I write this from my room, listening to my children playing on day four of the COVID-19 shutdown. Life has changed, and we are trying to adjust to this new reality. Baruch Hashem, we are healthy, and the weather has been beautiful. If it weren’t for the worry for tomorrow and sadness for what has changed, we could truly enjoy what has become a beautiful family time.

In the face of the rapid pace of the changes, I would like us to pause and think about how we are doing – not what we are doing, but how we are doing. It’s stressful. We are facing school shutdowns and isolation. We can’t visit Bubby and Zaidy. There is a loss of income. We can’t go to shul, and there is a dangerous illness lurking everywhere. We have said goodbye to meaningful institutions and people, and we don’t know when things will return to normal. It’s w sad, and we are going through a lot. With so many real concerns, we need to be smart about what we do with ourselves and our children.

I was looking at a Jewish Observer magazine from the 1980s and noticed an article about an impending crisis: the shortage of rebbeim. It struck me that the issues being raised then are the same ones we keep hearing about now. Quality teachers are the most important part of school, and we always fear that the next generation of children won’t have teachers. The main argument is that we don’t pay enough. As a teacher, I wholeheartedly agree. However, if I start talking financials, this magazine – and the community – will devolve into arguments about transparency, accountability, pensions, and tuition. I’m not going there. Instead, I’d like to explore what teachers, administrators, and parents can do, aside from giving more money, to help make sure we have teachers who can and want to teach.

Chanukah vacation has passed, Purim is far away, and the midyear slump is upon us. This is the time to get into the solid work of life – keeping to a schedule, teaching content, doing homework. All our lofty aspirations from the beginning of the year are taking shape now in the day-to-day reality that is parenting and teaching.

How do we make sure that we keep going in the right direction toward achieving what we hoped for at the beginning of the year? We have all experienced looking back at a decision that turned out poorly and saying, “What was I thinking?” While this column won’t prevent that totally, it may minimize its likelihood. The key to getting to our desired destination when planning a task or activity with our children and students is to ask the question, why?

One of the highlights of writing this monthly article is that I get to connect with wonderful parents, grandparents, and teachers in our community who come over to discuss some of the ideas I have shared. I recently wrote an article about the importance of teaching vocabulary in Limudei Kodesh and had some fascinating conversations on the topic of Hebrew language learning. I’d like to share some of my thoughts to include all of you in the ongoing discussion.

Many of us have had the same question: How come students who have spent 12 years in a yeshiva cannot speak Hebrew fluently? While I cannot impart any scientific research on this question, I can share some experiences that have helped me understand the issue.

When you look in the mirror what do you see? You see someone who has figured out that you need eight hours of sleep to function, someone who knows to avoid Great Aunt Gertrude at family simchas so as not to be irritable for a week, someone who has learned to refuse a coworker’s request even though you might want to scream. In short, you are a person who knows how to manage anger, frustration, and hurt better than you used to.

Now look at a child. Children also feel anger, frustration, and boredom, but they haven’t yet had the chance to learn the tools to deal with these big emotions. To top it off, they are surrounded by people who think that they should already know them.

When I was teaching Chumash, I noticed a disturbing trend. Some students were skilled learners and enjoyed learning anything related to Torah. Others were unsuccessful and also had a negative attitude toward their Torah learning. The gap in skills and attitudes between successful and unsuccessful students grew greater and greater each year of school. I once heard an alarming phrase: If a student dislikes math class, they will hate math. If they dislike their Torah classes, they will hate Yiddishkeit. The responsibility to make sure all students are successful is huge.

My students would look at a pasuk (verse) and quit. I needed to reach them before they got to that frustration point. Literacy research states that if a student recognizes fewer than 85 percent of words and comprehends less than 50 percent of a text, he or she will get frustrated unless motivated or supported. Frustration leads to giving up. The question became how I could help students stay above their frustration level when learning Torah.