There used to be an old fruit tree near our house which, in my mind, was something to behold. It wasn’t the tallest tree on the street, nor the neatest. It didn’t flower prettily. Instead, it shed its squashed fruit for children to pick. It stood there year after year, solid and unhurried, watching the world change with each passing season. Storms battered it. Summers scorched it. Winters stripped it bare, leaving it almost skeletal. And yet every spring, without fuss or drama, it returned. Leaves appeared. Shade followed. Growth continued.
As a child, I hardly noticed it. As a Bubby, I think about it often. Because life today feels very different from the quiet rhythm of that tree. The world has become loud and frantic. Everything feels urgent. Everyone has an opinion and a platform to shout it from. Words that once meant something are now twisted, sometimes emptied of meaning altogether. In the middle of all this noise, how are we meant to keep our balance?
Yidden are often compared to a reed, able to bend under the weight of heavy storms, straighten again, and continue growing. And yet we do not have a day that celebrates our own steadfastness. Instead, once a year, we celebrate trees, on Tu B’Shvat. Perhaps that is not an oversight. I sometimes compare our lives today to that fruit tree. We stand among the nations of the world, but also apart. Exposed to the same winds, the same heat, the same storms, yet rooted in something older and more profound. We have weathered upheaval before, many times over, while holding fast to a mesorah that has carried us since creation, since Hashem chose us as His beloved children.
We change our colours with each season. Languages shift. Countries change. Customs adapt. Even the way we express ourselves looks different from generation to generation. Branches may break, and sometimes the tree even falls. But the roots, once entrenched, do not move. It is those roots that keep us steady when the world around us becomes unrecognisable. There is a strange upside-downness to our times. Things that once felt morally obvious are now debated. Clear lines are deliberately blurred. We are told that truth is flexible, that context excuses almost anything, and that violence can be justified if it marches beneath the right banner.
As a Bubby, I have lived long enough to know that when immorality becomes fashionable, trouble follows. I have seen causes rise, shout, fracture, and disappear. What remains is always the damage done when people decide that ends justify means, or that some lives matter less if they belong to the “wrong” group. There was a time when any normal person understood that killing is wrong, full stop. Today, it is presented as moral if it fits the narrative of the moment. Responsibility is diluted behind softened language. Brutality is reframed as righteousness. And if you question it, you are told that you simply do not understand.
I do understand. When the world starts excusing brutality, it is no longer confused. It is lost. When morality is turned on its head, those who still stand upright will feel dizzy, disoriented, and sometimes very alone. Which brings me to antisemitism. It is an uncomfortable word, but avoiding it has never made it disappear. In recent times it has crept back into our streets and conversations. Sometimes it shouts. Other times it whispers. Often it disguises itself as something else entirely.
We may quietly wonder whether we will survive this latest wave of hostility. History answers that question for us. We have asked it before, again and again. Every generation believes its chapter is the hardest, and perhaps it is for them. But what remains consistent is this: we are still here. Not because life has been easy, but because we have learned how to endure without losing our faithfulness to Hashem’s plan.
Resilience is learned in small, ordinary ways: carrying on when plans fall apart, making room at the table when there is barely space, teaching children manners when the world teaches entitlement, choosing kindness when hardening would be easier. This is how we survive, not through grand gestures alone, but through daily decisions. We light Shabbos candles even when our hearts are heavy. We show up to simchas even when we hear dreadful news. We argue, laugh, we even Kvetch and complain, but through it all, we keep on going. We build homes, schools, and communities. We pass on stories, values, and faith not as museum pieces, but as living things.
We continue to flourish, this does not mean pretending everything is fine. It means refusing to let the evil define us. It means holding onto joy not as denial, but as defiance. Meaning that we continue living morally even when the world applauds immorality.
The fruit tree of my childhood did not survive because the storms stopped coming. It survived because its roots were deep enough to hold it steady, and strong enough to grow again after loss. That, I believe, is what it means to be Jewish today: to stand firm without becoming rigid, to bend without breaking, to remain compassionate without becoming naïve, to teach our children right from wrong even when the world insists there is no difference.
As a Bubby, I do not need the world’s approval to know what is right. I have seen too much to be swayed by slogans. Goodness is often quiet, unfashionable, and unimpressed by crowds. Still, goodness endures. There is a certain lightness that comes with age, not because things matter less, but because we learn what truly matters. We stop chasing every argument and start investing in what will last. Outrage is exhausting. Steadiness is powerful. So we keep doing what we have always done. We raise our families. We look after one another. We give tzedakah quietly. We learn and daven. Most of all, we remember who we are.
We do not need to shout to prove our existence. We are the fruit tree, still growing after all the storms, still rooted, still here. Regal. Weathered. Flourishing. Just as we always have.
Take Away
Tu B’Shvat reminds us that Jewish strength has never come from being the loudest or the most admired, but from being rooted. Trees are not judged by how they look in a storm, but by what they produce over time. So too, our tafkid is not to react to every noise around us, but to tend our roots: our values, our homes, our learning, and our kindness.
In a world that rewards seemingly the one with the loudest voice. Tu B’Shvat asks something quieter and far more demanding of us: to keep growing slowly, faithfully, and with responsibility to those who will come after us. To plant even when we may not sit in the shade. To remain steady when others are swept along. That is how we endure.
That is how we flourish.
Chani Schreibhand is our founder and Editor.
Shes a trained menopause coach.
Chani also has a column in the Jewish Tribune called Bubby's View.
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