Hers:
Spring break is drawing to a close, and while we didn’t get away, the boys did get into the city on several occasions. David brought all three kids into Manhattan for a day of adventure (and lunch with Mommy at Battery Park), and the two older boys each spent a day with me at the office. Excellent helpers.

Commuting home through Penn Station, they saw (as I do everyday) several homeless people begging for money or food, and it made quite an impression on our 8-year-old. So much so, that when he came with me to work on Friday, he kept saying how sad he was for the hungry man and took it upon himself to go around the office and collect food from my co-workers to deliver on the commute home.

My middle guy did rather well – a hardboiled egg, a Clementine, a banana, a granola bar, some cashews, a bit of chocolate and a bottle of iced tea. “Will we see the hungry man?” he asked as we headed uptown towards Penn Station at the end of the day. I assured him we would.

I thought about the many hungry people I see each afternoon – the man my son had seen earlier in the week; the woman who holds a sign but looks to the ground, perhaps ashamed to make eye contact with those she beseeches; the woman clutching a baby to her chest, her other arm wrapped around a little boy no older than five. That one in particular kills me and I’ve given money or food, always wishing I’d remember to carry granola bars in my purse. Or a stuffed animal.

As we walked along the underground corridor that afternoon, my son carrying a brown bag filled with food, I scanned the edges. People rushing every which way to make a train, but no one standing idle with no home to go to. Where were they? And was there something twisted about my wishing there were more homeless people so that my son could fulfill his mission? In the distance, I spotted a man sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall. He was scratching his leg with a broken pencil. “Are you hungry?” I asked him as we approached.

“What do you have?” he grumbled.

“Food,” I said, and my son held out the bag. He took it and we walked away, towards our train home. I praised my son over and over, telling him that he did a wonderful thing, a mitzvah, and he should be proud. But he wasn’t. He was sad.

“What will he eat tomorrow? And the next day?”

My 8-year-old cried himself to sleep last night thinking about the hungry man, and all the hungry people who have no food or toys or electronic devices. Nothing but a broken pencil to play with. And as I tried to comfort him, I suggested that he and his brothers go around to our neighbors and collect non-perishables to bring to the Human Needs Food Pantry here in Montclair.

“I’m going to go around our street, and then the next street, and then the whole town, and the whole world,” he said sniffling.

And so today, we did. All three boys passed out flyers letting the neighbors know that they will be collecting food next Saturday afternoon. (If anyone here in town would like to add to the collection, feel free to drop off donations on our porch between now and the 28th. Thanks!)

I hope my son never outgrows that dream, or his sadness.

Blessing – We may have gone without a vacation, or new furniture. But we never went without food.