An early morning flight and a weekend away to support my mother’s healing was not the way I planned to end my summer break, but the mitzvah was evident in the ways she responded to our time, together. Joyce is an independent person who, at age 89, still feels abundantly safe surrounded by her self-made wisdom, her books and board games, and her four children and their families. An accidental fall at home that resulted in a broken kneecap changed almost everything instantly.

After surgery and infection, she landed, temporarily, in a nursing home near where she lives, to recover safely and properly. Though she has therapy on weekdays, time with her on the weekend lifted her spirits and encouraged her recovery. From Friday to Sunday, she made progress. You must understand that she’s a very loving and proudly competitive person. It wasn’t long ago that she wielded a ping-pong paddle with aplomb and swung a golf club masterfully. An avid reader, she’s also an amazing Scrabble player, so she when she topped 325 points against me, it was a good sign. At 98 pounds she’s not going to win at ping-pong again, but her eyes lit up when she pounced at an opening on the Scrabble board in front of her.

In Hebrew, we call the mitzvah to visit parents, kibbud av va’em, to honor one’s father and mother. Torah doesn’t command us to love them, even though we might and we do. Acts of honoring them and being present for them, unlike a skilled nurse, engenders affection that emerges as love. In our family’s case, my three siblings and I have never failed to know love between our mother and us, but these days have begun with kavod, honor, that grew out of love, long ago.

I recognize the challenge for some who struggle to love or be loved by a difficult parent. Even so, it doesn’t negate the mitzvah to respect them. The word kavod means honor; it also means to give weight. In this case, kibbud means giving weight to a parent’s wants and needs.

Years ago, a young man’s elderly father died after years of estrangement. When he asked me if he had to attend the graveside funeral, I answered him with words of Torah. Honoring him doesn’t mean that you loved him or that he loved you. Going to the funeral acknowledges the weight of the grief of a relationship that suffered. Say kaddish for him and for the lost time that failed to heal the breach. Finally, I said that if he didn’t go to the funeral, he would never have that opportunity again, especially if, years later, he was able to forgive his father. Privately, I thought that attending the funeral might be the seed of forgiveness that would blossom in the future. I never knew if I was right, but he did tell me that going was better than staying away.

My mother should live to be 120, the age of Moses, and in good health. But if she fails to thrive that long, we have it on good authority from her that she’s grateful for her life and for her family. We are grateful, too. Though challenges face every family, and ours hasn’t been spared, there are better ways than others to bridge the gap, to overcome the breach, and find shalom bayit, a peaceful home and a peaceful family, every day.

Whether it’s illness or relationship issues, or talks about current events or Israel, nothing should come between families where conversation, respect, and patience can ease the way back to friendship, love, and peace.

L’Shalom,