As a child, the thought of Yom Kippur filled me with cold, existential dread. The day itself would find me in tears, certain of my well-deserved doom — like, tomorrow.
I thought such a kid as myself — often sulky, quick to earn a laugh at others’ expense, who could never, ever admit she was wrong — deserved whatever she had coming to her. Who by flood and who by fire? Who indeed. Each year I was sure my name was on the list.
Even with the perspective that comes with adulthood, I can’t say I was a particularly great kid. There were the petty lies and unmade beds — the things children outgrow — but there was also the glibness and the tendency to say whatever came to mind (the latter is alive and well, I might add).
But then I met my husband, McKay. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still plenty petty, and my knee-jerk reaction is still to assume I’m right (just ask him!), but God seemed to speak through him one night early in our relationship.
It was one of the first of my family’s meals to which my then-boyfriend was invited. At some point, my sister said something too small and harmless to bear remembering, and I was busy building it up into something that would inevitably ruin the night for everyone. But McKay asked for a private word. He told me that he loved me. He really, really loved me. And I was acting like a child. He rejoined my family while I cooled down with a deep breath. When I returned, I said I was sorry for acting so immaturely, and the evening moved on with all cheer.
(Let it be known that I was 23 at the time and, indeed, pretty much still a child.)
Call that the first step in my lifelong teshuvah — my search for my holier self. Since then I’ve gotten better and better at saying I’m sorry and really meaning it. Learning to calm down and gain the clarity to see that I have indeed acted like an ingrate means that I feel shame and guilt at my treatment of others.
Including my own children.
Because, let us forgive ourselves for one moment: work is hard. Parenting is harder. The days are long, but they don’t have enough hours. There’s no point at which the house is clean enough. The utility companies expect to be paid regularly. Being an adult is at once impossible and unavoidable.
So, yeah, I’m short with my kids. My exhaustion and stress turns into impatience and snappishness, quick responses and careless words that I immediately regret.
But like I said, I’ve become a stellar apologizer. If I can’t say the right thing in the moment, the least I can do is show my child that I am not too proud to admit that I behaved poorly. Saying sorry to a child, after all, teaches a child to say he’s sorry. Unfortunately, that’s not the end of the journey toward teshuvah.
What does it teach the child to hear me say I’m sorry over and over again? That I can say or do whatever comes in the moment and it’s all okay because… Mom is sorry? No. True teshuvah, repentance, returning to my holier self, means doing better.
The heaviness I feel at Yom Kippur is very different as an adult. I fear now that my words and actions, which this day calls upon me to examine, will result not in being smote, but rather, in a disruption in shalom bayit. A rupture in my family. A sadness or resentment in my children.
Remember that deep breath I took when McKay told me I was acting like a child? I’ve been working on rearranging that in the order of things. What if, now, I take a deep breath… before I even open my mouth? I think of a little sign I’ve seen before:
“Dear God, please put your arm around my shoulders and your hand over my mouth.”
I imagine being wrapped in an embrace and hearing that clear quiet voice “I love you. I love you. Really, really love you. Now shut up.”