SHELLY KORN Care Imagineer | Sunset Care
The five children of the Haggadah at the bedside.
As I began preparing for our Seder this year – finalising the guest list, deciding who would read which portion of the Haggadah and who would ask the Four Questions – something unexpected struck me: the children of the Haggadah are not confined to our Seder table.
They can be found around ICU beds. In oncology waiting rooms. In living rooms where serious conversations unfold.
The Seder teaches that identity is revealed through the questions we ask.
Illness does the same.
Like the Exodus story, crisis exposes who we are – in the questions we voice, the silences we keep, and the roles we instinctively assume.
The Wise Child
The Wise Child asks for details. “What exactly did the doctor say?” “What are the options?” “Did we get a second opinion?”
This is the organiser. The researcher. The one with the notebook and spreadsheet. Their gift is clarity. In chaos, they build structure. They translate medical language and create plans.
But their strength has a shadow. They can over-function. Carry too much. Focus so hard on solving the problem that they forget they are grieving too.
The Wicked Child
In the Haggadah, the wicked child distances themselves – “What does this mean to you?” They stand slightly outside the circle.
At the bedside, they may be the angry one. The sibling challenging every family decision. The one questioning the doctors. The one saying, “This isn’t fair.”
Their gift is courage. They ask what others are afraid to ask. They challenge assumptions, disrupt the status quo.
But anger has a cost. It can fracture unity. Exhaust everyone in the room. And often, beneath the resistance, is heartbreak with nowhere safe to land.
The Simple Child
The Simple Child asks, “What is this?”
Not because they lack depth – but because they seek clarity.
In a crisis, this is the one who says, “Just tell me plainly: Is Mom going to be okay? Is Dad going to make it?”
Their gift is sincerity. They want truth they can hold.
But simplicity can tip into overwhelm. Complex decisions may paralyse them. They may defer responsibility – not from apathy, but fear.
The Child Who Does Not Know How to Ask
This child sits quietly. Still processing. Afraid that asking the question will make the answer real.
It may be the spouse who keeps saying, “I’m fine.” The adult child who has always been the strong one. The grandparent who doesn’t want to “be a burden.”
Their gift is endurance. They steady the room.
But silence can be dangerous. Unspoken needs become resentment. Unexpressed grief turns inward.
And Then – The Fifth Child
The Lubavitcher Rebbe spoke of a fifth child – not mentioned explicitly in the Haggadah – the one who is not at the table at all.
In many families, we know who that is. The sibling estranged after a bitter divorce. The relative lost to years of misunderstanding. The one who stopped coming to Yom Tov long ago.
Distance can bring perspective. But absence leaves a hole.
An empty chair at the bedside can ache louder than a crowded room.
Pesach is the story of liberation – but never of uniformity.
The Haggadah does not erase the wicked child. It does not dismiss the simple one. It does not shame the silent one. It does not give up on the absent one. It speaks to each differently.
Illness is hard enough. When we layer on family dynamics – old rivalries, unresolved hurts, personality clashes – it becomes heavier. More complex. More traumatic than it needs to be.
Perhaps true freedom, at the Seder table and at the bedside, is not that we all respond in a unified way. It is that we recognise the gift each role brings – and the vulnerability each one carries.
The planner needs permission to rest. The angry one needs space to soften. The simple one needs guidance without shame. The silent one needs an invitation to speak. And sometimes, the absent one needs the door left ajar.
Around every Seder table and hospital bed, every family carries all five children. Redemption begins when we remember that each one has their place in the story. ●
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