A Point of Commonality
“Mama, what’s that?”
At a pancake breakfast sponsored by the local Kiwanis club, Poppyseed spies something unfamiliar at the second station.
“It’s treif, sweetie.”
“Are they going to make us take it?”
We waited patiently. As we approached the second station, Poppyseed straightened up as tall as she could.
“No thank you. We don’t eat treif.”
With twinkling eyes, the grandfatherly gentleman nodded in my direction.
“Why did that man just nod his head, Mama?” wondered Poppyseed.
“Because he’s one of us. He understands.”
And isn’t that ultimately what we are seeking? People who just “get us?”