with our child. When we don’t allow ourselves to slow down, these opportunities to connect are lost. I’m not just talking about connecting with our children, but also to other people—to friends and strangers, to nature and our surroundings.
Recently, while getting ready to head home from the park and feeling in a time crunch, my 7- and 8-year-old sons spotted a woman painting. She was immersed in painting a still life of pumpkins that she had positioned and my boys were entranced. Rather than pulling them away to rush home, a paused moment was allowed to happen. When we embrace these paused moments, we increase meaningfulness, vitality and connection. As I stood with my sons beneath the swaying trees, time stood still as we marveled at the talent of the artist making the objects on the paper come to life. It was also a moment of connection to my mother, thinking how much joy she would have had sharing in this experience.
May my mother, Chaya Tzippah’s, neshama have an aliyah.
By Rivka Stern
