What Do We Tell Our Children?
Rabbi Gary S. Creditor
December 28th, 2012
In the aftermath of this year's events that have shaken us to the core, as the secular year is soon to close, I want to ask a simple question: When, they too, reflect on this past year, the violence, the bloodshed, the proposal to arm their teachers in every school and university, the daily body count in Richmond and the counties – no place is immune: What Do We Tell Our Children? Though our children are all adults, I remember them as children when tragedies and catastrophes occurred, and so I compose this as an abbah (father) and a sabbah (grandfather). Of course every answer is conditioned by the age of the questioner and exactly what they are asking, but these responses are meant for all ages and all questions.
The first thing I say is that sometimes I am scared, too. Terrible events scare us, frighten us, shock us, even if we are adults. We cannot pretend. We cannot hide our emotions. We must validate what is true in them and is also true in us. What were we taught to do before corssing, when we came to the street corner, a place of possible danger? Stop. Look. And Listen. In these moments, two weeks removed from the calamity of Connecticut, we stop to really think about events, life, ourselves, our lives. We look at our world, and while there are bad things in it, there are also many things of beauty. Never lose the beauty. The mourner eats a hard boiled egg because while it wobbles down in sorrow, it wobbles up to also indicate future joy. Don't lose the joy in life. And listen to your heart. You are alive. You are filled with infinite possibilities. Listen to those who love you. Listen to the birds, the leaves and the snowflakes.
The second thing I say is that they are loved unconditionally. They need to know that we their parents and grandparents cherish them, respect them, dream about them, nourish and sustain them, now and forever. No matter what they do, we love them. In a scary and fearful world, we must make them a world of peace, at least inside our homes. The Rabbis taught us to have shalom and shalvah in our abodes, peace and tranquility. Our children must know that we are there with them, even when we are not. They must have our presence in their hearts and in their minds. Always. Everywhere.
The third thing I say is that the most important things is life is to be loving and good. If I believe in a peaceful world, a righteous world, I must model the values to those whom I can shape and mold. I enunciate in word and deed, my vision of life. I don't articulate career tracks. I don't set financial goals, though both will be important. It is the neshama that is critical, the soul of the child and adult. I tell them that we have two sides, the inside and the outside. And they must agree. Not only do we dress the outside with beauty, but more importantly, we dress the inside with beauty. And when the clothing on the outside get dirty, the inside always stays clean and pure. It is up to us to make it that way.
The fourth thing I say is that I agree. The world can be a cruel and bad place. But they can help me make it better. I don't deny reality. I just don't accept it. This isn't the way things have to be. We are not powerless. Even in the lives of little children, there is always something they can do to make things better. Little children can do little things. And we can do bigger ones. Can we say "hello" to strangers that we pass while walking down the street? Can we help our elders with physical tasks? Can we link our voices in demonstrating to create a power that can change things? Our Rabbis understood that the world is far from perfect. When referring in the liturgy to God's actions, the verbs are all couched in the present tense. Creation, salvation, redemption are never in the past. They are always in the present and in the future. They and we can imitate God – that can be reduced in language for children's comprehension – and make our world a better place.
The fifth thing I say is that God always loves us and wants us to do what is good. I don't tell them that God can save them from everything. I don't tell them that God can stop all evil in the world. God doesn't work that way. The world doesn't work that way. I know what God wants from us, what we can do. I want them to have the faith that in the worst of times and in the worst of places, God loves us, encourages us, inspires us, strengthens us, and is there with us, even in the corner of a classroom. I want them to have the faith, born of millennia, that has sustained the Jewish people in every crisis: God loves us, forever and ever, and that if not now, then later, there will be a world, shekulo shalom, that is entirely peace.
The last thing is something I do and not say, deeds not words, I give not-on-condition-to-receive, but if I do it good enough I know that they will give it in the same way: I give hugs and kisses. Lots of hugs and lots of kisses. Even when they didn't do anything special I give kisses and hugs because they are special. I remember from my childhood in Brooklyn to this very day, how my grandmother on her way to the bus would look back at me in the window of the apartment and throw me a kiss. I believed that I felt that kiss, right here on my cheek. I want my children, scattered to the four winds, and my grandchildren in California to feel my moustache, feel my beard as they feel my kiss, even if it is just over the telephone or on Skype. Now. Forever.
In the most trying times of their lives, and in ours, the only thing that I can give them is the knowledge and memory of my love, and the conscious sense of my presence, to protect them and guide them, when I can't be there. I can bestow upon them the feelings and attitudes that help me, are true to me. And while there are many things that I have not experienced and don't want to, and have no idea of what I will experience in the rest of my life, so far, these have sustained me and enabled me to reach this day.
And then I give them a song from my favorite group, Peter, Paul and Mary, one of their older pieces, written by Peter Yarrow. If they won't remember my words, if my kisses and hugs fall off to the distance, then let the song remain.
Tell me why you're crying, my son
I know you're frightened, like everyone
Is it the thunder in the distance you fear?
Will it help if I stay very near?
I am here.
Refrain:
And if you take my hand my son
All will be well when the day is done.
And if you take my hand my son
All will be well when the day is done.
Day is done, Day is done
Day is done, Day is done
Do you ask why I'm sighing, my son?
You shall inherit what mankind has done.
In a world filled with sorrow and woe
If you ask me why this is so, I really don't know.
(Refrain)
Tell me why you're smiling my son
Is there a secret you can tell everyone?
Do you know more than men that are wise?
Can you see what we all must disguise
Through your loving eyes?
(Refrain)
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