Last Saturday morning, I woke up (in my bed! in my new house!) and headed downstairs for my regular shabbat morning ritual—Richmond bakery cinnamon bun, giant coffee, my current book. Only I realized that I had forgotten to leave our urn on, which meant there was no hot water for coffee.

Just then there was a knock at the door. I answered it, full of yesterday’s makeup, sleepy eyes, and bedhead. It was our neighbor Jake, dropping off a thermos filled with coffee, a little container filled with milk, and some packets of sweetener.

“You are a wonderful, wonderful human,” I said, and graciously accepted his gift.

And just like that, I resumed my regular shabbat morning ritual—Richmond bakery cinnamon bun (or two), giant coffee, my current book.

It’s called chozrim b’tshuva (returning in repentance), if we’re getting label-ly, what our family is doing.

But, it should come as no surprise that I am uncomfortable with labels, unless they are Mabel’s Labels and are being stickered onto my children’s belongings. And truth be told, I don’t even think this particular label works, since nothing about what we are doing is returning—it’s all new.

At 9:20pm last night, we pulled out the beeswax candle, the tiny clove-filled container, and the teeny cup Isabella brought home from camp. As she held the candle tight while her daddy said the prayers to end Shabbat, Isabella sighed, smiled and said, under her breath, “I just love this.”

Me too, Isabella, me too.