The Simple Stuff
“I just graduated music school; I was a percussion major,” the young yeshiva student said when his turn came at our Shabbat table to introduce himself.
“So what kinds of percussion instruments do you play?” I asked.
“Drums, xylophone, triangle, all kinds…” he explained.
“Triangle?” I couldn’t hold back a smile. I remembered playing the triangle when Mrs.Purdie passed out triangles along with castanets and tambourines during music time in kindergarten. I loved clanging away at it.
“There are classes on playing a triangle?” I asked, amused.
“Oh yes,” he responded with a serious expression. “During concerts one of the most nerve-wracking things for a percussionist is having a triangle solo. Because if you don’t hit it just right, it could be a big, noisy disaster. I actually had a special session with one of my professors to work on improving my triangle technique.”
The simple stuff. No joke.
While I was washing dishes during dessert a sem girl dried. Turned out her parents are a Jewish-outreach rabbi and rebbetzin in one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in world. The kind of place where millionaires are a dime a dozen, and you’ve got to be a billionaire to get people to whisper and point you out during the shul Kiddush.
So I asked her what it’s like living in a community like that. And she thought for a moment and said, “I have noticed that the very wealthy people in our community have a special appreciation for our family. Maybe that’s because they recognize wealth when they see it.
“What I mean is that they’ve got material wealth. The apartments and private jets and companies and bank accounts. And my family doesn’t have any of that, truth is.
“But they see that my family has spiritual wealth which they are they’re lacking so badly. The chicken soup and the davar Torah and a loving stable family and the Jewish life we lead…”
The simple stuff. No joke.
3rd-time mommy blogger Megan Morton recently wrote:
Ever since we brought our new daughter home, her older brothers have been the first to tell me when she is crying, whimpering, or smelling a little suspicious. “Somebody needs you,” they say. I have no idea how this little saying started, but at first it sort of annoyed me. I could be enjoying a quick shower… “Mommy, somebody needs you. The baby is crying.” Or, sitting down for a second, quite aware that the baby was beginning to stir from a nap…. “Mama, somebody needs you!” Okay! I get it already! And not to mention that the newborn’s needs pale in comparison to the needs of 2 little boys. Somebody always needs a snack, a band-aid, a different sock, ice cubes in their water, a NEW Paw Patrol, a stream of snot wiped, a hug, a story, a kiss. Some days never seem to end, and the monotony of being “needed” can really take its toll. Then, it all started to hit me, they need ME. Not anybody else. Not a single other person in the whole world. They need their Mommy….
I am sure there will come a day when no one needs me. My babies will all be long gone and consumed with their own lives. I may sit alone in some assisted living facility watching my body fade away. No one will need me then. I may even be a burden. Sure, they will come visit, but my arms will no longer be their home. My kisses no longer their cure. There will be no more tiny boots to wipe the slush from or seat belts to be buckled. I will have read my last bedtime story, 7 times in a row. I will no longer enforce time outs. There will be no more bags to pack and unpack or snack cups to fill. I am sure my heart will yearn to hear those tiny voices calling out to me, “Mommy, somebody needs you!”…
The sweet stuff.
The simple stuff.
The real stuff.