When I was a child, my father once brought me to the temple for Passover. For two days, we walked the dusty roads to Jerusalem, choking on the clouds kicked up by camels and donkeys as caravan after caravan passed us. Many others walked with us, with scarves wrapped over their faces, and eyes squinting to keep out the dust.
My feet hurt. I could feel the blisters start to form on the first day, and when I peeled off my sandals by the light of the fire that night, they were raw and bleeding. My eyes stung with tears at the thought putting those sandals back on in the morning. Father said nothing about the blisters, or my misty eyes, but he poured a few drops of our precious drinking water onto a cloth and gently washed my feet. The pain was almost more than I could bare, but I have never loved my father more; I have never felt his love for me more. Read More →