With each layer of clothing that I put on Shabbat morning, my children looked at me and asked, “Do you really want to walk in the snow, Daddy?” I answered that I was excited to walk to shul, and even if only one person showed up, he or she would make the walk worthwhile.

As I hugged and kissed them goodbye, I hoped that this walk would leave a positive impression on their beautiful souls. As I headed out, I thought to myself, “This isn’t a big deal. It’s only 1.2 miles. You got this.”

Before I managed to take the next confident step, I slipped down the snowy hill.

“Maybe it’s not such a good idea,” I decided, reconsidering. Turning back to the house, I saw two smiling faces waving their hands at me, and my mind was made up. I continued on.

With the wind viciously blowing snow into my face and plenty of time to think as I walked, I pondered how every act I do as a parent molds the way my children will think and act in the future. I was proud that they would know that on Shabbat, one belongs in shul. Rain or shine, or even during a huge snowstorm.

Once in shul, the snow was really coming down. I just hoped and prayed that someone would join me to celebrate Shabbat. How excited I was when another person walked in through the door! Together, we davened, sang and said l’chaim, warming up before the cold trek home.

The walk home was brisk. Sure, the wind was chilling, the snow heavy, but I was eager to make it back. I was excited to be sitting at a warm Shabbat table with my wife and children, eating delicious food, singing songs and discussing the week’s Torah portion.

Arriving home, the kids jumped up and down asking, “Daddy, did anyone come to shul?”

“Yes! One other person came in the snow.”

To paraphrase Isaiah, our children are as pure as untouched white snow. Our every action leaves an indelible mark upon them. If we could only take one Shabbat to disconnect from the material world and connect to G‑d and our children, their pleasure, and His pleasure, would know no bounds.