There were about twenty-five of us adults in the room. We were a varied group, ranging in age and occupation from young mothers to almost grandmothers, from homemakers to entrepreneurs.

Some of us stood, some were crawling in squat-like positions on the tiled floor, while the rest of us were sitting on very small chairs reaching a height of no more than six inches. Many of us were talking in our most animated voices.

Most of us were smiling.

There were several different activity centers set up for us. There were crayons and markers, bright colorful papers, scissors and glue, mounds of play dough. We colored, cut, glued and molded. The highlight of the program was when we all sat in a large circle, cross-legged on the circular carpet, and gustily sang songs composed from silly, nonsensical words, accompanied by all kinds of funny facial, hand and leg motions. We swung our arms back and forth; we jumped up high into the air like little rabbits and pointed to our noses after stretching to touch our toes.

Had each of the twenty-five of us totally lost our adult sanity? Were we enacting some kind of play or drama scene, or perhaps we were engaged in a psychology experiment?

No, we were simply twenty-five mothers accompanied by twenty-five energetic toddlers enjoying quality time with our youngsters at a community program geared to stimulate their intellectual, emotional and social development.

At one point—it must have been in the middle of our chorus of "the wheels on the bus go round and round" with accompanying hand motions—I glanced around the room at the comical scene of these fellow mothers, and I almost laughed aloud.

We were all so intensely focused on teaching our children how to make circular motions with their hands, just like the wheels on the bus "go round and round." I, like the others, genuinely and loudly applauded my Sara Leah's efforts every time she somewhat succeeded in coordinating her little hands and legs while managing to make a sound approximating the silly verses of the song.

Some of the mothers had such animated and excited expressions that you would think they were lost in their role. Or that that they had careers as experienced actresses.

But the enthusiasm and applause were real. So real, in fact, that the two hours spent with my young daughter in this animated play felt more real than many of my adult functions throughout the rest of the day.

True, my intellectual and emotional self encompasses far more than singing the verses of "skinamarinki doo, I love you" or crayoning colorful shapes on a piece of construction paper. True, for these two hours, I had descended to my eighteen-month-old daughter's level.

But, nevertheless, the experience was indisputably genuine, and more meaningful than so many routines in my "adult" day. I was accomplishing something essential and worthwhile for my child's growth and development. I was relating and connecting to my toddler in an authentic and tangible way: on her level.

So my applause and praise for Sara Leah's every achievement—regardless of how seemingly trivial or silly—was genuine. I understood that each little effort and each little accomplishment of hers, at every phase of her growth, really does matter. It matters to me, just as it matters to each and every mother. Yes, it required me to "descend" the great intellectual and emotional distance that separates the toddler from the adult. But what mother wouldn't travel the world in order to forge the bonds of a relationship with her child?

From that perspective, it no longer seemed silly or comical at all to be so thrilled and so energized by the activities within this bright, kids-friendly room.

Thinking of our songs, crafts and excitement as Sara Leah and I arrived at home, it dawned on me that You, too, "descend" to our level. You, too, created a "people-friendly room" that we call our physical world. And You, too, participate in all the activities, crafts and goings-on within this special room.

You do so because it is so precious to You to forge a relationship with Your children, with each and every one of us.

Often I've asked myself, just as I've been asked in my classes or lectures, how an infinite, omniscient G‑d "up there" could possibly bother to care about our "little" actions down here.

But envisioning how Sara Leah and I hugged in joy after her little fingers succeeded in making the wheels on the bus go round and round dissolved the very premise of the question.