The Rabbi at Kol Nidre invites us to consider where our fires
Burn steadily, sweetly, kindle strength like the eternal flame
And where our fires
rage out of control. And how they are both
from the same spark – it’s complicated
I am trying, I tell my children, but I commit sins
When I am not looking (but God is)
And when I am.
I commit the sin of texting at dinner
And the sin of not accepting their flaws
Of yelling when they get up from the table to play with the dog
And let their broccoli fall on the floor
I commit the sin of rushing them out the door because
We are late for school again
And the sin of making them the last kid picked up from gymnastics
Because I am late
Again, rushing.
I commit the sin of enjoying time with my boyfriend more than time with them,
Of forcing them to try kale and squash and kidney beans for the 4th, 5th, 6th times
Even though they have already told me
I don’t like it!
I commit the sin of not listening to them
And the sin of not hearing them
The sin of talking at them
And the sin of not saying so when I see them do something good
The Rebbe teaches that we are all broken vessels, scattered across the world, waiting to be rejoined in a perfect Pangea to hold God’s light.
Until then, we are each tasked with carrying our own little flame
When we have children, they are perfect inside of us.
They are perfect holding a leaf, kissing a puppy, saying night-night to the orange egg of a sun as it slips into the ocean, crying when they think it’s gone forever
They are perfect in their pimples and their eyes filling up with tears because the dog won’t follow them on a walk, in their quiet moments drawing Pokemon figures from a how-to book at the dresser they share with their brother
Do we break our children? Must they be broken to find their light? Must we tempt them with false gods? Must we be their accusers?
Part II: The sins against teenagers
For the sin of not recognizing you are a boy and a girl and a child and a grown up and my heart, my heart, my heart
For this sin of not holding you closer when you were younger, for wanting to run to work as the daycare ladies ripped one skinny arm and then another from my shoulders, just as the first arm flung back around me. You were like a starfish on my face, suctioned, and I only wanted you off, and now I want you back, now that all your stickers are filled with sand and don’t suction anymore and you are off, away, floating toward the reef and out into the open ocean – why didn’t I see it then, why didn’t I tether you to my coral?
For the sin of trying to control you, for pushing you into Bar Mitzvahs and sports that I think will ease your anxiety and parties that I think you’ll enjoy and cleaning your room and cooking a certain way with the spoon I think is better when you just want to use the spatula and you want the heat up that high and you don’t care if you burn your grilled cheese.
For the sin of not pushing you to get off the couch more when I want you to come hiking or visit a college or take the SATs, for letting you languish, for not thinking you had problems just because you weren’t the problem kid at the moment.
For not seeing you as a teenager when clearly you have become a teenager and I can only still see you as the little kid you are, the youngest, so young, so heartbreakingly young still, but not a baby, not the baby anymore.
For the sin of thinking that my whirlwind of responsibilities entitles me to order you around: open those curtains, feed the dog, unload the dishwasher, get your shoes off the coffee table. For the sin of interrupting Dungeons and Dragons.
For not listening to you when your Daddy and I are talking and you just want attention so badly, for not playing Barbies with you when I have to cook dinner or change the wash or mop the floor or practice Hebrew with your brother or email the doctor or walk the dog or text your aunts or anything, anything, anything other than playing Barbies with you, when you just want to play Barbies with me and I should know – I should know- that you will not want to play Barbies with me forever. The sin of not playing Barbies. Now.
Part II: The sins against the self
My fire flares when the dog nips the baby as I’m trying to change her in the middle of the night, my fire smolders as I lay in bed praying the house will remain silent just a moment more.
My fire burns to the ground my carefully constructed relationship with my sister when I am jealous (at 47, still!) that my parents loved her best.
The Rabbi cautions, Yom Kippur is not a holiday of self-flagellation, it is not about the good self and the bad self, it is a reckoning of kindly inviting ourselves to the path of righteous flame.
There is no such thing as the devil in Judaism, but rather an Angel who both accuses and reveals the impulse for doing evil.
For the sin of yearning and the sin of wishing I didn’t want so much.
For the sin of not letting my heart break when you decide to spend the night at your father’s house instead. For this sin of doubting your love.
For the sin of taking my own children for granted when God seems to have forsaken the children of Israel and Gaza. Where is God? Where is God? For the sin of doubting God.
For the sin of not giving myself just a moment – that delicate moment when your eyebrow is raised as you learn a new chord, the light coming through the curtains
Just so.
