ב״ה Sometimes, the most precious thing your kindness gives a family isn't something that comes in a food parcel. The library book was due back on Friday. They were still on page nine. Every evening, a little girl would leave it on the kitchen table, hoping that tonight might be the night Mum had time to finish the story with her. It was a book about an adventure. She had chosen it herself from the school library, and she was desperate to find out what happened next. But Mum w

Sometimes, your kindness reaches further than you could ever imagine. For the first time in almost a year, he took a second plate out of the cupboard. He stood holding it for a moment. Then he placed it on the Shabbos table, opposite his own. It was such a small thing. But for him, it meant more than anyone could have imagined. You see, there had been a time when his Friday nights were rarely spent alone. He loved having guests for Shabbos. Nothing elaborate — some homemade s

Sometimes the smallest act of kindness can mean more than we will ever know. This week's story offers a glimpse of where that kindness can lead. It was a Thursday in Cheshvan. The Yom Tov guests had gone home, the sukkah was back in the shed, and the house had that quiet feeling of a long winter beginning. My wife made the call. I couldn't. For eleven years, I ran a small wholesale business. Good years. I had staff, a van with my name on the side, and a seat in shul I paid

By eight o'clock on Monday morning, all three children were ready for school. Clean uniforms. Packed schoolbags. Hair brushed. Breakfast finished. Nothing unusual. Nothing to suggest what had happened in their kitchen the night before. Their mother had spent part of Sunday evening washing school shirts by hand. The washing machine wasn't broken. There simply wasn't enough money for washing powder. So she used what little soap she had left, scrubbed the collars and cuffs, rins

Dear L’Chaim Foodbank Team, I have for many weeks felt compelled to write to let you know how much I enjoy the Weekly Spotlight e-mails informing me what “…Your Kindness …..” Although my contribution is small and I am unable to ‘give’ more than I am currently able to, I wanted to give you a different perspective. I would have liked to do so anonymously, however with technology as it is, I would have had to write a letter from ......., where I now live, and hope that it was ac

One mother told us that after Rosh Hashono, her daughters came home glowing. They had worn dresses received through the Clothes Bank. People had complimented them. One of the girls could not stop talking about it. For those children, it was not simply a dress. It was the feeling of walking into Yom Tov proudly. Of feeling just like everybody else. Of not knowing that Mum had been worrying about whether she could afford something special for them. And for their mother, the mom

“Mummy, did you get the chicken for Yom Tov?” Her son was excited about Rosh Hashono. He had been talking about the honey, the round challah, the little bottles of grape juice, and the chicken. He was six years old. To him, Yom Tov meant the table being full. To his mother, it meant numbers. She stood in the supermarket with her phone in one hand and the trolley in front of her. Bread.Milk.Fruit.Tuna.Challah.Chicken. She added it up. Too much. She took the chicken out. Added

I thought the children were playing in the other room. My wife was sitting at the kitchen table with a pen, a piece of paper and the beginnings of our Yom Tov shopping list. Chicken. Fish. Fruit. Vegetables. Honey. Something special for the children. I was sitting opposite her with my phone open to our bank account. We weren't planning anything extravagant. We were trying to work out how to make Yom Tov. And the numbers simply weren't working. So we started crossing things of

I took a picture of my children that day. Nothing dramatic. Just the two of them sitting with us on the grass, our picnic spread out in front of them. But I kept looking at that picture afterwards. Because nobody looking at it would know. They wouldn’t know that taking our children somewhere during the summer holidays was something we simply couldn’t afford. They wouldn’t know how many times the children had asked where we were going, or what we were doing. And they wouldn’t

She came to L’Chaim Foodbank to collect her family’s weekly food support. She expected the practical essentials—food to keep the cupboards from becoming empty and a little breathing space in a budget where every pound was already spoken for. For several weeks, her children had been asking whether they could have a barbecue. They had smelt food cooking in neighbouring gardens and heard their friends talking excitedly about burgers, hotdogs and summer evenings outside. They wer

The machine beeped. Declined. He smiled quickly, the kind of smile people give when they are trying not to look embarrassed. “Sorry, can I try again?” He tapped the card a second time. Declined. Then another card. Declined. For a few seconds, the whole shop felt too quiet. There was a queue behind him. The cashier looked away politely. The food was already packed in bags on the counter. Bread. Tuna. Drinks. A few snacks for the children. Something simple for supper. Something

The summer holidays have not even started yet, but in our house, I can already feel them coming. Not because of trips or exciting plans. Because of food. When the children are in school, there is at least a routine. Breakfast, packed lunches, supper, Shabbos. It is still tight, but there is some structure. Once the holidays begin, everything changes. They are home more. They are hungry more. They ask for drinks because it is hot. They ask for snacks. They ask what there is fo