Teach your children well
Their father’s hell did slowly go by
Feed them on your dreams
The one they pick’s the one you’ll know by… (Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, Teach Your Children)
Once again I am in the lovely garden. A white butterfly flits about, her whiteness pure against the backdrop of green foliage, mirroring the brightness of sunshine streaming in from above. She appears, and then disappears briefly, only to reappear once again, in a gay dance of freedom.
The green of blossoming leaves disappears before my eyes, briefly fades, turns to gray before becoming once again green in color. But the white butterfly is insistent. A reminder. A promise. Of hope, of peace, of Redemption, which though at times seemingly absent, will surely appear.
In the warmth of late morning’s sunshine, I sit in the garden of enchantment, watching as the little children gleefully run about under the water drops of a sprinkler. Laughing as they slide, laughing in surprise as water pops up from various directions. With joyful certainty, they await the blessings of water, of Life. They do not question. For a while, swept up in their innocent joy, I too, almost forget to question.
For we are in the month of Nisan, the month of spring, the month of new beginnings.
Against the backdrop of darkness, light glows ever so brightly.
Against the background of sorrow, the joy of children sparkles ever so brightly.
May their lives be filled with peace and happiness.
May pain and grief be one day but a long forgotten memory for our children and grandchildren.
May life and peace overcome the tragedies of today in the Land of Promise.
The month of Nisan is the month of Pesach, and of Yom Hashoah. A siren will sound in Israel and we will remember. Could we ever forget?
It is also the month in which, many decades ago, began a trial. And I, a small child, am watching television in the indoor patio. Night’s heavy darkness is oppressively present through the view from the surrounding glass windows. I am sitting next to my father, of blessed memory, a Holocaust Survivor. Was he aware of my presence? Was I aware of my presence? Are we present, or is life merely unfolding around us, in its presence and terror? We are listening to the testimony of a man in a glass booth, watching as horrors unfold, in black and white.
The trial of Eichmann was portrayed on a television screen, for days, for months. Was that last night? Or many nights ago…
The windows of the patio are dark, moonlight streams in its brightness, mocking the darkness with which we are engulfed.
But in the morning the black and white will be dispelled, sun’s golden rays will again add color, the darkness of night a mere memory.
And outside there is a lovely flowery garden. Purple and white azaleas are in full bloom. A mother cat is serenely strolling about with her little kittens.
There is a delightful slippery slide. And enchanting swings for the children, so we could soar above. Leave this earthly realm and join the birds in their flight.
And I, a child, am again swinging on the swings, back and forth, up and down. The poles are coming out of the ground in rhythmical motion. I await the day when they will come out entirely, and I will soar upward to the Heavens. There, there are no questions.
Sunlight is fading, the sky a glowing pink, more magical from above as the swing soars higher.
Again I am as a child, pondering the mystery.
And it was evening, and then night. The lingering softness of the sunset, the rays of pink and peach glowing gently, so that we would remember its warmth, as darkness settled. And the night stretches out, seemingly endlessly. As cruelty replaces kindness, as coldness replaces warmth. With darkness so deep we know not whether this is our new reality.
We search the sky for a flicker of hope, for a glimmer of the stars, for the brightness of the moon. It is said, that the moon is a reflection of the sun, shining ever so brightly in the darkness of the night, so that we will remember. At times waning, almost disappearing from view, but always reappearing.
And then it was morning, and the sun returned, its warmth and kindness dispelling the coldness of the night.
And we, who are living through both, what of us? Cycling with the rhythm of the days, at times feeling lost, at times finding our way. Or has our way found us, once again.
Though I walk in the midst of trouble,
you preserve my life.
You stretch out your hand against the anger of my foes,
with your right hand you save me…
your love, Lord, endures forever
do not abandon the works of your hands. (Psalms 138:7-8)
It is said that ”the child is the father of the man” (William Wordsworth). The flower is determined by a seed which will blossom in the future. Inherent in the Divine nature of Life, in which evening will inevitably lead to its fulfillment as night, morning will surely blossom into day. As in the nature of Man - the outcome of our thoughts, of our deeds, of our prayers, are interwoven with their inception.
And now. As night alternates with day. As in our night we await the arrival of the morn. What of the children? What do our children and grandchildren see? What are they told? What do they understand?
In the Haggadah we read: “The Torah speaks of four sons: one is wise, one is wicked, one is simple, and one does nor even know how to ask.”
In the dialogue with each son, appears a reference to the Lord. The wise son, in the question. The other three sons, in the answer. Perhaps the wise son, because the name of the Lord is in the question, the Godly already in his consciousness, receives a special reply. The other three sons are reminded in the answer, of God’s role in our liberation.
Both the wicked and the son who does not know how to ask, receive the same reply. We explain to them, that “this is because of what the Lord did for me, when He took me out of Egypt.” Somehow, children relate best to personal examples. The father’s truth is passed on to his child, and the child feels as though, in some way, this was also his own personal experience.
When I was a child we had a basement in our home, deserted and cold. Once again, as in my childhood, I go down the stairs. Terrified, I look around. It is dark down there, foreboding, the horrors glowering from the corners.
Once again, I climb the stairs, close the door, and go outside.
The sun is magnificent in its beauty, colors of the garden enchanting and mocking at once.
Slowly I walk over to the swings and sit down. What will it be? All is quiet, and I, a child, am sitting on the swing. There is a choice to be made. Up or down. Day or night. They both fluctuate…
My father is sitting calmly in the dreamy garden of red roses and purple azaleas. All is still, and he is surrounded by the sunbeams of life, of hope, of rebirth.
“Looking towards a better future” he would say, always.
And today.
There is a mystery, a tragedy, a horror which cannot be accepted, cannot be understood. It threatens to draw us with it into the basement of desolation.
Again, I think of my father. Of his description of escape from the Janowska concentration camp:
“When we got to the main camp entrance my heart was beating like a hammer…Walking forward I mentally intoned a prayer, trying to control my fear. Lishu’atcha kiviti Hashem, kiviti Hashem lishu’atcha…For Thy salvation I hope, O Lord; I hope, O Lord, for Thy salvation…” (Dad’s memoir, Destined to Live)
And so. What are we teaching the children? How will we answer their questions?
And the one who does not know how to ask, does he already know the answer?
Perhaps the message we wish to impart is one of strength, of faith. A message of hope for the future. A message that we, as partners with God in Creation, have also a role in creating the better future. As light casts its rays of hope on the darkness.
Lishu’atcha kiviti Hashem…