As we inched along through the congested morning rush hour traffic and cold rain hit the windshield and winds that were charging hard against the trees seemed to be more blustery than breezy, I said to my kids, “Ugh-what a yucky day.”
Silence.
After a few seconds, my almost-five-year-old piped up with this whammy:
“Mommy, you really shouldn’t say things like that. It’s not nice. Instead, you really should say ‘thank you.’ God made this rain so the trees and plants can drink and grow. They need it, and God made it for them!”
Pause.
I turned around to look at this kid. (It was a red light and traffic wasn’t moving.) This remarkable child rightfully put me in my place and corrected me.
The stormy morning became sublime. And glorious.
He changed my view. My lens. I promise you I now saw rays of sun streaming through pockets of the cloudless grey sky, like radiant lightsabers. I now realized that the trees were swaying with the gentle wind. I now felt appreciative of the cooled temps of this Florida December morning.
“You’re right, D. You’re 100% right. I am thankful that God created this morning to help the trees and plants grow. And I’m thankful for you for reminding me of that.”
“And the flowers!” he said, again pointing out that our kids always see so much more than we do.
Thanks to this kiddo, it wasn’t only the trees that grew this morning.
My mother, second from left, reunited with her sister and parents upon their arrival to the United States of America from Hungary. They arrived to America December 1956; photo taken June 1957.
My mom’s brisket brought us together. It still does. (Even though my sister and I have taken turns being the “family vegetarian,” giving up meat throughout the decades, and ironically, our mom fills that family role today.)
I look back on my blissful American childhood and find delicious memories of holiday tables, a crowded house of friends (extended family was scarce in Miami) and table-spreads of my mom’s incredible cooking. To this day, she insists she hates to cook, but I know she always secretly loves the outcome.
My mom is the daughter of Holocaust survivors. She moved to the United States from Hungary at the age of nine. Rather, her family fled further persecution. She says they hurriedly left with nothing but a handful of green apples. But 63 years later, it’s clear that they carried so much more with them: the value of connecting generations, the commitment of carrying on traditions, the universal sign of love that is feeding your family…especially important for people who were starved for years and whose children, spouses and parents died in concentration camps.
My mother’s brisket means loved ones around a table – in times of celebration and in times of sorrow. The savory aroma and velvety slices that melt into the tomatoey gravy mean full bellies and full hearts. The loving nudge for me to “take just a bite” means ending my many years as a vegetarian with the yummy taste of childhood to nourish the new baby growing inside of me.
Now that I’m a mom and a wife, I’ve attempted to make her brisket myself, but it’s yet to be as good as hers. My mom’s brisket is famous in the community. People who have jumped at the honor of an invite to her table know it. People who have received the gift of a home delivery in their times of need love it. People who have attempted to replicate the recipe have come close but have not perfected it like she has. There must be a secret ingredient.
And it’s that secret ingredient that sweetens my memories of the past and my dreams of the future and brings them all together…all unbelievably rich with flavor.
Inspired by Mother’s Day 2019 and the miracles I am blessed to have upon this one year anniversary of publishing this site, trying to make a dream come to life
Words written by my daughter, age 6, inspired by Shel Silverstein
Finding your voice is something people spend their entire lives striving to accomplish. And, when you do, when you finally grow up to become the adult who has figured it all out (I’m still working on that at 40+.), who has found that inner voice that’s so loud and clear, resonating from within to say, “Yes, you’ve got this,” you find strength.
You feel strong. You realize you ARE strong. You feel empowered. Ignited. You’ve found your spark to light your way with clear vision, a north compass, fierce passion and, well, inner strength.
After a few decades of trying to navigate my own way, my six-year-old powerhouse of a daughter seems to have figured it out all out for herself.
During Tuesday night’s books this week, my husband read from one of our family’s favorites, one we’ve been reading since they were born: the timeless Where the Sidewalk Ends. They say poetry inspires. Well, this collection of poems certainly did that and, in turn, it’s our daughter’s work that offers an even greater sense of awe. No offense, Shel Silverstein. Actually, I say thank you to the late writer, one of the greatest, for providing the unsolicited prompt that motivated this Kindergartener to take pen to paper.
First, my husband read “Weightliftress.” This four line poem is about the mighty Nancy Bates.
Nancy Bates can lift those weights
As well as any feller.
If you don’t think it’s ladylike,
Then you go up and tell her!
Within seconds, our daughter said ‘Wait!’ and grabbed the book from her father’s hands. He let her be with the book and continued reading with our son. Meanwhile, she had felt an itch and scratched the surface. No less than a minute later, she handed the book back to him and said, “Here, now read this.”
It was a statement. It was a response to literature. It was her voice.
Right there, on the very same page as “Weightliftress” and – even more interestingly – “Don’t Tell Me,” which they had not yet read, was our girl’s first poem. Actually, she insists that it’s not a poem. “It’s just words people should read.”
Lisin
Written by ZMC (March 26, 2019)
Listen to girls,
Cuz they know best.
You know,
Because boys think girls are not strong.
She says that boys should read it.
She told me that when we donate it, the children who get the book will read it, too. (My ongoing attempt at raising grateful, charitable children – and Marie Kondoing my house and life – is in the form of sweeping through the house every few months and collecting everything in my path and donating it.)
I told her I’m never donating this one, baby. We’re keeping it forever. And I probably should send it to Gloria Steinem. And Oprah.
So all this being said about how amazingly thoughtful and articulate our girl is and how inspiring Shel Silverstein is and how meaningful book time with parents is (in this case especially with daddies and brothers), I’m also a little sad.
Why, at the young age of six years old, does my daughter already know that some boys think girls aren’t strong? There’s no good answer to that question.
However, she’s found her voice. Or…she’s finding it. Perhaps that’s a lifelong journey and hers has just begun.
Her voice: may it grow as she grows. May she know when to whisper, and may she know when to roar.
In a world like today’s, I pray that I do all I can as her mom to remind her to use that sweet voice of hers and to share it for good. I also pray that I remember to take it all in and, probably most importantly, that I hear her.
A new generation is rising, and it’s our job to lisin.
