One thing I’ve come to love and truly rely on about Hasidic philosophy is how it always invites us to go deeper. It gently peels back the layers of life and helps us discover the soul beneath the surface. The meaning behind the moment. What’s really going on.
It’s no surprise, then, that Hasidic teachings offer a deeply unique and moving perspective on parenting. They push us beyond what we see with our eyes or expect in our hearts.
So often, as parents, we carry dreams and hopes for our children. Even though raising a child is one of the most selfless things a person can do, there's still a certain joy we feel, an emotional return. The pride of watching them grow into kind and capable people, the comfort they offer just by being ours, and perhaps even the thought that one day they’ll help care for us in return. And yet, with all that love and effort, it’s easy to fall into thinking we’re owed something from our children. That they are meant to give something back.
But Hasidic thought offers a powerful shift. It reminds us that our children are not ours in the way we sometimes think. They are not extensions of us, not mirrors of our ego, and not tools for validation. They are souls, pure and divine souls, sent from Heaven and entrusted to us by G-d. Each soul carries its own story, its own journey, and its own sacred mission. And our job is to care for them, guide them, love them, and then step back and let G-d take pride in a job well done, without needing anything in return.
Of course, the Torah commands children to honor their parents. That is one of the Ten Commandments we read on Shavuot. And if a parent is doing their parenting right, they will certainly be providing an educational environment where their child learns to live the message of Torah in its fullest. But that honor is not something we are meant to demand for ourselves. Our responsibility is to teach our children what G-d expects of them, to show them the beauty of Torah, and to raise them as souls. The rest is not ours to control.
It is a message that can feel both humbling and freeing.
In a world full of parenting books, podcasts, and opinions, I find myself in awe of the clarity the Torah gives. It doesn’t just offer tips or checklists. It gives us vision. It lifts us up, hands us a flashlight, and says: here, this is how to see.
Once we understand that we are parenting souls, everything shifts. Every choice becomes a sacred question. Is this truly what my child needs, or just what I need? Am I guiding them for their growth, or for my comfort?
To all my fellow parents, teachers, and soul-guides out there, may you be blessed with strength, clarity, and deep joy in this holy journey. We are in it together, and that is a gift all its own.

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From the day the Chabad Jewish Center of South Dakota purchased land for our future Jewish Community Center, I’ve been keeping an eye on the surrounding neighborhood, looking for a home within walking distance of the synagogue.
In doing so, I’ve noticed an interesting trend. Homes built in the last 20 years rarely include a separate dining room—unless they are extremely large, luxury homes. Instead, newer houses typically feature a small kitchen table area and a living room, with no designated space for gathering around a large table. While these homes are beautiful, it’s clear that builders, architects, and designers prioritized high-end finishes over carving out a special space for dining. The traditional dining room, once a staple of the average home, seems to be disappearing.
For a family like ours, this is no small omission. We treasure our nightly dinners together and especially our tradition of hosting friends for Shabbat meals each week. A dining room isn’t just another feature—it’s the heart of a Jewish home. Given the choice, I’d trade any modern amenity for a space dedicated to sitting together for a meal.
This shift in home design feels like a reflection of a larger societal trend. Are we gathering for meaningful family time less often? Hosting guests less frequently? Sitting down to share meals with friends—both new and old—less and less?
Certainly, financial constraints may play a role. But I wonder—has perfectionism also contributed? Do we avoid hosting because we feel pressure to present an idealized version of our homes and meals? Or is it simply convenience—why spend hours preparing dinner when it’s easier to meet at a restaurant? Have our fast-paced lives led us to undervalue the simple act of sitting together at the dinner table?
I’ll never forget a Shabbat dinner when a dear friend remarked, “It’s so beautiful to see young people using china. Our adult children don’t even own a set—they don’t see when they’d ever use it.” Having grown up watching my parents host Shabbat meals, through every busy stage of life, I’d never imagined it any other way. Hosting friends—both familiar and new—felt like an unspoken mitzvah, an essential part of Jewish life. And what a joy it is.
In our small Jewish community, this is even more important. If I could encourage you to do one thing, it would be to extend an invitation for Shabbat. It doesn’t have to be elaborate—maybe just Shabbat dessert or afternoon tea. Start small, but stay consistent. Push yourself beyond your comfort zone. Even if you’re unsure how it will be received, take that step. Your home, your family, and your Shabbat will be enriched. Our community will be stronger.
Let me know how it goes.

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​As many of you reading this know, the past three years have taken our family—and specifically our daughter Rochelle—on a difficult journey we could never have imagined.

Who could possibly fathom that a happy, thriving 6-7 year-old could suddenly and profoundly lose her ability to speak, think, and develop? These changes brought a cascade of challenges, affecting her ability to be an independent, functioning child. It was as if an invisible injury had struck her brain—not in a single moment, like a car accident, but gradually, over weeks and months.

By G-d’s mercy, after many frustrating months of inconclusive tests and unsuccessful appointments, we found our way to a pediatric neurologist at the Mayo Clinic where we are blessed to live so close to. There, we encountered a doctor who followed three simple but often-overlooked rules in medicine: listen to the patient, believe the patient, and look at the bigger picture. At Mayo, we received a glimmer of hope. Rochelle’s symptoms and condition had a name. Even more astounding, it was treatable. But because it was related to the brain and part of the elusive autoimmune category, there were no guarantees. We were told that her recovery would be unpredictable—how much or how quickly she might heal was unknown.

From that point, we embarked on a journey filled with highs and lows. We encountered the challenges of navigating the often-daunting world of insurance (a story for another time), but we finally began treatment. The results showed promising signs that we were on the right path. Recovery, however, is painfully slow. While we wait for better times, the child we see now at age 9, is completely different from the one we knew at age 6. It requires enormous reserves of patience, and manufactured hope to believe in the possibility of substantial—even full—healing. Yet, who are we to give up? How dare we give up? And from a purely practical perspective, only because of how exhausting it is, how could we give up? As the incredible modern-day Yiddishe Mama, Rachel Goldberg-Polin, so poignantly said, “Hope is mandatory.” This has become my mantra.

Reconciling my belief in G-d with my daughter’s and family’s hardship has been challenging at times. I could carry on without understanding, but the responsibility for my other children compelled me to dig deeper. How could I leave my children—particularly those old enough to remember Rochelle from an earlier time, and feel the struggle—without answers? Children see through pretense; they need authenticity. I couldn’t put up a facade, or merely repeat oft-spoken reassurances if it wasn’t resonating with me.

This quest brought me to a children’s book on our bookshelf. A story by the 20th century Yiddish lyricist Yom Tov Ehrlich, based on a teaching from the founder of Hasidism, Rabbi Yisrael Baal Shem Tov. The tale is childlike yet profound.

A man walking through the woods sees a leaf fall from a tree. Troubled, he asks the leaf why it fell. The leaf, bewildered, responds, “The branch shook so hard, I couldn’t hold on.” The man turns to the branch, which points to the wind. The wind, in turn, blames the angel of wind, who ultimately directs the man to G-d. When the man turns to the Master of the World with trepidation and pleads for an answer, G-d directs him to look beneath the fallen leaf. There, the man discovers a tiny, parched worm, saved from the scorching sun by the leaf’s timely descent. The Baal Shem Tov’s teaching is clear: nothing in this world—no event, no blade of grass waving in the wind—is random or without purpose. Every moment and every detail is orchestrated by G-d.

There are times when life feels chaotic, unpredictable, and even frightening. Whether it’s happening to us, to a loved one, or even to a stranger, the uncertainty can be overwhelming. This is where Torah, our anchor and source of faith, steps in. It reminds us that while we may not be in control—and that lack of control can feel terrifying—Someone Else is. That Someone has control over every aspect of our lives and every event in the world. He has a PLAN. There is meaning, there is purpose, and there is a story that must unfold. Trusting in His control can bring comfort and peace, even when the Plan feels incomprehensible.

​Sharing this with my children brings some measure of stability to the child in me, and it reassures me that I’m not leaving my children hanging dry; there’s something to hold on to amidst this chaos. Thank G-d for the Torah that is here to help us and guide us through it all. It is a gift I treasure.

Devorah Greenberg, the woman I am honored to call Bubby, passed away last summer at age 85. As her first yahrtzeit approaches, I am filled with sadness and yet grateful to my maternal grandmother for the incredible life lessons she modeled by the way she lived her life. I have much to be proud of, and more to live up to. 
Born in 1938 in Odessa, Ukraine, Bubby entered a world about to go crazy. The oldest of her parents’ children, the young family suffered tremendously from the lack of food and terrible living conditions that was the reality of Communist Russia, and in deep fear of Stalin’s persecution of religious Jews, and so-called anti-communists. At any given moment they could have been arrested, never to be heard from again, simply for living life as Jews.
When she was only 3 years old, Germany invaded the Soviet Union and her father was drafted to the Russian army. The rest of the family fled the German onslaught and met back up deeper into Russia, spending the rest of the war years in Uzbekistan. 
Eventually, they moved to Moscow, where she spent the remainder of her childhood and young adult years, under a harsh, unforgiving regime of religious persecution. There she married my grandfather Moshe, himself a recently freed seven-year prisoner of Siberia for the crime of desiring religious freedom. With no choice, they sent their children (my aunts and uncles) to the mandatory communist, atheist school, and endeavored, successfully, to build their children’s Jewish backbone strong enough to withstand the bullying and hate from both their teachers and classmates. 
Ironically, my Bubby received an honorary recognition from the Soviet Union, I believe it might have been the “Mother Heroine” award, after giving birth to her sixth child there. When her family was finally granted permission to leave the Iron Curtain in 1964, they immigrated to Israel where they started a new life. In 1982, my grandmother received an award from Israel’s Prime Minister Yitzchak Shamir for her “Mishpachat Mofes - Wonder Family.” My Bubby deserved these awards, as it no doubt took superhuman strength to raise a family as she did. 
The key to my Bubby’s ability, I believe, lies in the trust she had in G-d; that if He brought her to it, He will bring her through it. Bubby didn’t have big plans to achieve a specific goal, it was simply her profound trust in G-d and the awareness that He knows what is best for her, that enabled her to create the life she had and the family she led.
An unassuming woman who always indulged in her granddaughter's silly complaining, it’s hard to believe she lived through so many challenges. I always marveled how her adult children were so passionately opinionated about every topic under the sun, and Bubby would just listen and laugh, as if she didn’t have anything to share, to counter. So self-assured was she, that she didn’t need to constantly add her voice in dissent. I always admired her ability to hold healthy boundaries in so many facets of life, in the many relationships she held amongst her immediate and extended family. 
After her passing, I learned that while the family lived in Communist Russia, my grandparents held clandestine High Holiday services in their home. At the time, going to Synagogue was dangerous, tantamount to rebelling against Mother Russia. So while my grandfather led the prayers for the few brave souls that gathered at their home, my grandmother would sit by the window, with one eye in the prayer book and another looking outside, to alert the other worshippers if someone would approach that looked like a KGB informer. 
That story made me think of our High Holidays in South Dakota, and I couldn’t help but juxtapose our two experiences, how different they were, and yet also how similar. 
I, too, host services in my home together with my husband. And while my husband leads the prayers, I also have one eye in the prayer book and another outside the window. 
Unlike Communist Russia, I am lucky to live in a place and time that values religious freedom, where we don’t need to worry about the KGB coming toward our home, we still, unfortunately, have security guards anytime we hold services. So I stay near the window to let the officer know who I recognize, so they can enter without unnecessary questions. 
The long-standing traditions of Torah, and the ways throughout history in which the Jewish people have held on so strongly, no matter what challenges came their way, is incredible. Like my Bubby played a role in the continuity of Judaism in her time, I too have a role in our time. Indeed we all have an equally important role in this never-ending chain. What are we doing about it? 

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Struggles are our greatest teachers.  This is also true with day-to-day struggles such as parenting and educating young children. Every day brings a new set of opportunities for learning. My children and their young friends in Gan are constantly keeping me on my toes as I attempt to understand the best tools to use each moment, the best mindset to have. 

My earliest memories about early childhood education philosophies are listening in to the conversations at my family Shabbat table as a young teenager during the annual weekend of the Conference of Chabad Women leaders (Shluchos).  My aunts and other family members, many of whom direct Jewish Day Schools, preschools, or centers for youth in their respective communities, passionately discussed the different philosophies, models and mentors of the time. Whether it was Reggio, Montessori or Waldorf, Love and Logic or Gentle Parenting, they discussed and debated these theories and tools intensely. Which method was more effective, which philosophy was more aligned with Jewish values, which would best help them educate their children and students to be healthy, confident, and good people. 

 When I became a parent and early childhood educator myself, I marveled how parenting and education theories seem to follow certain trends. In the early 2000s it seemed like the thought leaders and authors tried to find the best method to get cooperation from children. Dr. Fay’s Love and Logic or Adele Faber's “How to Talk…” all give mostly effective tools on getting kids to cooperate, listen, and “do as we say.” More recently though, the methods and goals have changed.

Dr. Becky Bailey’s Conscious Discipline focuses on building a connection between the parents or educators with the  children and children with each other, focusing more on their emotions and general emotional well-being. Dr. Becky Kennedy’s Good Inside, as her book title states, focuses on the inherent goodness inside all of us and all of our children, understanding the reasons for their behaviors, building empathy for our children and raising empathetic children. It’s fascinating to watch this generational shift and it's exciting to see how it aligns with Judaism and the Jewish view on education. 

It occurred to me recently though, that there is still at least one core pillar of Jewish education that I have yet to see strongly reflected in any of the popular philosophies, books, or parenting gurus. 

Growing up, I would learn about and watch replays of the children's rallies in 770. The Rebbe led gatherings for Jewish children, often coinciding with a Jewish holiday. The children recited Torah passages in Hebrew, sang Jewish songs, enjoyed some entertainment, and heard an address from the Rebbe. During his talks to the children, the Rebbe often focused on a certain theme, using words and terms children relate to. He often spoke of a core teaching of Tanya, Jewish mysticism, that every person, including each child, has a Good Inclination - Yetzer Tov, and a Bad Inclination - a Yetzer Harah. One voice inside them encourages them to make good choices, and another voice encourages them to make bad choices. It’s the child’s mission to strengthen the good inclination, to allow the good voice to become the dominant and louder voice. How? By listening to it and following its lead.

This is such an empowering message for our youth. It gives them agency. It reminds our children and ourselves, that yes, we all have our urges, thoughts, ideas, feelings, and wishes, but not all of them should be acted upon! The voice of the evil inclination (our ego and self preserving inclination) may be very loud, but there is also a good voice, and if we allow it to speak, even if it is a very quiet voice, we can understand the right thing to do. Ultimately it is up to the child to make the right decision.

I try to remind my 3 year old Levi that there is a little voice inside him that might tell him to do the unhelpful, hurtful, or unsafe thing. It might tell him to say something unkind to a friend in his Gan, to say an untruth, or do something that he knows is wrong, but he should pause and think, what does my Good Voice say? What would Hashem want me to do now? And though the other voice might be louder, more exciting, or appealing, which voice does he want to strengthen, which voice does he want to win? Levi loves to win, and I hope he always allows his Good Voice to do the winning. 


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Parenthood has made me think more deeply about many things I used to not think much about, including prayer and my understanding of prayer. Coming off the heels of the High Holidays, I’ve been thinking about prayer a lot. 

When it came time to introduce my children to the concept of prayer, that they have a loving G-d, that wants the best for them, and they only need to pray, to ask, for all their needs, and thank Him for all their blessings. I struggled with this. I worried about taking the innocence away from them. What happens that first time they will inevitably ask for some elaborate wish or something truly important and get the proverbial “no”? How will they be able to reconcile that not always will they get what they want but that doesn’t mean that same loving G-d, who is the one running the world and in charge of it all, will say “No” and somehow, it really is still good.

Obviously, I had work to do on my own understanding of prayer, my relationship with G-d, and accepting the disappointments or challenges in life while still being able to still see G-d as one who does only good. I’m sure I’m not the only one with low disappointment tolerance? 

A recent conversation with a friend, and a discussion we had about another aspect of parenting, really crystalized and clarified this question for me. 

She reminded me that oftentimes in parenting, we parents will make a boundary, but then the inevitable kvetching, nonstop requests, and demands of our children will sometimes cause us to rethink our decisions, and re-evaluate the boundaries we’ve made. This does not necessarily mean that we are ‘giving in’ to our children’s demands, or that they “have us wrapped around their finger.” It can simply be a healthy exercise of the flexibility of thought and principle, of not stubbornly sticking to boundaries that might have been set without all the right facts on hand. Sometimes the situation can change and that can demand new solutions. This is true about matters big and small, when it’s about a chocolate bar after a poorly eaten dinner, a gymnastics class, or what time bedtime is. 

I’d like to think this is true about prayer too, our spiritual parent, G-d, wants to hear from us. He may have a plan for us. And it may be a good one. But sometimes it doesn’t look good to us, and we can ask for changes, we can beg, relentlessly, just like our children, for even the most unrealistic of requests, and G-d who can do absolutely anything, even splitting the sea, may choose to re-evaluate His boundary, His plan, and maybe make some changes. 

Like my wise aunt likes to say, "G-d is not a vending machine", we don’t stick a coin in and get what we want, we make our desires and needs clear, and He, who truly has our best interests at heart, makes His decision based on His knowledge of the bigger picture.

Wishing for all my friends to have their prayers answered. With Chanukah, the holiday of unnatural miracles coming up, we can have high hopes. As my favorite menorah lighting prayer goes: Sheasah neeseem la’avoteinoo, bayamim haheim, oo’bezman hazeh. May miracles happen just like they did in those days, in these times too. 

Thank you so much for the incredible amount of feedbac that I’ve received from my writing 
in the last two newsletters and I just wanted to say how much I appreciate each of you taking the time to read, comment, and take my musings to heart. 

As we wrap up the fourth, (fourth!!!), year of our Gan Early Learning Center, which, as I like to proudly remind everyone, is the only northwest Jewish preschool from Minneapolis to Seattle, I thought it would be a good time to reflect on what educating young children has taught me, over the last few years. 

Just recently, one of our young friends asked me about the jar of baby corn lying on the counter, “What is this, Morah Mussie?” When I responded simply that it is, baby corn. I got the question thrown back right at me, “But what IS it?” 

“Wow”, I thought as I quickly scrambled to check google, “I’m not exactly sure. Maybe it’s the corn on the cob as it is just beginning to grow, an actual baby corn on the cob, maybe it’s an entirely different vegetable. Is it a vegetable or maybe a fruit? I never even thought 
about this!” 

One thing I’ve learned as a preschool teacher and director, over and over again: Stay curious. Keep wondering. Don’t ever stop learning. 

This reminds me of our most recent Shabbat Experience, a question came up during lunch about a particular kosher tradition. When myself and Mendel were questioned about that, we kind of looked at each other somewhat dumbfounded, we actually weren’t quite sure
Although I was always a questioning child and teenager, and wondered and debated with my parents and teachers about everything we believed in and everything we did, somehow, some things fell through the cracks, and this one daily part of my life was just never wondered about. It was one of those things, done from a young age, that we just, well, did.

Needless to say, later that evening, Mendel and I opened the books on Jewish law, and learn, we did. 

It is a special gift to be in an environment, where all of us come from different backgrounds and levels of observance. We are in a culture and mentality that is in learning mode, always questioning, in a sense of wonder, leaving no rock unturned. Just like young children. And I treasure that. Let’s stay curious.