If you ever read any book about love languages, my mother’s picture should be on the opening of the chapter on gift giving

I quickly scanned the items in my shopping cart as I headed toward the register:

milk, a few yogurts, bread, and a package of lettuce. I thought for a minute and removed the container of pareve ice cream and gently placed it back in the freezer. There, that shouldn’t be more than 50 shekel.

As I walked into our small Jerusalem apartment, my American DSL line rang. It was my mother calling from New York.

“Hi, sweetie, how are you?”

“I’m good, Ma. You?” I replied while cutting a salad.

“Mattie, you know Shaindy from across the street, right? She’s coming to Israel to visit her daughter in seminary,” my mother informed me, “and she agreed to take a package. I’m sending you a few things. Nothing too crazy, just a taste of home. Oy, we miss you, Mattie,” she sighed momentarily, but then brightened immediately.

“Okay, here’s the number. She’s staying at the Sheraton — I think now it’s called the Leonardo. You’ll go and pick it up, right?”

“Yes, Ma, of course. Thank you so much!”

“And take a taxi; you shouldn’t be schlepping on buses in your condition,” Ma continued.

“Don’t worry Ma, the OB says I’m fine,” I protested. I didn’t tell her that I couldn’t afford the taxi fare.