You Gave Our Children a Piece of Summer

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 know how hard it is, as a father, to hear those questions when you already know the answer.

You try to make light of it.

“Maybe another day.”

“Let’s see.”

“We’ll do something nice at home.”

You don’t want your children carrying worries that belong to adults.

They don’t need to know about bills.

They don’t need to know how carefully we have to think about every pound.

They should just be children.

Then L’Chaim called.

There were National Trust tickets available.

L’Chaim would even help us with the transport.

And suddenly, something that had felt out of reach became possible.

We could actually take the children out.

I still remember their reaction when we told them.

You would have thought we had booked a holiday.

The questions started immediately.

“Which day are we going?”

“How long can we stay?”

“Can we take food?”

And that part was taken care of too.

We packed the food we had received through L’Chaim.

Fresh rolls.

Prime Cut salami.

Tuna.

Snacks.

Fruit.

Juice and drinks.

Usually, when I see that food at home, I think about the week ahead.

I think: that’s another lunch taken care of.

That’s something for the children tomorrow.

That’s one less thing my wife and I have to worry about.

But that day, I looked at the same food differently.

That day, it meant we could go out as a family.

When we arrived, the children ran ahead.

We found somewhere to sit, spread everything out and watched them enjoy themselves.

At one point, one of the children came running back and asked for another snack.

And I remember my wife simply saying:

“Of course.”

It was such a small moment.

But I noticed it.

Because there was no hesitation.

No checking what needed to be saved.

No working out whether there would be enough for later.

Just:

“Of course.”

And off our child ran again.

I sat there watching them.

Running around.

Laughing.

Calling to each other.

Completely carefree.

And I remember turning to my wife and saying:

“Look at them.”

That was all I said.

Because there wasn’t really anything else to say.

For those few hours, they had no idea about the things we had been worrying about at home.

And that was exactly how it should be.

Their job was to be children.

On the way home, they were full of stories.

Who had run the fastest.

What they had seen.

What they had eaten.

What they wanted to do next time.

And then one of them said:

“Now I have something to tell everyone when we go back to school.”

That sentence stayed with me.

Because that was when I realised what the day had really meant.

It wasn’t just an outing.

It wasn’t just a picnic.

Our child now had something to take back with them.

A story.

A memory.

Something of their own.

My wife sent that message to L’Chaim afterwards.

Reading what she had written, I realised we had both come away from the day feeling the same thing.

Perhaps, looking from the outside, it all seemed very ordinary.

A family in a park.

Children eating.

Parents sitting nearby.

But to us, there was nothing ordinary about it.

The people who donated the food didn’t see our child come running back for another snack.

The people who support L’Chaim didn’t hear me turn to my wife and say, “Look at them.”

You weren’t in the car when our child said those words on the way home.

But you were part of all of it.

That is what I see when I look at that picture.

I see my children being children.

I see a day when they didn’t have to know what we were worried about.

I see my wife able to say “of course” without thinking twice.

I see our children coming home tired and happy, with stories to tell.

And behind all of that, I see the kindness of people we may never meet.

People who probably didn’t realise, when they made their donation, where that kindness might eventually end up.

It ended up in the rolls we packed.

In the salami and tuna.

In the snacks our child came back for.

In the drinks we shared.

It ended up on a picnic blanket in the middle of a beautiful summer’s day.

And it came home with us as a memory.

So, from one father to all of you:

Thank you.

You gave us food.

But that day, somehow, you gave us something much bigger.

You gave our children a piece of summer.