The End of Innocence   

When the succah falls down, I am standing inside it, holding the baby. My five-year-old (with the help of his father) had put up the frame the day before, and that morning, we had planned to finish with the beams and the sechach. But one strong gust of wind, and the succah, I kid you not, splits into two. One half lands on a nearby car; the other half staggers with the unsteady gait of a drunk.

“We’re not going to have a succah!” my son cries. I assure him that we will.

Then he turns to me. The tides in his eyes surge, swirl, seethe. “If it’s a mitzvah to build a succah,” he asks, “then why didn’t Hashem stop the wind from knocking it down?”

“That’s a great question. Let’s wait to ask Abba,” I say.