I lived in a small, beautiful village near Haifa.
Good people alongside bad people, and all respected one another.
A thief caught in the act would lower his head and walk, with dignity, to the police station.
There he would give his full testimony and not lie.
He would bear his punishment and serve his time.
And when he returned to the house of prayer, he would be welcomed with joy and open arms.
The elders of the town would stand before the prayer and strengthen the man so that his spirit would not falter,
and after the prayer they would honor him in their homes, gently offering their humble help.
The whole village would stand and bless the man who had come out of prison,
his soul weeping bitter tears, and he no longer recognized it.
Everyone would offer him goods from their own store,
and he would receive special help from the very house he had stolen from.
And shame would consume him to the depths of his soul, like chemotherapy,
and he would return to his parents’ home, bedridden and ill.
His mother would care for him, his father would support him,
and he would return to strength and receive the many guests who came to uplift him —
and be uplifted.
And the man would grow and become a righteous one,
merciful toward all living beings.
