"And that's when I realized that a lot of mothers who have
many children sometimes overlook the beauty of each of
them"
Today I am a grandmother [Ed. No, this is not Sara's own
story!] with many wonderful children and grandchildren. From
the outside, no one would ever guess how much I have
suffered. And they wouldn't know that I am still racked by
grief at odd hours of the day. But I keep my story a secret.
After all, it happened so long ago, and there's nothing that
I can do about it anymore. But next week, my eldest
granddaughter is getting married, and she has asked me to
share with her some advice to take with her into her new
home. That is why I have decided that I will tell my story
again, no matter how painful it is to speak about it.
I grew up in Meah Shearim, in a large, warm family of twelve
children. When I married, I dreamed of having a big family of
my own. My husband was a budding talmid chochom, and I
worked as a secretary in a nearby medical clinic. Hashem
granted us many children in quick succession. I was overjoyed
with the births of my children, but I also found myself quite
harried most of the time.
In order to support my husband's learning, I had to continue
to work long hours in the clinic, and I couldn't even take
off more than a month after each birth. I couldn't believe
how hectic and overwhelming it was to take care of small
children after a long day at work. How had Mama managed so
well with all of us? I remember wondering in my harder
moments. Nevertheless, I was content with our life, and I
managed to run the house reasonably well and perform
adequately at work. The problem was that I didn't know my own
children very well. Of course, I loved them and fed them and
shopped for them. But by the time I had eight children, I
found it increasingly difficult to focus on each child. And
that made it more challenging for me to understand my
children's behavior.
Take Ephraim, who was only two at the time; he was a handful.
I know most toddlers are difficult at that age, but he seemed
to be especially so. He refused to listen to any rules, and
whenever we would scold him, he would turn to us with that
mischievous grin.
One afternoon, my seven-year-old daughter Shiroh needed a new
pair of shoes for school. I was exhausted, as usual, and not
looking forward to taking eight children shoe-shopping. But
the baby-sitter had canceled at the last minute, and Shiroh's
old shoes were literally falling apart. I buckled the baby
into the stroller, and instructed Ephraim to hold on to the
stroller as we walked. Of course, he didn't listen, and I had
to maneuver the stroller with one hand while grabbing onto
him with the other.
By the time we arrived at the shoe store, I was frazzled. I
went immediately up to the shelf and found an acceptable pair
of shoes which I asked the salesman to bring to me in
Shiroh's size. Meanwhile, Ephraim began to remove the shoes
from the lowest shelf. I was at the end of my rope. I never
liked to use bribery, but I had run out of ideas. I promised
Ephraim a lollipop if he would stop touching the shoes.
Surprisingly, he listened and stood still for a moment.
I turned my attention back to Shiroh, who was struggling to
put on the new shoes, and then to the fussing baby who needed
her bottle. When we had finally determined that the shoes
fit, I sighed with relief. But when I looked up, something
was wrong. Ephraim was gone. I looked frantically around the
store and then ran outside. The sidewalks were crowded with
people. I searched in vain for his curly blond hair and
curious brown eyes. I began to panic. Stay calm, I
told myself. Stay calm for the other children. And
indeed they were looking up at me with frightened expressions
and questioning eyes. But suddenly, it hit me. I left the
shoes in the store and ran with the children to find my
husband. Ephraim was gone.
I don't have to tell you about the horrific time that
followed. Everyone kept telling us to have hope. He'll turn
up, they kept saying. They kept reassuring me as if they
weren't speaking about a tiny two-year-old in the middle of a
bustling city. But the hours became days and the days became
weeks and the weeks became months and finally, the months
became years.
I blamed myself, of course. I still do. I should have watched
him more carefully. I should have paid more attention. But my
husband kept saying: "This is His Will and we must accept it
with love." And eventually, I did start to accept that we
weren't going to find Ephraim and that somehow, it was meant
to be.
But I never stopped missing him. Not then. Not now. And what
I missed most were all those lost opportunities to love him
before he disappeared. I hadn't appreciated him. I really
hadn't see the light of his precious neshomah. I only
saw his antics. And that's when I realized that a lot of
mothers who have many children sometimes overlook the beauty
of each of them. They get caught up in the grind of daily
life, and they forget to stop and treasure their
blessings.
It's awful to lose a child. And sometimes it's even harder to
know that maybe Ephraim is here, and I wouldn't even
recognize him now. But then I wonder. Maybe I would know him.
Even with all the chaos and the noise, a mother knows her own
child's eyes.
Sometimes I think I will see those eyes again. But it's been
over forty years now, and though I still pray that we find
him, I have to come to terms with the loss.
I told my granddaughter my story, and we cried together. And
I told her to enjoy each child and to savor every moment. In
the end, the real lesson that I have learned is that we don't
own anything in this world. We don't own our bodies, our
homes or our children. He owns them. And He who gives, also
takes back.
