Dear Friend,

We usually think of year’s end as a time to wrap up the bygone months and package them away as memories. How does one do that if the pain and emptiness of the year’s losses are still festering? How can one simply proclaim that the year has come to an end if its grief still lingers? For some, the pain may be a dull ache while for others it might still sting and burn… but it’s there. It cannot be stored away yet.
With the approach of Rosh Hashana, you are not forgetting that which was. Quite the contrary, in fact. You are using your experiences to guide you as you struggle to find the future.
If one would have to compress the varied emotions surrounding the Yomim Noraim into a solitary word, which one would it be? Some might choose “earnestness”, “clarity”, “inspiration”, or even “majesty”. I would consider “opportunity” a most fitting choice.
What is opportunity? It’s not a gleaming door, behind which untold fortunes are simply waiting to be discovered. No, opportunity is an opening; a chance to use our experience as stepping stones to climb ever higher. These opportunities don’t don the clothes of fame and fortune. Therefore, they can easily be ignored or even dismissed completely.
Tishrei is an opportunity. It’s the one time of year when we are enjoined to actually look back at the past twelve months and take stock of our progress. The process may be painful. It may slice through the thin gauze that shields our heart from the ravages of daily life. No one can claim that opportunity is simple.
Rabbi Yissochor Frand expounds on the story of Chana, who waited so many years to be blessed with a son. After seventeen years, she made her way to the mishkon in Shiloh and poured out her heart in tefillah. It was only then that her request was fulfilled. One might wonder why Chana waited so long to daven at Shiloh. What held her back throughout the years of childlessness?
Chana had been subconsciously relying upon her husband’s tefillos to achieve that which she so desired. She thought that between her heartfelt requests and the constant prayers of Elkanah, they would merit salvation. However, when Elkanah told Chana, “Am I not as good to you as ten sons”, Chana realized that her husband was not storming the heavens as desperately as she had hoped. It was only then, after seventeen long years, that Chana fully understood that Hashem was waiting for her tefillos.
Hashem is waiting for your tefillos. There are many friends and family members who are concerned for you; who pray for your well-being and would do anything to ensure your happiness. Yet you are the one who holds the key to your future. Only you can fathom the depth of your loss… the sheer vastness of grief that can never be explained to an outsider.
This is your opportunity to ascend to Shiloh, so to speak, and pour out your heart to our Tatte. He is waiting for you, as he waited for Chana. Your pain is His pain. Your loss is His loss. When you stand in shul on Rosh Hashana, glancing around at the cherubic faces of babies and children who remind you so strongly of that which was but is no more… you are seeing opportunity. You are seeing your chance to knock on the doors of Shamayim and place your aching heart in the hands of He Who can heal it with ease.
Many years ago, the renowned speaker Reb. Miriam Swerdlov experienced this bittersweet opportunity firsthand. Shabbos had just swept majestically into the Swerdlov home, as it did every week. But this week… this week was different.
No, the Shabbos Queen did not change. She was as majestic and sanctified as ever. It was the warm and joyous home that appeared different. The family had sustained a heart-wrenching gash that would forever leave its gaping imprint. A young child, a cherished grandchild, had been torn from their midst and life would never be the same again.
The adults swallowed their tears. The children, feeling tension in the air, acted out their confusion. Their grief was stoically clamped down as the extended Swerdlov family pushed themselves beyond the barriers of human emotion to honor the Shabbos properly.
They started singing zemiros, one tremulous word painstakingly joining another until a song formed. It was excruciatingly difficult. Who had the heart to sing when a pair of inquisitive eyes and one precocious smile had disappeared for all time?
But then they reached a phrase that seemed to sing itself. It resounded in the Swerdlov home, time and again, getting stronger and firmer with each rendition.
…ובכל זאת שמך לא שכחנו – We are suffering. We are hurting. And yet, with all that, we have not forgotten Your name. Tatte, You are here with us. You are leading us, holding us, and cradling us in Your embrace.
They sang it again and again, the children’s high-pitched voices melding seamlessly with the adults’ deeper tones. Tatte, we will never forget You.
The passionate singing reminded them of the Baal Shem Tov’s words regarding the loss of a close one. The Baal Shem Tov had explained that after a loss, one cries. Then, once the tears are spent, he is silent. And thereafter, he begins to sing.
The tears and the silence are understandable. Of course we cry in the midst of grief. And the silence? That, too, is an expression of deep sorrow. We are all familiar with that tear-drenched, heart-stopping silence that says more than words ever can.
But… to sing?! How can one sing after loss?! How can one take the pain and emptiness and lift it upon the wings of song?
נגינה היא קולמוס הנפש
Song is the expression of our soul; our neshama. It reflects the deepest emotions quartered in the most hidden crevices of our hearts. The pain is excruciating. It hurts; it burns! We have lost so much… too much.
Yet, when the feelings overwhelm us and we feel suffocated by their depth and intensity… we sing. We craft it into notes and melodies for only thus can our inner world find expression. We sing… and we connect. We sing… and we feel His presence. We sing because we know that our loving Tatte is conducting the orchestra and He is waiting to hear our voice.
Our songs differ in tone and form. Some echo in passionate tefillah; others resonate with murmured pleas for strength. At times, your song bears the imprint of pain while at other moments it may be tinged with glimmers of hope.
Rosh Hashana urges you to take a year’s worth of emotion and put it into song. But to utilize this opportunity, you will have to draw upon inner reserves of strength. It is always difficult to take the moments meant for introspection and tefillah and to utilize their hidden powers. After a year of loss and pain, the task becomes that much more difficult. Friends, relatives and others who have experienced your sorrow all extend their hands to you, hoping that their gesture will ease your pain somewhat. By reaching out to them and accepting your need for encouragement and support, you will feel stronger; strong enough to face the new year with hope.
When Sarah Imeinu heard that her only son, Yitzchok, was being offered as a korban to Hashem, she couldn’t bear the pain. Her soul departed from her body instantaneously. How is it possible that such a tzadeikes couldn’t accept this decree, knowing that it was the will of Hashem?
Avrohom Avinu, on the other hand, stoically and even joyously prepared to offer his beloved son as a korban. What was the secret of his strength? יחדו שניהם וילכו – Avrohom had the support of his son, Yitzchok, whereas Sarah dealt with the pain on her own. Support enables one to weather a storm, for a burden shared is a burden halved.
As Rosh Hashana spreads its majestic wings over the world, let us focus upon the root word of שנה – i.e. לשנות – to change. This is our opportunity to tear down the walls of pain that have been erected throughout the past year, and rebuild them into chambers of joy and hope. Hashem is waiting for us with open arms. Our inner, positive changes can evoke changes on high. Let us hold hands and gather strength from each other, for with support and encouragement we will be able to forge ahead. Our pain remains very much a part of our inner world, and it helps us grab this opportunity for connection with the desire born of suffering.
When we knock on the doors of Shamayim this Rosh Hashana, may Hashem open up the portals of blessing and nechama.

Mrs. M. Klaristenfeld
Knafayim, Director