I have children and sometimes they have problems.
Problems I can’t solve for them with a bowl of chicken soup and kneidlach.
And sometimes I get all clogged up about what to tell them because the pressure of their pain builds inside my heart so hard that it cuts off the air to my brain to remember what I’m here for to be their mother their Ima which comes from the same root as “emunah.”
Am I supposed to write stories and clean the house while I watch them flounder as if stuck behind thick aquarium glass?
Create a free account to keep reading.
