Hand to mouth | Imamother

amother

Wed, Jun 29 2022, 3:45 am

I used to say
That we live hand to mouth.

But I'm thinking that really
We live miracle to mouth.

Subsisting on miracles, every day.

Last week I had no idea how I could make the car payment
And today it went through beshalom.
Every time, before we run out of food completely
I am able to get more.

Living on miracles
Like our ancestors did
In the wide, wild, lonely desert.

I imagine the hardest time was at the beginning.
When the mahn falling was always a surprise
Before it became totally normal.

And like them, I know
How difficult it is
Not to have a stocked pantry
A stocked bank account
For a rainy day.

And like them, I know
The fear of gathering generously
But ending up only
With just the amount you need.
(Decided by Hashem, not by you.)

(Lately, Hashem has agreed with me
That electricity and heat are part of what we need,
But I remember when that was not the case.
A meager portion of mahn.)

Perhaps they too
Stayed up nights calculating
Just how much food they'd need for 40 long years
For hungry toddlers and growing teens and famished husbands
If the mahn stopped falling
And they'd need to slaughter dwindling herds
And were staggered by the results.

I feel a kinship with them
As I calculate how our debt will grow
With growing children, desperate schools, and rising prices
If the miracles stop coming
And we're forced to rely solely on dry financial rules
And am staggered by the results.

I find myself making foolish requests
"Just the tuition, Hashem, please"
Is that any easier for Hashem than to cover the entire debt?

And I wonder, Self
Have you not noticed
That the mahn has always been falling?
On Hashem's schedule, not on mine
Independent of, yet clothed in my efforts to bring it down

Self, every time it happens
You stare wide-eyed like a child at the first snowfall of the year
Or more accurately, like that child who still looks at the tenth with the same wonder

Do you think your worrying is bringing down the mahn?
That if you drop your mental load Hashem can't pick it up?
Why is it so hard to trust?

Remember, Self, that you just do your job
By doing your job.
No more is needed.
And Hashem, Creator of the entire world
Will keep the mahn falling.
At just the right time,
Just the right amount.
Gather it up with thankfulness
And you will have all you need.

amother

Mon, Oct 03 2022, 2:54 am

Just What We Need

She can't sleep. The anxiety is stealing her dreams away, jerking her back to wakefulness with sudden jabs of worry. She climbs quietly out of her bed in the corner alcove to wrap herself in a blanket by the tent entrance, gazing up at the comforting moon.

She drifts away in thoughts, but is dragged suddenly and thoroughly back to earth by a plaintive, "IMA, I'm hungry!" in a high-pitched child's whine.

"It's still nighttime, Yiska, go back to sleep," she tries halfheartedly.

As expected, Yiska's response is a louder, "I'm HUNGRY!" followed predictably by little Yehuda padding to her lap.

"Yiska, look outside. Do you see the stars? Do you see the moon? It's still nighttime. The mahn hasn't even fallen yet."

"But I'm HUNGRY," the petulant girl protests.

"Come, sit on my lap," she says, resigned. "You know we don't eat in the middle of the night. We eat in the morning. Sit here with me. From here we'll be able to see when the sun comes up."

"But I'm hungry NOW," Yiska repeats, but less vociferously. She joins Yehuda on her mother's lap, watching through the tent flaps for the first rays of dawn.

She hums to them, to distract them, but it doesn't work for her own thoughts. What kind of mother can't feed her own children? Why doesn't Hashem let them save food for moments like these?

True, they ate well last night, they are not suffering deprivation, but when a child complains of want, a mother's natural response is to give. But she cannot, she doesn't have what to give.

And can she tell her child why she is not giving her anything to eat? Will it destroy a child's fragile security to know that her mother cannot provide for her most basic needs?

Her reverie is broken by Yiska's excited cry, "I see it! The sun is coming!"

She scoots closer to the entrance, her children on her lap, and watches the endless inky rows of tents bursting into color, kissed by the fresh sunrise.

"Ima, now I want to eat!" Yiska insists.

"Soon, Yiska," she tells her. "We're just waiting for... for the mahn."

"But the mahn already fell!"

"Soon, Yiska," she repeats. "First the sun has to come up all the way and dry the mahn. We don't want soggy mahn, right?" She doesn't wait for Yiska's answer. "Soon Abba will go get our mahn."

"But Chava says in her house the mahn falls right by the door! Why do we have to wait for Abba to get it?"

"I know, sweetheart," she sighs. "I also wish we would have that. But..." she pauses, speaking to herself as much as to Yiska, "But Hashem gives each of us exactly what we need, where we need it, and when we need it. And Hashem knows."

Yiska's brow is wrinkled. "So Chava's family needs it right by their tent? And our Abba needs to bring ours home?"

"Yes, Yiska," she answers. "That's just what we need."

---

She is sitting on the couch, eyes staring unseeingly at the black sky visible between the askew curtains. The worry doesn't let her sleep. The list of debts are like a mantra, repeating coldly in her head.

"Mommy, I need a new coat!" her 6-year old had whined last night.

It was true. The coat was getting tight and starting to look faded.

"I know, sweetheart," she had answered him. "Soon we'll get you a new coat."

"When, Ima?" he persists.

"At the right time," she answers.

Now she sits defeated. At the right time, she had told him. But when is the right time? She knew that a coat for a child who was warm in the one he had could never be prioritized over the rent, the groceries, the basketball lessons his whole class was taking this winter.

But what kind of mother can't give her child clothing that fits properly? What kind of mother has to constantly push off the myriad requests of growing children, for gifts for friends' birthdays, for school supplies, and for new clothing?

Can she tell her son the real reason why she hasn't taken care of these things yet? Or will it damage his sense of security, leave him fearful and vulnerable?

Her reverie is broken by Moshe himself coming to sit next to her on the couch. "Ima," he whispers, "will you buy me the new coat today?"

"I hope so, Moshe," she tells him softly. "I'm just waiting for... I'm waiting for Hashem to give us the money."

"Hashem gives you money?" Moshe's wrinkled brow gives away his confusion.

"Yes, it's like the mahn that fell in the Midbar. Every day, Hashem gives us what we need."

"But my friends didn't have to wait to get a coat! Yitzy got a new one even before school started, even though it was still warm outside!"

"Right, Moshe," she tells him, tells herself. "Hashem gives us exactly what we need, where we need it, and when we need it. And Hashem knows."

"Like the mahn," Moshe repeats. "Just what we need."

amother

Wed, Jul 05 2023, 4:44 pm

I have a mountain
Hanging over my head
A heavy mountain of debt
That casts a shadow over every decision
That threatens to crush me
And swallow me whole

I’ve tried to shrink it
But it grows inexorably
More and more overwhelming with each passing day.

In the desert
The entire Jewish nation
Also stood beneath a mountain
Threatening to crush them
Not once, but twice

Once in the hands of a terrible giant
Once held up by Hashem Himself.
Both times they were saved.

One was identified as a real danger
And Moshe their leader intervened
And had the mountain crush its bearer.

The other was transformed
By our own dedication
Into a wedding canopy.

And my mountain now
Built of food for Shabbos
Of Torah-true chinuch
Of tznius clothing
Of Jewish children and their needs
Of matzah and wine
Mountains of produce instead of bread
Of seforim and lulavim and sechach

This mountain
Must be suspended above me
Held aloft
By Hashem Himself

And if I stand under it
With faith and dedication
It will be
It must be
A chuppah of joy.

amother

Thu, Aug 24 2023, 12:47 am

My debt is hungry
A huge croaking frog
It sits ugly in front of me wherever I go.

I take out my wallet, slap it with all I have
But it just grows, spits out more frogs
Until I cannot move without seeing them.

They are climbing on me when I sleep
They are in my food when I eat
Croaking in my ear when I try to daven
Sticking out their tongues while I try to read a story to my toddler
Making me shudder when my daughter asks for a new pair of shoes.

There is nowhere to run
Nowhere to turn
The frogs glare hungrily at me all the time.

As I try to placate them
With every dollar that comes in
They just open their mouths wider, croak louder.

Every apple I buy for my children
They are glaring at me
Angry I did not give it to them.

Oddly, of course
As I beg Hashem
To spare me from the frogs
I am mentally busy working out a plan
Where He can take them
How He can quiet them
Who to enlist
Concocting strategies
Running through scenarios
And backup options
Just in case

Because as the frogs loom over me
I can sometimes forget
That it was Hashem Himself Who sent the frogs.

Why, I do not know
Or need to know.

But Hashem does not need my plots.
He certainly does not need backup plans.
He does not even need me to silence the frogs for a moment.

For these frogs are His servants
And like He has done in the past,
He can simply make the plague
Disappear.