Rebbetzen Tziporah

 

Dear Family, and those who feel like family,

Tomorrow, we will all be in mourning.

There is a big difference between mourning and depression. I know none of you are ever depressed (ha ha!), but depression feels like life is overwhelming, like you just want to take a long break… and eat chocolate.

Mourning is something else entirely. It’s the awareness that something precious is missing—and you long for it. Mourning can be healthy. If you can’t mourn, it may be because you don’t yet realize that something is missing.

So—what are we missing?

There has never been a generation with more material comfort and security than ours—not since the time of Shlomo HaMelech. And yet, we are missing simchah.

Simchah doesn’t come from what we have, but from knowing that what we do is meaningful and possible—that it leads us somewhere worth going. When you forget that, and begin to believe that simchah depends on what others think of you, or on what you possess, it’s easy to feel stuck.

The first step out of galus—being exiled from the part of yourself that knows how to feel simchah—is deciding not to stay in galus. It means looking at the parts of yourself that don't yet know the simchah of emunah, and saying: “This isn’t who I am, and not who I want to be.”

That’s exactly what happened to Bnei Yisrael in Mitzrayim. They had to stop believing that when a new Paroh came, things would magically change. They had to become the kind of people who could leave everything behind—and follow Hashem into the desert.

When Hashem created the world, He began with spiritual light—Beit HaMikdash shel Maalah. He then created a physical place that would reflect that light in this world: the Even HaShetiyah, the foundation stone, the source of connection and true simchah.

That’s where Hashem formed Adam’s body. That’s where Adam brought korbanos, recognizing that the physical world can be uplifted. Noach and Avraham continued that path in their own way. David HaMelech saw that this could become the site of the Mikdash, and Shlomo—who could see the world’s wholeness—built it.

But we got distracted.

When I taught Navi to my students at Neve, we reached the story of Yeravam ben Nevat. He was wise, strong, and chosen by the prophet Achiya HaShiloni to rule over ten tribes. At first, he acted with integrity. But then—when his kavod was threatened—he chose to distract the people, instead of elevating them.

Do we ever do that?

Do we look at other people as opportunities for connection and meaning—or do we compete, prove ourselves, and wrestle for control?

There’s a story about the Israel Prize—the highest award given by the state. When Rav Adin Steinsaltz was told he’d won, the messenger arrived, breathless and excited: “You’ve won the biggest honor of your life!” Rav Steinsaltz looked at him and said, “It’s hot outside. Would you like a cold drink?” The man kept repeating, “You won! You won!” and Rav Steinsaltz kept asking, “Water or lemonade?” Finally, the official asked, “Don’t you want the prize?” Rav Steinsaltz replied, simply, “Yoter tov pras m’kinas.” (A better prize than envy.)

The world is against us.
We are fragmented.
We have forgotten that we are one people.
Our Torah has been weakened by the encroachment of secular values.

Yes—there is something to mourn.

We must mourn for who we could be. And that mourning must lead us to build. To dream. To take one small step toward healing and greatness. Not with guilt—that leads only to depression—but with vision, and the courage to act.

With all my love,
Savta