The Fifth Commandment “Honor your father and mother” is universally well-known. But a question that needs to be asked, “Are there obligations of a parent to the child?” According to Torah, are there things that a parent must do for their offspring? The sacred Writ is silent on this issue.
The Talmud however fills the gap when it lists items that a parent must do for a child – brit milah (bring them into the covenant with G-d), food and shelter, education (so that they can learn a trade to be self-sufficient), ensure that they have the opportunity to have a mate with whom they can traverse life, and swimming (survival skills).
Note how few items are in the list of parental obligations. In our times we tend to overreach. In previous generations children were given ample opportunities to explore life as it presents itself; a bug on a leaf, watching the patience of a spider spin its web and tossing a small object into the web to see how the spider reacts, sitting quietly while contemplating the multiple layers of colors that emerge out of a burning candle, running and playing in the street with friends (unplanned playdates that just spontaneously occur), boredom (which has its own unique gifts) and creating magical places that emerge out of one’s imagination. Modernity has stripped us of these unique opportunities to experience life as it is meant to be, full at times, empty at others. Joy and pain are part of growth and learning. Perhaps that is why the Talmud does not fill its pages with suggestions of how children are to be raised.
At the end of this past month, I was forced to slow down and do a lot of self-care as I had surgery and was required to rest and be still. This uninvited opportunity gave me the opening to relive sitting quietly and contemplating the stars at night, the gathering of storm clouds and the quiet solitude of healing. It brought back many childhood memories of exploring the deep woods for hours on end, mowing the lawn in summer, shoveling snow in wintertime, and rolling in the soft mosses of the forest.
At every funeral the twenty-third psalm is recited. In it are the well-worn words, “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…” These are powerful and intentional words. When death snatches away someone we love we meander in a blank darkness. We feel lost, perhaps hopeless. Yet the psalm reminds us that we are “walking through” the valley. The pain will not last forever. Eventually we emerge on the other side, and we will find ourselves bathed in new light, with renewed hope having grown from the experience of loss. The reference to “shadow” also serves to remind us that a shadow can only exist where there is light. When darkness seems to extinguish all light, look for your shadow and you will be reminded that there is still hope.
Death is also a gift, not one that we invite or desire but one that comes with opportunities to reflect quietly on the pathway of our life and the impermanence of things and people. It provides a fresh perspective that even tears cannot deny. Each breath is a gift, even the ones that leave us gasping for more air.
There is a story told about a large naval vessel plowing through turbulent seas. When the captain of the ship sees a light looming ahead, he radios ahead and tells them to change course. He adamantly demands,” I am the captain of a naval vessel: change your course immediately!” A response comes back, “No, you must change course.” This infuriates the captain who yells at the obstinate person at the other end to immediately adjust his course. “No,” again comes the reply. “It is you who needs to change direction. I am a lighthouse.”
Forever we are in the process of learning which means taking into consideration that we might be wrong, that there is light beyond the darkness and leaving time to “simply be” may be the healing that we have desperately needed. Give yourself and your children that gift.
