A Heloise and Chuchi Story: Picking Up the Fallen Stars

On my nights with the kids, we have a fairly set bedtime routine. First I read a story, and then I sing.

The singing started as a way to soothe them to sleep when they were much smaller. I sang them songs I knew by heart, so it was a wildly eclectic mix from the start. Dylan’s “Blowing in the Wind” became a staple, the Hebrew classic “Kol Ha’olam Kulo”, the German “Ich Hatt Einen Kameraden”, and Wesley’s “Love Divine, All Loves Excelling” would soon all become regulars.

In the last year, the children started joining me for the songs rather than just listening. We’ve added more, and now sing out in English, Hebrew, French, German, and Spanish. (I do a fine “Guantanamera” in the Pete Seeger style,and a couple of Handel arias. You should hear — on second thought, nah.)

Tonight, Chuchi has a plan. “Abba,” he said, “Let’s dance while we sing.”

I let them pick one song each for the dancing. Chuchi chooses the “Battle Hymn of the Republic”, which he loves to wriggle to. Chuchi likes the song for many reasons, not least because as a nice little Jewish boy, he’s not yet clear on who Jesus is, and so a reference like “He is coming like the glory of the morning on the wave” might as well apply to a rambunctious four year-old.

Chuchi waits for his favorite line — “Let the Hero born of woman crush the serpent with His heel” — and leaps fiercely in the air before stomping the invisible snake beneath his feet. (Even Jim Caviezel did not do as well in the Passion of the Christ.)

A verse or two later, when he needs to “die to make men holy” my son collapses onto the couch and kicks his feet in the air in his brief but convincing death throes.

Heloise chooses “This Land is Your Land”, which always chokes me up. On the fourth verse — “When the sun come shining then I was strolling” — she grabs my hand and her brother’s, and we march around their mother’s small apartment, claiming our America with every step.

For the final verses, Heloise makes her men spin with her until we are dizzy, and she continues by herself, arms in the air, her face bright, Woody Guthrie’s words on her lips.

I urge them to bed. They ask for one more song, and tonight I give them a new one that my mother sang to me: “When the Stars Begin to Fall,” a folk song based on an even older spiritual.

My Lord what a morning
My Lord what a morning
My Lord what a morning
When the stars begin to fall
You will hear the shout of victory
You will hear the shout of victory
You will hear the shout of victory
When the stars begin to fall

Song over, kids tucked in and kissed and given the final drinks of water, I go to clean up the kitchen.

Heloise calls from bed. “Abba, will the stars really fall some morning?”

I come and sit beside her for a moment, stroke her hair.

“Perhaps when Mashiach comes, bunny.”

Heloise ponders this with an unsatisfied look.

Chuchi, from his bed:

“Nena, if they fall, I’ll pick up the stars and give them to you.”

My daughter smiles beatifically, and closes her eyes.