Something nice happens every year just about the time that leaves and temperatures begin to fall. The crisp air is filled with the scent of burning leaves and the promise of good things to come. 

Happy feelings escalate as vacant lots start displaying Christmas trees and Santa’s knee becomes every youngster’s desired destination. Trips to the mall are frequent, hearts beat faster than usual and our love for mankind intensifies.

Somewhere in the midst of these joyful feelings and fun-filled activities, disquieting facts and disturbing images cast dark shadows over our hearts. They appear as stories on front pages of newspapers, on TV and circulating social media—stories that describe the plight of the homeless, which include appeals for charitable holiday donations. They surface in photographs portraying despair in the eyes of children who look older than their years with vacant expressions in their eyes and no hope in their hearts. These children know better than to dream of Barbie dolls, sporting equipment and video games, and pray only for warm coats and shoes with soles.

We read these stories and are deeply moved, so we write checks and pull children’s name tags from huge mall Christmas trees and buy them gifts. Doing these charitable deeds during the holiday season mollifies our desire to bring a degree of happiness into the lives of those less blessed than we are. We walk away feeling righteous, believing that we have fulfilled our duty as spiritual, religious and caring human beings.

There is a tradition in Judaism called tzedakah, (pronounced seh-duh-kuh) which very loosely translated means charity.

But while charity involves decision, tzedakah does not: it’s an obligation. Charity is something we decide to give to the unfortunate to offset their adversities. Tzedakah goes beyond giving something to tide people over. Even the indigents who are sustained by charity are compelled to give tzedakah, so that the act of receiving does not leave them without dignity.

I grew up in a spiritual Jewish family where doing for others was not simply a once-a-year holiday occurrence. There wasn’t a day when my father didn’t remind us to share our good fortune with others. He made it clear that doing for others was not a choice we were free to contemplate. It was something we were required to do as naturally as we were expected to draw our next breath.

I smile today because I now recognize that we were not even remotely wealthy. My father was a farmer—a “gentleman farmer,” as he humbly referred to himself—who worked hard and died young, never to see the fruits of his labor. There were many weeks when we went without meat, fish or chicken because we couldn’t afford it. Instead, we lived on whatever the land produced—that and Kraft macaroni and cheese. 

But my father said that we were fortunate, and that’s what my brother and I believed.

Growing up, it was not unusual to find a tattered vagrant sitting at our breakfast table. My father, who regularly preached to us about the dangers of hitchhiking, would pick up down-and-out strangers on the road, bring them home and give them a cot to sleep on in our basement. 

In the morning, Mother would prepare them a large, hot breakfast and a bagged lunch. Then my father would slip a $5 bill into their hand—which was a great deal of money for us back in the early ’50s—and drive them to some reasonable destination.

When my brother moved to Manhattan, he regularly filled large shopping bags with peanut butter and jelly, tuna fish sandwiches, apples, oranges and bananas, and walked the streets handing out food to the homeless. As a teenager, I traveled by bus to a neighboring town where I worked summers in an orphanage, without pay.

In our family, doing for others was not viewed as something special. It was simply a part of everyday living.

In today’s complex world of two-paycheck families, high-interest credit card payments, endless carpooling, interminable supermarket lines and time-consuming high-tech communication devices, we barely have time to do for ourselves, much less think about doing for others. 

But there is a simple way to teach our children that we are not solely self-involved. 

In many Jewish homes, you will find a tzedakah box, which is a kind of piggy bank. All end-of-the day loose change from family members’ purses and pockets is placed in this bank. When the bank is full, its contents are donated to a synagogue, a church or a trusted charity. Even in today’s near-cashless world, it’s so easy to do and it’s an invaluable example to set for our children and grandchildren.

Maintaining the spirit of tzedakah throughout the entire year not only has the power to enrich the lives of impoverished recipients, but it enhances and intensifies the quality of each contributor’s life as well.