“Tikkun olam.” He smiled at us all. An ancient midrash, he explained. “Your Mr. Tannen would know it,” he told me. “It means ‘repair the world.’” He gazed at Stella across the candlelight, a favorite student. “The Jews know that everything God has created is in need of repair, flawed and imperfect.” He gestured. “Kind of like this house. Fix one thing, for certain something somewhere else is already broken.” Aunt Lorraine laughed quietly, her eyes cast down. “Easy enough to live with this when you’re old like us,” he went on, “but when you’re young,” and he paused to run his hand over his bald
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“Tikkun olam.” He smiled at us all. An ancient midrash, he explained. “Your Mr. Tannen would know it,” he told me. “It means ‘repair the world.’” He gazed at Stella across the candlelight, a favorite student. “The Jews know that everything God has created is in need of repair, flawed and imperfect.” He gestured. “Kind of like this house. Fix one thing, for certain something somewhere else is already broken.” Aunt Lorraine laughed quietly, her eyes cast down. “Easy enough to live with this when you’re old like us,” he went on, “but when you’re young,” and he paused to run his hand over his bald pate, his little apostolic flame of white baby hair. “When you’re young, it’s fuel to the fire of a sympathetic heart.”
