Av & Em: The Ones Who Made a House a Home

There are some things we understand only when we are older. As children, we see dinner on the table, clean clothes, and a home that somehow keeps going. We know Dad goes to work. We know Mom is always there. But we don't yet understand what any of it costs.

Perhaps that is why two of the simplest Hebrew words have become so meaningful to me: Av (אָב), Father, and Em (אֵם), Mother. Two tiny words, yet when I look at them now, they take me home.

In my previous post, I shared the Hebrew word Av (אָב), meaning Father. It is written with two Hebrew letters, Alef (א) and Bet (ב). If we look back at the ancient pictographic ancestors of these letters, Alef was associated with an ox, an image connected with strength, while Bet was associated with a house or household. Together, they give us the ancient picture of strength and house.

This pictographic combination is not the lexical definition of av, yet as a historical picture for reflection, I find it deeply moving. Because when I think of strength for the house, I think of my father.

My dad was the provider of our home. When I was young, I simply knew that he worked. There was food on the table. There was shelter. There were things we needed. Life went on. I didn't think very much about what stood behind all of that. But I do now.

I understand differently the responsibility of waking up and going to work because people are depending on you. I understand the weight of providing and the quiet pressure of making sure there is enough. A child sees what is placed on the table. An adult begins to see the hands that worked to put it there. Somehow, Av makes me see my father again: Alef, strength. Bet, house. The strength that helped carry the house.

Then there is Em (אֵם), the Hebrew word for Mother. It also begins with Alef (א), but this time Alef is joined with Mem (ם). Mem's ancient pictographic ancestor was associated with water. Put these ancient images together, and Alef and Mem have sometimes been interpreted pictographically as “strong water.”

At first, “strong water” may sound strange. What could strong water possibly have to do with a mother? But when we step into the ancient world, the picture becomes fascinating. Animal hides and other tissues could be boiled in water, releasing collagen that, when reduced and cooled, produced an adhesive substance, a kind of ancient glue used to bind things together.

This does not mean that Em linguistically means “strong water” or “glue.” It is a pictographic reflection rather than the lexical meaning of the Hebrew word. Yet the image touches my heart, because when I think about the person who held so much of our home together, I think of my mother.

My mom was the best mother. I can say that now with an understanding I didn't have when I was a child. She cooked for us, cleaned, cared for us, and patiently attended to the countless needs of her family. She endured. She kept going. And then she did it all again tomorrow.

Perhaps that is the part of motherhood we sometimes fail to see. It is not always one extraordinary act of love. Often, it is thousands of ordinary acts of love repeated until they become a life. A meal cooked when you are tired. A floor cleaned knowing someone will dirty it again. Clothes washed only to fill the laundry basket again. A child forgiven when patience has already been stretched thin. Another need, another worry, another day, and somehow Mom keeps going.

When I was young, I saw the cooking. Now I see the love. I saw the cleaning. Now I see the care. I saw her patience. Now I understand there must have been days when patience cost her something.

And I understand long-suffering differently now too. Long-suffering is love that has learned how to stay. Love that carries. Love that keeps giving even when giving is no longer easy. Perhaps that is why the ancient image of something that binds together touches me so deeply. Because that was my mother. In so many quiet ways, she was the glue that held our home together.

Av (אָב), Father. Em (אֵם), Mother. Both begin with Alef. One brings to my mind the strength that provided for our home. The other reminds me of the patient, enduring love that held so much of it together. My father provided. My mother nurtured. And together, through countless things I barely noticed as a child, they made our house a home.

Maybe that is one of the gifts of growing older. We begin to recognize love in places where we once saw only ordinary life. We remember the meal, the ride, the clean shirt, the waiting, the working, the forgiving, the worrying, the staying. And suddenly we realize: that was love.

This is one reason I love studying the Hebrew letters. Sometimes a letter leads me to a word. A word leads me to a picture. And a picture causes me to remember something I had stopped seeing. For me, Av and Em are no longer simply two Hebrew vocabulary words. They remind me of two people whose love helped form the world in which I grew up.

I wish children could understand while they are young what many of us understand only when we are older. But perhaps that is part of growing up. We spend our childhood receiving love, and sometimes it takes half a lifetime before we learn how to recognize it.

So perhaps today, think about your own Av and Em, or the people who filled those places in your life. Who carried the weight? Who kept showing up? Who put food on the table? Who held things together when nobody noticed?

Maybe there is someone you can still thank. And if you can, perhaps don't wait until another day.

Sometimes the most ordinary things we remember were love letters all along.

Grace and Shalom,

Veronica N. Khavah

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