In this honest diary, Batya Sherizen recounts how encountering death shaped her into the woman she is today
IT’S 11 weeks since baby Abi’s birth, and I finally feel healthier and stronger. I can take walks, I’m more capable in the kitchen, and I can climb the stairs to do the laundry.
We’ve been receiving meals for almost a year by now, and I’m ready to be a functioning adult, so I request that our lifeline come to an end. Even when friends call me begging to make food, and organizations insist I would be doing them a chesed if I would accept, I hold my ground. Even if we eat frozen pizza, I will be the one to warm up the slices. I need to give, to perform this simple act of love.
It’s a windy Friday in April, our first Shabbos on our own. We have some things in the freezer, and my husband Moshe made chicken. Now I want to make something special, something from my heart.
I decide on potato kugel, since it makes the whole house smell like Shabbos.
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