One day in the tenth grade, my classmates passed around a black hat from desk to desk. When it got to me, I drew out a slip of paper and opened it like a fortune. “Orthodox Judaism,” it read. Our history teacher was known for assigning term paper topics by lottery. I was a fifteen-year-old Kentucky girl who’d barely set foot in a place of worship. I had a lot to learn.

That September, I spent my Saturdays in the library of the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary. The library had aisles of books about Judaism and the other major religions. At that time, anyone could use the collection, but only seminary students could check out books. The thirty-something white men who worked at the desk came to recognize me. Their greeting was a friendly but terse “Hey, there,” and a nod. I was quiet and studious, and they respected that.  At the beginning, I’d glance up from my stack of 3 x 5 index cards, my expression asking beseechingly, “where are the vending machines?” Eventually I got up the courage to ask. Blind eyes were turned when I snuck M & Ms to fuel my research on Kashrut.

At long, graffiti-free tables I learned about the rituals observed by Orthodox Jews. Hebrew words read like rhythmic chants on the page: mikveh, chuppah, Torah, Talmud, bedeken, mezuzah. I was tempted to say them out loud.

The Jewish practice of “sitting Shivah” made a lasting impression on me. Shivah means seven. Simply put, when someone dies, his or her immediate family members stay home for seven days and receive visitors. Rules govern what can and cannot be done during this period. Its purpose is to show respect for the deceased and to hold a space for mourning.

Now as a parent, I sometimes reflect on this ancient tradition of spiritual pause in the context of modern life.  Even my family’s simple days at home are defined by motion and interruption. After school and on weekends, I see the little deaths that accompany the growth of our children. I long for a moment to pay my respects. People rightly associate kids with energy and vitality, but they are also harbingers of loss. Their bodies transform before our eyes. Their poetic mispronunciations depart suddenly; “Allah balloons” become mere “hot air balloons.” The lullaby CD, played religiously at bedtime for years, is one night abandoned because it’s deemed “for babies.” For me, denial arrives in lockstep with these departures.  Putting my daughter to bed, I stealthily turn on the lullabies anyway, then push “repeat all” for good measure.  But when I check on her in the night, I discover that before falling asleep, she got up and turned off the CD player.

School teachers and pediatricians caution parents not to over-schedule their children. Perhaps the urge to jam-pack afternoons and weekends is an attempt to outrun all the little endings. Not just our kids’, but our own. The friendships we can’t properly maintain, the creative projects buried on our desks, the emails we can’t find a minute to answer.  We’ve been raised and educated to behave a certain way, to achieve. It’s a recurring shock to realize that being attentive parents often means saying goodbye to a version of our lives we knew and loved.

During the last week, my family has been sick. We’ve passed through the initial thrashing that accompanies the disruption of our routine. Along with our physical discomfort, we feel the strange grace of low-expectations and seclusion.  My son drapes across my lap, and I accept that the voicemails and dishes will wait. “What is bigger, a skyscraper or a giant?” he asks.  This moment is both Shivah and Sabbath. “Well,…” I begin. Together, we sit.