Sometimes a person can hear the same thing over and over again without really grasping its true meaning. I can attest to this as I’ve often struggled with the idea of free choice vs. Divine intervention – that is, until last week. Someone at the Shabbos table explained it so succinctly that I could practically hear his idea clicking into place in my mind. He announced to everyone at the table that Hashem is the One who decides what events will happen to us. We have free choice only in deciding how we will react to what He sends our way.

Wow! To say I was blown away by our host’s pronouncement would be an understatement. Suddenly, it felt like the dawning of a new day. Everything made sense to me, and I realized that this was something I wanted to begin working on as soon as possible. I knew it would not always be easy to achieve, especially when difficult tests came my way, but I was eager to try.

We’re visiting our daughter and family. I’m in their basement suite getting ready for Shabbos and hear our granddaughter’s voice from upstairs. She’s busy running here and there, singing her sweet songs one moment and making demands of her parents in the next, very much acting like her two-year-old self.

While I don’t remember being that age myself, the story that’s been told to me on numerous occasions is that by the time I was three, I was a force to be reckoned with. Like my cute little granddaughter upstairs, I had a voice that was naturally loud. I was interested in everything around me and made plenty of comments. I “called them as I saw them,” whether they were happy exclamations or angry outbursts. I had a voice and made my opinions known to one and all.

I’m the kind of person who ponders over things. I guess I’m not one of those water-off-a-duck’s-back kinds of people. Don’t get me wrong, I’m good at making snap decisions, like what to make for Yom Tov or what kinds of presents to buy for our grandchildren. But there are other, more challenging decisions that I find harder to make, especially if they are ones that I’ll have to live with for a long time, like choosing window coverings. Should they be Roman shades or honeycomb? Horizontal or vertical? And don’t get me started about the color. Which is better, bright white or warm white or perhaps butter cream?

We drove down winding roads with sprawling farms and rolling hills in Western Maryland on our way to visit Falling Waters, the house designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. I’d never been to that part of Maryland and was in awe of the beauty as we drove to our destination.

It was a lovely couple of days out there, a much needed break from everything that had been falling down around our ears lately. They were all good things, mind you, but they took up a lot of our mental energy, which can be as difficult as expending physical strength.

Our summer project was to settle my parents into their new home. Thankfully, they are happy now, but I spent a lot of time worrying whether this would ever happen. It was an adjustment on all of our parts. My parents had to work out many details of settling into a new city. They didn’t count on the merry-go-round that customer service situations often turn into. My parents weren’t used to spending hours on the phone to get basic services like newspaper delivery or telephone connections. And I didn’t realize that every one of their worries would become one of mine, too.

 When I reflect upon the last three days, I smile with tired eyes and a laughing mouth. My husband and I had the privilege of hosting our granddaughter Dina, and I don’t know what to talk about first. It was a dream come true and something I’ve always wanted to do and had only imagined how wonderful it would be. But I really had no idea. Our daughter came to drop off Dina and to visit for a while. She brought along her two-year-old, who is something else entirely. Leah has these zees, round little cheeks that you want to kiss over and over. It was a delightful time that was enjoyed by all, but secretly, both seven-year-old Dina and I couldn’t wait until everyone left so our special time could begin.

My husband and I went out to dinner last night with some cousins. We went to a popular Chinese restaurant, which was pretty crowded for a Tuesday night by Baltimore standards. The restaurant had a warm ambiance, from the cloth tablecloths and napkins to the cozy arrangements of tables and booths.

When we get together, my husband and his cousin enjoy reminiscing about the Baltimore of old. “Remember when Greenspring Shopping Center on Smith Avenue used to be a private airport?” I didn’t live in Baltimore then, but I like listening to the stories of those long-ago days. While we were eating our first course, we noticed some familiar faces at the table next to ours. My husband made introductions, and the gentleman recognized our cousin’s name. The next several minutes were spent playing “Jewish geography,” Baltimore-style. The stories went back 60 years, but to these reunited friends, the years rolled away as if we were all transported back in time. It was delightful to watch.