It feels like the Ten Plagues all over again. Covid resurgence. The Taliban takeover of Afghanistan. Hurricane Ida. The Surfside collapse. What is happening? It’s tempting to lose hope, to surrender to an apocalyptic bleakness.
In the past three months, my husband and I have married off two nephews and a niece. Mazel tov!
Recently I’ve been following an Instagram account called, “I Was Supposed to Have a Baby: Jewish Fertility Support.” Which is somewhat odd because infertility, thank God, is not one of my challenges. But many of the posts and stories are really resonating with me despite the fact that my life challenges are completely different.
Choni Hame’agel, a Talmudic figure, once met an old man planting a carob tree.
“How long will it take to grow?” he asked.
“Seventy years,” the man answered.
“Do you know that you will live another 70 years?” Choni inquired.
“Just as my ancestors planted for me,” replied the man, “so too I plant for my children.”
I used to be that person who never cried. Maybe because life, for the first few decades, was pretty simple.
Mazel tov! My niece got engaged. Impulsively, we decided that I would surprise my sister and fly in to New Jersey for the engagement party.
Passover, like everything, starts with a bang.