Here It Stops

I am more stunned than she is. This isn’t the way it was supposed to be. I’m Super-Stay-At-Home Mom! I give my kids everything and anything I can! Where did this go wrong?

I am a 3G, that is, the granddaughter of Holocaust survivors. You hear a lot about Survivors. Survivors, who despite all they lost, all they went through, retained their emunah and their simchas hachayim. Survivors who built institutions from nothing, prosperity from pennilessness. Who were bastions of Torah and chesed. Survivors who built healthy, happy families that spread Torah and light throughout the world. These were great people — unimaginably great.

But they weren’t the only survivors. There were those who were ravished by the Holocaust, their joy extinguished, never to be reignited. These Survivors limped through life, their inner wounds etched on their hearts as indelibly as the numbers on their arms.

And then there were those who picked up as many pieces of their shattered lives as they could, but try as they might, couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty together again. My grandparents fell into that category. They were unquestionably great people. They built yeshivos and mikvaos and businesses and wealth. They remained inexplicably steadfast in their emunah. They davened for the amud and baked honey cookies and hosted lively Purim seudos.