By Bill Conley – America’s Favorite
Children’s Storyteller
Moral of the Story:
Saying sorry is brave when your heart truly means it. Repairing hurt matters
more than pretending nothing happened. Quiet moments help you hear the truth
inside yourself. Forgiveness starts when honesty leads the conversation. Family
is a safe place to learn and to start anew. God hears humble hearts closely.
Small hearts grow big when they practice kindness, honesty, and courage. Peace
settles in gently when apologies are sincere and love leads again.
In the gentle little town of Shalom
Valley, autumn came soft and glowing. Leaves twirled like whispered prayers.
The sky faded slowly at dusk, painted with pinks and purples, fading into a
calm blue-black night. In a warm wooden home on a small grassy hill lived a
young ram named Rami.
Rami was curious, thoughtful, strong
in his school lessons, and gentle with his friends. But Rami carried a quiet
struggle inside his chest, like a tiny drum tapping a nervous rhythm behind his
ribs. When something went wrong, or when he made a mistake, Rami would feel the
tug of wanting to say sorry, but then the words would stick like glue in his
throat and refuse to step out into the open air.
Rami lived with his father, Reuben,
who was strong, wise, and steady. His mother, Rivka, was warm, soft-spoken, and
kind-hearted. Their house always smelled of apples, cinnamon, and honey bread
during special seasons. Reuben and Rivka believed in guiding with listening,
teaching with calm ownership, and loving without loud blame, because blame
leaves marks, but gentle direction leaves lessons.
The Yom Kippur season was near, and in
Rami’s home, this time of year always held deeper quiet. The grown-ups talked
about a “Day of Atonement,” a day when hearts paused, noise softened, and
everyone thought more about making peace with others, themselves, and God. Rami
liked the feeling of peace, but he worried about the apology part. He thought
maybe apologies were embarrassing, weak, or something only adults cared about.
But in Judaism, apologies were not weak. They were cleansing, brave,
purposeful, and honest.
One afternoon at school, Rami
watched his friend, Miriam, help give out pencils to classmates who had
forgotten theirs. Miriam was small and soft and loved storytelling in class. She
once whispered to Rami, “You are strong enough to say sorry when needed.
Strength has a quiet voice too.”
Rami admired Miriam, but he still
wasn’t sure.
A few days later, a small mistake
bumped into his life. It was nothing giant. Nothing mean. Just one moment of
impulse that left a mess that needed fixing. Rami was carrying his school art
project: a clay menorah he carefully shaped for the synagogue window display.
He had molded it with deep care. No cracks. No sloppy smudge. Just smooth
shaping, calm patience, and brushed-on detail. Kids passed by him gently on the
way to the school garden. But Rami turned too fast without looking, bumped the
display rack with his basket, and his clay menorah toppled onto the ground in a
dusty thud.
The children gasped.
Rami’s heart dropped low.
A teacher, Mrs. Goldina, approached
calmly to correct him gently. Correcting gently grows a heart taller on the
inside. She said, “The art isn't broken. But the sorry needs to be spoken in
truth, Rami. A cleaned heart begins with spoken repairs.”
The next morning, Rami visited the
town square produce stand belonging to Mitzvah Market. He saw neighbors handing
out apples with quiet charity and families picking up candles and prayer books
for Yom Kippur night. Adults would fast, but children would learn from afar,
and missing sorry from afar still needs spoken sorry to close the loop.
His father found him sitting in the
shade of a pomegranate tree, shoulders slumped, wooly head bowed low.
“Rami,” Reuben said calmly, “do you
know why we do this holiday each year?”
Rami looked up.
“To say sorry to God?” he guessed.
Reuben nodded. “Yes. But also to one
another. And to yourself. And to anyone whose peace you may have bumped. The
fast quiets distractions so the heart can speak truth. If you have hurt someone
wrong, you tell them sorry with meaning… and then you make it right.”
Rami squeezed his eyes shut.
Oh.
He had bumped peace lately.
Not with hate.
Not with meanness.
Just careless speed.
Careless speed still leaves crumbs.
His mother, Rivka, came outside too,
setting a gentle wool scarf around his neck that she had knitted slowly for Yom
Kippur’s children’s tradition, crisp with kindness. “Fasting makes space
inside. Sorry fills the space with healing,” she said.
That evening, as the sunset lowered
itself humbly behind the hills, the town quieted, not in sadness, but in solemn
togetherness. Families hugged tighter. Friends walked slower beside one
another. Desk chairs sat empty at school the next day because Yom Kippur was
beginning for the next 25 hours. The grown-ups would attend services, reflect
truly, and fast from sundown to sundown. But Rami saw this was not a food-only
tradition; it was a heart tradition, so hearts quieted pride and spoke truth.
Rami sat with his family in their
living room. The lamp burned lightly. Calm oil flame flickering. The atmosphere
was solemn but never grim; solemn can still smile gently, especially when
hearts feel safe. He knew it was time.
No one forced him.
No one shamed him.
Because shame shouts, and Yom Kippur
whispers.
He inhaled humbly.
Then he spoke out loud:
“Mama, Papa, friends of the valley,
and anyone whose peace I bumped or bruised, I am sorry. My heart means it. I
will repair what I can, do better, listen more, speak slower when needed, and
help others clean their sorry baskets too.”
His father, Reuben, smiled the proud,
soft smile of a father who sees a child growing up strong inside. His
mother, Rivka, hugged him, their horns nearly bumping but not bumping because
horns should swirl, not stab. The siblings listened calmly. Forgiveness was
spoken softly by the other rams sitting in reflection too.
Rami walked to the synagogue hilltop
as Yom services ended the next day, where lanterns glowed crisp and clear to
his family and friends, reflecting God, tradition, and new starts. As Rabbi
Reuben once taught him, Yom is about humble ownership.
Moral
Poem of the Story:
Strong hearts speak softly when they
repair.
Fasting hearts make room for better prayer.
Sorry heals more than hiding ever could.
Fixing it makes it feel understood.
Brave rams start new seasons clean on the inside.
Listening first keeps friendships easier to guide.
Apologies warmly spoken mend what was bruised.
Peace lives in hearts humble enough to choose.
Discussion
Questions for Parents & Caregivers:
1.
What is one apology your child can
practice speaking sincerely this week?
2.
How can your family make small
moments of reflection part of everyday life?
3.
What gentle routine helps your child
walk calmly, listen fully, and repair kindly when needed?
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