unscreamed, like spiritual acid. The Weisberg homeland security commission was on red alert. My two-year-old took one look at my face and began to cry. If I didn't do something fast, the whole Weisberg family would soon be in tears. I knew that gratitude was the only tool in my motherly toolbox powerful enough to rescue my family from this state of emergency. But what did I have to be grateful for on this entirely awful Shabbos morning? What did I possibly have to be thankful for? I began clearing all of the place settings off the table, and after some good, hard thought, I came up with one lone thing for which I was grateful. I remembered the story my husband had told us the night before about an impoverished family in the Shtetl that did not even have anything to eat for Shabbos. I whispered, "Thank You, Hashem, that I have food to put on the table this morning." But what else? What else could I possibly thank Hashem for on this impossible morning? As I cleared the salads and empty juice pitcher from the table, I glanced at my children playing on the salt-filled carpet. I remembered the friend I have been davening for who has been childless for eleven years. "Thank You, Hashem, for my children. What a tremendous blessing You have given me. How can I possibly thank You enough for them?" I felt the unscreamed scream in my throat downgrade from a scream to a loud shout.
friends along with their four young children because they could not pay their rent. I thought of the unmarked envelope I left with their hosts before Shabbos, and whispered, "Thank You, Hashem, for my home. A home in Jerusalem, no less. That is a huge blessing. A luxury, even." The unscreamed scream of frustration shrunk to a quiet whimper of protest. I placed the salads back on the table, and rearranged the table settings. I looked around the room, at my children in their Shabbos best, at the wall lined with sefarim, at the indescribable glow of holiness that fills our home every week from Friday sunset to Saturday night. I remembered 20 years of Saturdays consisting of morning cartoons, and corned beef sandwiches, and family trips to the mall. I said, "Thank You, Hashem, for giving me Shabbos kodesh. How can I possibly thank You enough for this incomparable gift of celebration and holiness week after week?" At that moment, my husband walked in the door. "Good Shabbos!" he greeted me. "Good Shabbos!" I answered. And I meant it. When I rushed into the kitchen one last time to retrieve the forgotten kiddush cup, I caught my reflection in our special mirror. When I saw my shining face among its blessings, I knew that its shattered pieces had been restored once again to wholeness. I knew that the blessing's final words had been fulfilled: "May happiness and joy be joined with blessing and peace in the light of Your Holy Presence."
As I peeled the wet tablecloth off the table and spread out a new dry one, I remembered the neighbors who were forced to move in with
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