This week we were invited out for Shabbat lunch by a family with a daughter in the twins’ Gan. I knew it would mean so much to the girls to have an extended playdate with a friend, and so we said yes, even though we are ordinarily very reluctant to go out for meals. I prefer to have guests at our home – it means I have to be less concerned about my children misbehaving. I would prefer for other children to make a wreck of our house than for our children to make a wreck of someone else’s home. I also don’t like being beholden to others – once we accept an invitation, we feel obligated to return it. The Talmud in Moed Katan (22b) distinguishes between two types of meals – the Arisuta and the Puranuta. The former refers to a meal that one hosts out of one’s own initiative; the latter refers to a reciprocated invitation. I generally prefer to extend the Arisuta than to be obligated in the Puranuta.

At least some of the Talmudic sages shared my reluctance to accept invitations and my preference to be on the giving end rather than the receiving end when it comes to gifts. In Hullin (44b, and Megilla 28a) they consider the verse from Proverbs, “One who spurns gifts will live long” (Proverbs 15:37). We are told that whenever Rabbi Elazar received gifts from the home of the Nasi—the leader of the Jewish community in the land of Israel, who was quite wealthy—he would refuse to accept them, and when he was invited to the home of the Nasi, he would decline. He would say to them, “Don’t you want me to live?” and then quote the verse from Proverbs about how the person who spurns gifts will live long. His colleague Rabbi Zeyra, in contrast, would decline gifts but always accept invitations on the grounds that his hosts were honored by his presence. I identify much more with Rabbi Elazar – I would prefer to decline invitations altogether – but perhaps there is something to be learned from Rabbi Zeyra as well.

On those rare occasions, like yesterday, when we accept invitations and eat at the home of others, I am generally caught up in Rabbi Elazar mode. I am worried that I will say the wrong thing, or that my kids will act rudely and refuse to clean up, or that someone will drop and break something and we’ll leave our host’s home in a far worse state than when we arrived. I cannot overcome my inhibitions about accepting gifts, and so I tend to show up with way too much food. I pack the bottom of the stroller with cookies, cake, and a bottle of wine, and then all the kids groan that it’s too heavy to push. But when we unload the stroller and shower our hosts with gifts, I feel like at least I am doing my own small part to reciprocate the generosity of our hosts. Like Rabbi Elazar, I feel like I would rather give gifts than receive them, and so I try to turn the tables even before I sit down at the table of someone else.

Sometimes I wish I could be more like Rabbi Zeyra. I doubt Rabbi Zeyra ever showed up with a house gift. He probably never even brought a bottle of wine. Instead, he felt that his presence was enough of a gift – he was gracing his hosts just by showing up. I imagine that Rabbi Zeyra was a scintillating conversationalist, and everyone enjoyed having him around. Or perhaps he was an especially good listener, and people felt that whenever they were in his presence, they were truly being heard and understood. Or perhaps he was just comfortable enough in his own skin that he could simply enjoy the company of others, without being preoccupied with anxious thoughts of what he would reciprocate and when.

If I could be more like Rabbi Zeyra, I would stop worrying so much about what I can be giving and how I can be apologizing for myself and my children. Yesterday at one point I got up from the table to check on the kids, who were playing in the back room. Matan, who was seven, was arguing with two boys in the family who were hosting us, both of whom were younger than him. The younger boy knocked off Matan’s glasses. Matan immediately smacked the boy in the face. I grabbed Matan and carried him forcefully out of the room and through the nearest door, which happened to be the door of the apartment. The door locked behind us, and Matan and I were left alone in the hallway, where I proceeded to chastise him for his behavior. At some point we were ready to come back inside, but the door was still locked, and I dared not knock. I was sure the little boy had gone crying to his father, and now the parents were reproachful that our child could be so unkind to theirs. I was mortified to show my face again. And so Matan and I missed a half hour of the meal. Rabbi Elazar might have thought we were adding on years to our life, but Rabbi Zeyra would definitely have thought us rude for disappearing for so long. And I suspect Rabbi Zeyra was on to something.

When I finally summoned the courage to knock on the door and Matan and I came back in, I immediately went with Matan to apologize. But the little boy seemed to have forgotten about the episode altogether, and when I mentioned it to his parents, they claimed to have no idea what had happened. Matan should not have hit the little boy – that much is certain. But I probably should not have been so focused on the damage we’d done when I could instead have concentrated on the good I yet could do if only I allowed myself to be more present.

As Rabbi Zeyra understood, sometimes our very presence can be a gift. Sometimes just sitting at the table and listening and participating in the conversation is much more appreciated than all the home-baked dessert in the world. If we are so preoccupied about how we will reciprocate in the future, we are not fully there in the present. Those who spurn gifts may live long, but what is long life if not an accumulation of present moments? May we allow ourselves to be more present in those moments, so that the gift of our presence may truly become the greatest present of all.