Bamidbar: 32: 1-27
"...Happy birthday dear Mikey happy birthday to you."
The birthday party ended the same way every year. After some creative activity for the kids that Michael’s mother had arranged, like a carnival, or the Ballooneh Rebbe, or the Lizard Guy, everyone would go into the dining room for the presentation of the birthday cake. The cake would be brought out by Mike’s mother, with the appropriate number of candles (ten this year), everyone would sing a rousing rendition of "Happy Birthday," the candles would get blown out by Mike, in one deep exhalation, and then the cake would be divvied up. Mike’s father would photograph the proceedings for posterity, and Mike’s sister Galit would distribute the pieces of frosting-laden cake to all of Mike’s eager friends.
This year was no exception. Everything went according to plan, until the cake cutting began. It was a white cake with vanilla frosting and chocolate cream between the layers. Normally, Mike received the first piece of cake, the one with the big red rose on it, and took it for himself. He was, after all, the birthday boy.
We’re not talking about some rock-hard, generic, sugar-crafted rose, mind you. It was a red, buttercream rose, piped petal by luscious petal with loving care onto the cake by a master cake decorator at Butterflake Bakery. It contained enough sugar and cream to give any calorie conscious dieter a week’s worth of guilt, but for a cake lover, it was heaven.
But I digress. As I stated previously, usually Mike had the first piece, with the rose, himself. But this year, in a break with birthday party tradition, Mike took the coveted first morsel, rose and all, and handed it to Galit for distribution.
"Who is this for?" Galit asked, a bit startled.
"It’s for you, Galit," Mike said, smiling at his sister.
"Me?"
"Yes, you."
"But, but, why?"
"Because, Galit, you are my chalutz."
"Your what?"
"My chalutz."
"Actually, wouldn’t I be your chalutza?"
Mike stared at his big sister. "Um, sure, why not?"
"O.K., let’s forget the grammar for a second,’ Galit said. "Why do I get the rose, and why am I your chalutza?"
"I was studying this week’s parsha, Mattot, in camp with one of my teachers," Mike said, "and I learned about the story of the tribes of Reuven, Gad, and half of Menashe. In order to inherit their land on the other side of the Jordan River, separate from the rest of Israel, they agreed to be the chalutzim, the leaders, or pioneers, and to go lifnei bnei Yisroel, in the very front of Israel when they went to war against the inhabitants of the land.
"Chumash, please," Mike said.
His father dutifully handed him a chumash.
"These two and a half tribes said lo nashuv el beiteinu ad hitnachel bnei yisroel et nachalato, we won’t return to our homes until Israel has inherited their land.
"My whole life you’ve been my chalutz, Gila.When I was learning to ski, you always stayed with me on the bunny slope until I could ski down myself. Only then would you go off to your black diamond runs.
"When I was just starting school, you sat with me on the school bus until I made friends. And you went back to your seat only after you knew I was O.K.
"When we used to go bowling, you never complained that the kiddie bumpers were up, even though you would have much preferred bowling without them. Do you need any more examples? Because I’ve got a bunch," Mike said.
"No, Galit said with a sigh, "I get it."
"Good. You’re my chalutz, Gila. My pioneer, my fearless leader. I really never thought about your sacrifices until the parsha pointed them out to me, but now I get it. And for all you’ve done for me, you deserve the rose on my birthday cake. Here. Enjoy it."
Galit blushed as she accepted the first piece of cake. She didn’t really like the rose, not being a big fan of gooey desserts in general, but as you might have expected, she ate this one in its entirety. Then, with an arm around Mike, she smiled a big red toothed smile for her fathers camera There was a little cream on the corner of her mouth, too, but she didn’t wipe it off. It just made the picture that much sweeter.
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Yes, Mike is a very precocious ten year old. Go figure.
And here I thought that he was encouraging his sister to move to the other side of the river...
Posted by: Dan | July 11, 2007 at 09:19 PM