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Home
and Family
Open Hearts, Open Doors
by Rifca Goldberg, Tzefas
Each woman asks in her own kind way. Although it is
interesting to be approached by a variety of different
people, Sefardic, Ashkenazi and Litvish, I still vacillate
between feelings of gratitude and embarrassment.
Tonight Tzvia went one step further. She's like that. She
lacks discernment. Lacks understanding, especially the
conventional kind. But she is blessed with beauty, her
own charm, and social grace. Someone else with a mentally
retarded child once mentioned to me how important it is to
receive community help, since she and I don't have any family
here in Israel. With Tzvia, I've basically managed for these
past eleven years. Of course, there were always a few who did
help out in different ways, taking Tzvia every day in the
afternoon for the week after I gave birth to another child,
paying for the three week overnight Ezer MiZion summer camp
for special children, and others letting Tzvia play at their
homes occasionally.
But where do I draw the line? Now that Tzvia is older,
somewhat more verbal, and more self confident and outgoing,
things are changing. Tzvia goes downstairs by herself to
play, or at least, watch, the other girls jumping rope and
playing Chinese elastic jumprope (where two pairs of feet
hold the circular rope in place). But Tzvia tends to take
things further now that she feels more independent.
Last week a neighbor I hardly know approached me. "Tzvia
asked if she could eat by us for a Shabbos meal, but I didn't
know if you'd allow it." I attempted to keep my poise as I
explained, once again, that when my father had visited Israel
in the winter, I had asked different friends to have some of
my children join their Shabbos tables so that my father would
have relative peace and quiet, not being used to a large
family to begin with. Since Tzvia is so sociable and sweet,
she was the easiest to place. For three meals each Shabbos
for three weeks, she went to different homes to eat -- and
she loved it. In fact, she loved it so much that even after
my father went back to America, she went around mooching
invitations for Shabbos meals. That's not the right term,
really, for we are always careful to send along some treat
for the family, which she proudly presents as soon as she
makes her appearance. Well, Tzvia started disappearing for an
hour or so after she came home from school on Fridays and
upon her return, told me, in her limited speech, which
families she had lined up for each of the three Shabbos
meals. "Tzvia!" I cried, "I'm your Mommy! I want you, too!"
She just smiled and shrugged as if to say, "You'll just have
to wait your turn."
And then tonight she went one step further. On a Tuesday, a
plain old Tuesday, she tells me that she's eating dinner by
the Dayan's. "No," I say, calmly, but firmly, "that's too
much." But she begs and pleads, thick tears in her eyes.
"Want, Mommy. Eat -- Dayan. Be good girl. Want, Mommy!" "Of
course you'll be a good girl. I know," I respond, feeling my
resolve crumbling, worrying that Mrs. Dayan won't be able to
give her own family the attention they need because of Tzvia.
On the other hand, it is a lifelong lesson for her children
to learn acceptance of others who are different from
themselves.
Tzvia hands me the phone. "Call, Mommy. Eat -- Dayan." I call
the Dayan's, not surprised at the burning feeling in my
cheeks. "I'm sorry that Tzvia's bothering you. We have a
lovely dinner, here; it's just that when my father was here
in the winter..." The story repeats itself and to my
amazement, the response repeats itself as well.
"There's no problem," Mrs. Dayan reassures me warmly. I can
visualize her big beautiful smile as she continues, "Have her
come over right now. Really, it's our pleasure." And off
Tzvia goes, not forgetting her package of wafers to present
when she comes, and to distribute -- herself -- as
dessert.
What a community! "There are no people like those in Eretz
Yisroel!" I am left feeling the power of ahavas
Yisroel for all of my wonderful neighbors. It is not the
first show of chessed I have experienced here and I am
sure many more and bigger examples have yet to follow.
Tzvia returns an hour later, her belly filled with good food,
her heart filled with the love of others' giving, with an
added sense of importance and independence. Her eyes are
filled with happiness. I like to think that she left some
behind, as well...
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