Back in the days when our children were young, bedtime in our home followed a familiar script. Pajamas were put on (sometimes willingly, sometimes less so), teeth were brushed, one more glass of water was requested, and then, finally, the room would grow quiet. The lights dimmed, the day receded, and in that small, sacred space between wakefulness and sleep, we would say the bedtime Shema together.

At first, my children needed me for every word. Their Hebrew was tentative, their voices soft and searching. I would sit beside them, sometimes on the edge of the bed, sometimes leaning over, and we would recite the ancient words slowly, line by line. “Shema Yisrael…” I can still hear the cadence in their voices—the way the syllables felt both foreign and deeply familiar at the same time.

I’m not sure how much they understood. Truthfully, I’m not sure how much I fully understood either. But that almost didn’t matter. There was something about the ritual itself—the repetition, the stillness, the sense that these words had been spoken by countless generations before us—that created a feeling of comfort. It was as if we were placing a gentle boundary around the day, closing it with something steady and enduring.

As the years went on, the roles began to shift. My children no longer needed me to guide them through each line. Their voices grew more confident, more independent. Eventually, they were saying the bedtime Shema on their own, behind closed doors, without my presence. Like so........

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