Ahead of Rosh HaShanah, I’ve been thinking about what I hope my children understand when we dip our apples in honey, and what I still need to remind myself. A personal reflection on the pain we carry and the sweetness we can add.

When I put my children to bed, I carry more into their room than I wish I did.

There is the pain of the world, the fear and anger that can follow us through a day. There is also the personal pain, the people I miss, the losses that remain part of my life even on an otherwise ordinary evening. I do not leave all of that behind simply because it is time for a story and a goodnight kiss. Nor do any of us.

And yet, looking at my children, I yearn for them to know that they can add something good to this world. Even this world. Especially the one they will actually inherit, with all its beauty and all its brokenness.

That is what I have been thinking about as Rosh HaShanah approaches, and why a familiar childhood explanation has begun to feel incomplete.

My children hear what I heard when I was their age: We eat apples dipped in honey as a symbol of a sweet new year. It is a lovely tradition, and asking children to eat something covered in honey is rarely the most difficult part of Jewish parenting.

But I keep coming back to the dipping.

We have to do something. We pick up the apple and reach for the honey. Between our hope........

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