On Friday nights, my sons and I sometimes go to the farmers market in Monrovia. It is not the most traditional way to welcome Shabbat, but it has its own liturgy: dinner from the food stalls, the hum of families wandering beneath strings of lights, and my ceremonial inspection of whatever fruit is in season.

One evening, finding no canary melons, I settled for a frogskin melon, which is far more delicious than its name suggests. The farmer weighed it, named the price, and I paid. As we were putting the fruit into a bag, my youngest reached into his wallet, pulled out a five-dollar bill, and handed it to the farmer.

Both the farmer and I stared at him.

“What’s that for?” I asked.

“I just want him to have it,” my son said. “He’s working really hard.”

The farmer thanked him and told him he would grow up to be a fine young man. Then, because generosity can make people feel exposed as well as grateful, the farmer insisted we take some plums. My son carefully limited me to one plum per dollar, which struck him as the proper exchange rate.

As we walked away, I explained that the farmer had given us the plums partly because he........

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