by Chana Weisberg

It happens every time.

My little three-year-old has done some misdeed, as mischievous three-year-olds will do. He may have crayoned the wall again, or pulled his sister's ponytail real hard, or refused to share his toys. For any of these, he will have earned his "consequence" -- three minutes of "time-out," as advised by the experts, one minute per year of age.

He'll begin sitting on the designated step. Not a half a minute will pass when he'll approach me, blue eyes wide and intent, and mouth those magical words that melt a mother's heart.

"I'm sorry, Mommy. Can I come out now? I won't do it again."

Of course I know that within the hour he will repeat the same, or worse, misdeed.

Yet, I am also aware that, for that very moment, his apology is sincere, his resolution real and his request heartfelt. So how can I deny him?

I may remain resolute the first time he asks, and have him stay long enough to at least serve almost half of his three-minute sentence. But eventually I'll succumb to his pleas.

After all, don't we all make mistakes? The point is to learn from our follies. Who's to say that the extra minute and a half will impart the lesson better? Besides, I also want him to learn the equally valuable lesson of forgiveness. Moreover, I can't bear to see his face, so full of hope, fall as a result of my own doing. Every mother knows this. We all experience it with our children.

That's when I wonder about G-d. I think about how long the "time-out" of our galut (exile and diaspora) has lasted. "Don't You see our sad eyes raised to You in prayer? Don't You hear our apologies for our misdeeds?

"Don't You see our hopeful faces? Why must we be sent back, time and again, to serve our agonizingly long "time-out"?

Then I tell myself that perhaps galut is not like that at all.

Maybe it's more like me watching my six-year-old learn to ride her bike without its training wheels. I hold back, watching her try, again and again.

I brace myself for the moment that I will let her go beyond my secure hold.

Sadly, I watch her tip over once more. But as she falls and scrapes her knee on the hard concrete, I embrace her and wipe away her tears.

If frustration overtakes her, I insist that we've practiced enough for now.

Her feelings of failure are not worth the gain of the skill, and we can try again a different time when her self-image won't be so tarnished.

Then I wonder about You, G-d.

Why after our fall, don't we always feel Your warm embrace? Why don't our tears feel like being wiped away? And is the growth really worth all the pain?

Then I tell myself that perhaps galut is not like that at all.

Perhaps our long and bitter exile is more like me insisting that my eleven-year-old clean her room. I tell her to go back, again and again, until I know that she'll experience the pride and satisfaction of a job perfectly done.

But even then, I'll carefully monitor her reactions. I know that there is a fine balance between pride in earning something through one's own efforts and losing interest in it altogether. So, I may help her along, or get her started tidying up. I'll do whatever it takes to make sure that she doesn't despair because I know that when she feels powerless, her efforts will be too.

Then I wonder about You, G-d. Why do You allow us to feel powerless?

True, we will feel pride in earning our Redemption, but aren't You risking that we lose interest in it altogether?

I don't know which analogy to the various stages of my children's life is more precise. I'm not sure whether galut is a consequence to impart a lesson -- like my three-year-old's time-out, or a learning experience to gain a new skill or awareness -- like my daughter's bike lesson -- or a self-earned refinement process -- like cleaning up a room. Maybe it is a combination of all. But one thing is clear to me. I am certain that at some point You, too, have a breaking point. Be it our tears, our frustrations, the loss of our self-esteem or our sincere longing and hope -- at some point, You, too, will decide enough is enough.

I just wonder why it's taking so long to get You to that breaking point.