Every part of a candle has meaning,
The wax, the wick, the container, the scent.
But none fulfill their true purpose until someone strikes a match.
Until a spark brings the wick to life, coaxing the flame to dance, melting the wax, and releasing the fragrance.
Without that spark, a candle is just a beautiful object—
gathering dust, slowly softening in the heat,
never offering light, never sharing its scent.
It’s the spark that activates everything.
The spark gives the wick, the wax, the fragrance, and even the vessel—purpose.
I was seven years old when I first felt my spark flicker to life.
I began to understand why I was here:
To help.
To serve.
To make a difference.
My mother instilled in me the values of Tzedakah (charity) and Tikkun Olam (repairing the world). Though we were more culturally Jewish than religious, those ancient values—passed down from her devout upbringing—took deep root in me, more so, I believe, than in my brother or sister.
Tzedakah wasn’t just an idea; it was a daily practice. We had a pushka, a small can, devoted to charity. Coins would clink into it regularly, not just on holidays, but any time we could give. It was a quiet ritual of care, a reminder that part of being human is answering the call to help, when and where we can. It wasn’t optional. It was a duty. A value. A way of life.
Maybe I was wired for connection.
Maybe the act of giving made me feel more connected—first to my family, then to the world around me.
I craved that connection, especially with my mother.
She was smart, petite, beautiful. Blonde hair, kind brown eyes.
When she laughed, it lit up the room.
When she smiled, you felt seen.
She loved making others happy.
And when she was happy, I felt safe.
She may not have known how wise she was.
But I did.
And the person I am today… is because of who she was then.
“Michelle,” she said one day,
“Do you want to help me with Jerry’s Kids?”
“YES!” I blurted. I didn’t know who Jerry was—maybe a neighbor? Maybe a baby who needed care, like my little sister?
“Is Jerry new?” I asked.
“Oh no, sweetheart. Jerry Lewis. From the telethon. You’ve seen him on TV. He raises money for children in wheelchairs.”
I remembered. The telethon. The children. Mommy sipping her coffee while I drank my Carnation Instant Breakfast, even though it wasn’t morning. The show went on for 24 hours, and even though it was long, I was allowed to watch. I remember the counter at the top of the screen—clicking higher with every dollar donated.
And the children… some wore thick glasses, others walked with crutches or rolled across the stage in wheelchairs. They smiled, waved, and each one had a story. Mommy and I talked about how I could help, and something inside me stirred. Even then, I wanted to be part of something bigger. I wanted to help them smile too.
“If you want,” she said gently, “I can get a donation can for you. You could ask the neighbors to give.”
“Why would they give me money?”
“They’re not giving it to you,” she smiled. “They’re giving to help children get better.”
To help children get better. The words repeated in my head. And I…can be part of this?
And just like that, something inside me clicked.
A thread wove between me, Jerry, and those kids.
I wanted them to feel better.
“Yes,” I said. “I want to help.”
I’ll never forget the feel of that silver can in my hands, the official MDA label gleaming.
I knocked on door after door—more than fifty in total.
I didn’t leave a doorstep until someone answered.
“Hi,” I’d say, proud and steady.
“I’m collecting for Jerry’s Kids.
See? It says MDA right here.
Will you help me help them?
All I need is $1.”
Every single neighbor gave.
When I returned home and Mommy and I counted the coins and bills, the total came to over $250.
We were both stunned.
I didn’t want to stop.
“Can I stand outside Pathmark while you get the groceries?”
“Is that really what you want to do?” she asked.
“Yes. I really do.”
Something had awakened in me.
My heart pulsed with purpose.
I was only seven, but I felt connected to something bigger.
Helping people gave me energy. Asking for money wasn’t scary, it was empowering. And that planted a seed that would grow tall and strong.
I learned to use my voice with passion, with clarity, with heart.
That voice would serve me years later as a fundraiser, a speaker, an advocate.
That one invitation from my mother—to help make a difference—changed me.
It also taught me that Jerry’s Kids weren’t so different from me.
We were all just children.
We all wanted to laugh, to love, to play, to be seen.
One of my closest friends at the time used a wheelchair (A Memory that Shaped Me).
Others teased him, avoided him.
But not me.
When we played, he was just a kid.
He couldn’t bend down to sniff flowers, so I picked them and lifted them to his face.
I had a menagerie of friends, each unique in their own way.
One day my mother asked, “Where do you find all these people?”
I smiled and said,
“Mommy… I am one.”
Collecting for Jerry’s Kids gave me permission to be different.
It nurtured empathy. It sparked compassion.
It lit a flame that never went out.
That spark—planted by my mother—never went out.
It grew quietly at first, then boldly, winding its way through every chapter of my life.
It led me to raise money for those in need, to protect vulnerable children, to bring hope through wishes granted and lives uplifted.
Whether organizing events or co-founding a nonprofit, I wasn’t just working—I was honoring the promise that started with one silver can and a little girl who believed she could help.
But those are just milestones.
What matters more is this:
I’ve made a difference in more lives than I can count—
I’ve left an impact and done my part in Tikkun Olam, helping to repair the world, one act at a time. There is still so much more to do.
And it all began with a question—an invitation—from my mother.
A spark.
A flame.
A small silver can.
It connected me deeply to her, to love, to purpose, and to the kind of meaningful action that leaves a lasting imprint on the world.
I count my blessings that my mother lit that spark when I was just seven years old.
Today, that flame burns even brighter—fueled by purpose, guided by values, and carried forward with love.
For your enjoyment: A song from my childhood
My personal mission in life—since I was seven years old—has been to make a difference, one person or one project at a time.
I live this mission with passion, purpose, integrity, and respect each day.
While I carry many purposes in this life, the one I’ve shared here is the purpose of service—rooted in empathy, guided by values, and fueled by the belief that even the smallest acts can help repair the world.
Thank you for shining so much light into this world. I am honored to know you and the world is a better place because by being you. You remind us about the collective love and care. Thanks for such compassionate heart. Yocasta