Big Questions, Small Voices
When Kids ask Us Hard Questions
We sat at the dinner table—beans on the high chair tray, laughter mingling with the clatter of dishes, the faint aroma of roasted vegetables lingering in the air, evening settling around us. My baby’s determined grip on the spoon pulled me into the ordinary moment—the smooth feel of the metal under my fingers, the warmth of the kitchen wrapping around us—until a thought surfaced: how many families on the kibbutzim, on October 7, 2023, shared similar scenes, unaware it would be their last? That thought pressed against my awareness—sharp, tender, and jarring. The kitchen held more than dinner—it cradled the fragile thread between life’s beauty and its unpredictability.
A swirl of emotions churned in my chest—relief that my family was safe in that moment, gratitude for the simplicity of dinner together, anger at the sheer injustice that others’ ordinary moments had been shattered. Beneath it all was sadness—a deep, aching grief for the lives lost and families forever altered. How could I sit in warmth and comfort knowing that, not far away, others had experienced their last ordinary evening? The dissonance was sharp: joy, guilt, fury, tenderness—all tangled together. I glanced at my children—their bright faces, their easy laughter—knowing how quickly these feelings could surface in any moment. Their voices bubbled around me, pulling me back into the now, reminding me that the present is both a gift and a teacher.
Then, as if sensing my internal shift, my son’s voice emerged—soft but certain.
"Mommy, I don’t want anyone that I know—not kids or adults—to be kidnapped."
His words floated into the space between us, heavy yet innocent. My breath caught, my hand pausing mid-air above a cup, heart tightening in that split second before I spoke.
"Neither do I," I said, allowing the weight of his fear to settle between us instead of brushing it aside.
He paused, eyes searching mine. "Do they start wars because they just want to?" He asked, ironically playing with small army men he’d just earned as a prize from his writing teacher.
I shook my head gently. "Sometimes people hurt others because they believe it will help them get what they want," I said. "Or because they’re very angry or scared."
He grew quiet, gaze drifting as he absorbed my words. Then, after a moment:
"Is Israel winning the war?"
I hesitated. So much I could say. So much I didn’t know how to say. How do you explain something you’re still grappling with yourself? I wanted to shield him from the weight of it all—but honesty mattered.
"I’m not sure anyone really wins a war," I said, choosing my words carefully. "Even if one side stops the other, everyone involved suffers. So many people lose things they can’t get back."
His brow furrowed. A beat of silence. Then:
"If I had a big knife, I would kill anyone who starts a war."
His words landed with force—blunt and fierce in a way that only a child’s protective instinct can be. I reached for his hand, grounding us both.
"I know you want to keep people safe," I said softly. "That feeling—the anger, the sadness—comes from how deeply you care. And that’s a good thing. It means your heart is big. But hurting others, even when we’re angry, doesn’t make the world safer. We can find ways to bring kindness where there’s hurt."
His eyes lingered on mine, searching for something beyond words—an anchor in a sea of feelings too big to name. And in that space, we sat with the questions. With the emotions.
Letting them be.
Children’s questions arrive like unexpected waves—sudden, disarming, and often without warning. They come when you’re folding laundry, driving to school, stirring soup. They come when your guard is down, when you think you’ve managed to shield them from the hardest things. "What happens when you die?" "Why do people hurt each other?" "Will there be a war here too?" One moment they’re laughing about how the moon “follows” the car, the next they’re peering into the depths of mortality or human cruelty. Sometimes they catch us off guard because we know the answer—and wish we didn’t have to say it out loud. Other times, we’re grappling with the same question ourselves, equally unmoored. Their curiosity presses on tender places inside us, forcing us to face what we’d rather tuck away. We want to protect them. We also want to honor their wondering. Holding both desires is the challenge—and the invitation.
Earlier this year, a student confided in me after class, her voice hesitant but eyes earnest: "I feel bad being happy when so many people are in pain." Her birthday was approaching, but joy felt complicated. Her words echoed what I had been feeling, what so many adults know too well: How do we hold happiness when the world hurts? How do we let ourselves celebrate when others grieve?
I held her gaze, the weight of her question settling between us.
"It’s okay to feel joy," I said gently. "Your happiness doesn’t mean you care any less about those who are suffering. Sometimes, joy gives us the strength to keep showing up for others."
Her eyes filled with tears, shoulders softening as relief replaced guilt. There it was again—that tension between joy and sorrow, and the realization that they aren’t opposites. They are companions in the human experience, each deepening the other.
Their questions stay with me, each one carving a space in my heart, inviting me into the sacred—and often most challenging—work of creating healing where there is pain.
At bedtime one night, my eldest, head nestled into the pillow, asked, "What happens when you die?" Minutes earlier, she’d been giggling at her baby sister’s silly faces, the room filled with soft laughter and the comforting hum of our nightly routine. And then—this: an ache wrapped in curiosity. I paused, resisting the urge to reach for a neat answer.
"People believe different things," I said softly. "Some think we go to heaven. Others believe we live on in the hearts of those who love us. What do you think?"
Her gaze drifted upward, eyes tracing the ceiling as if searching for something beyond what could be seen. Some questions aren’t meant to be answered—and some answers belong only to the one who asks. Her response will stay between us, a quiet thread of connection we now share.
So we lay there, the silence between us rich with wonder, the space between words holding something sacred—like a small hand tucked into yours on a dark night.
Life doesn’t wait for us to be ready. It unfolds with all its complexities, offering questions at unexpected moments. We cannot shield our children from that complexity—nor should we. Sometimes, we can sit with them in the not-knowing, offering honesty wrapped in gentleness, truth balanced with reassurance. "I don’t know" can be an answer. "That’s a really big question, and I wonder about it too" can be a bridge. Children aren’t always seeking solutions; sometimes they just need someone willing to wonder with them. Sometimes, presence is enough.
There are also moments when wondering isn’t what they need—moments when the truth, even if painful, must be spoken. When someone is ill, when a loved one dies, or when a tragedy directly touches their lives, softening reality too much can leave them confused or unprepared. Children deserve honesty that respects both their emotional capacity and their right to know what affects them. It’s a delicate balance—offering truth in words they can hold without burdening them with more than they can carry.
"Yes, Grandma is very sick, and the doctors are doing their best, but sometimes people don’t get better."
Or, "Something very sad happened today, and I know you’ll hear people talking about it. Let’s talk about it together so you don’t have to wonder alone."
Hard truths can be an act of love—anchoring children in reality while providing the safety of our presence to help them navigate it. The goal isn’t to shield them from sadness or fear, but to show them those feelings are bearable when shared. In these moments, honesty and compassion walk hand in hand: telling them the truth, holding them through the emotions it stirs, and reassuring them that, whatever comes, they won’t face it alone.
This week, during our session, a second grader looked up at me, eyes bright with curiosity. "Were guns used to kill Martin Luther King?" The question landed between us—straightforward, inquisitive. It was the kind of direct seeking children often bring, wanting to understand facts as they piece together what they’ve heard in school or at home.
This is a child I’ve worked with before, someone who often engages thoughtfully with stories—especially those from the Torah. When we meet, he sometimes expresses what he’s learning through drawing or felt art, creating scenes that reflect both his interest and curiosity. His questions, like many children’s, are a mix of wanting to know and trying to make sense of what people do.
I paused briefly before answering, mindful of offering both honesty and reassurance.
"Yes," I said gently. "Someone did use a gun to hurt him, which was a very wrong choice. Dr. King believed in solving problems with words and kindness, not violence."
He nodded, absorbing the information without much reaction. His gaze shifted back to the materials on the table, ready to move on—content with having the answer.
We carry so much as parents and educators: our fears, our grief, our longing to hand children a world gentler than the one they sometimes encounter. There’s no handbook for these conversations, no perfect script. There’s just the moment—the question—and our choice to meet it with honesty and care. To hold complexity without rushing to fix it. To let the questions breathe, even when the air feels heavy.
In the Jewish tradition, joy itself is an act of resistance. To sing, to dance, to laugh—to carry light forward in the face of darkness—is not to ignore the pain of the world but to insist that it will not define us. We can hold grief for those who are suffering while also affirming life’s goodness. By holding both, we teach our children to keep their hearts open, to seek connection even when answers feel far away, to trust that they are never alone in their wondering. Joy becomes not just a feeling, but a declaration: We will not let hatred extinguish what is sacred and alive within us.
Long after the plates were cleared, the conversation lingered. Beans still smeared across the high chair tray, my baby’s laughter echoing in my mind, my son’s words settling into the quiet after the bedtime rush. There was no neat closure, no satisfying bow to tie around his questions. Life rarely offers such simplicity. But maybe that’s not what matters most.
Maybe the greatest gift isn’t a solution—it’s our willingness to walk beside them. To meet them in the wondering. To let the journey toward meaning unfold, one tender, complicated step at a time.
Perhaps, in the end, the most meaningful thing we offer isn’t answers, but our willingness to sit with the questions—ours and theirs.
What questions have your children—or your own heart—asked lately that deserve space to simply be held?