לחם חן — Lechem Chein

Earlier this week, I saw something I’d never seen before. Even as I kept driving, I kept asking myself, “Did that just happen?” A dead deer had been sitting on the side of the road long enough that vultures had moved in. Not somewhere remote. Not out in the wild. On a city street, around the corner from my kids school. They weren’t circling overhead. Four or five of them stood there already, calmly picking at the carcass. It was unsettling not because of the birds themselves, but because of what their presence meant.  Vultures don’t appear at the moment of danger. They arrive once something has already crossed the line into “too late”. Once things reach that point, the only responses left are reactive. Cleanup replaces prevention. Response replaces foresight. That question of timing — of how early or late we respond — is exactly where Parshas Miketz begins. Miketz opens with Pharaoh disturbed by dreams he can’t shake. Healthy cows swallowed by starving ones. Full stalks of grain co...

Download printable version (PDF)   Chanukah Reflections Lighting With the Parsha Where We Are Opening Reflection On Chanukah, we don’t begin by filling the room with light. We begin with a single flame. One candle. One night. One small act. We light, and then we watch. We don’t rush the glow. We let it settle, even when the world around us feels unsettled or dark. During Chanukah, the Torah includes special holiday readings.  For this practice, we’re setting those aside and letting the Parsha of the week guide our nightly reflection. Each night of Chanukah, we move through a different aliya of Parshas Miketz, following the weekly parsha as it unfolds. On the eighth night, we step naturally into the opening aliya of Vayigash, as the story begins to turn. We’re not approaching the parsha as a lesson or analysis, but as a lens. For these nights, the parsha becomes a kind of shamash — not one of the candles, and not the focus of our attention, but the steady source that helps eac...

Yosef’s first dream in the Torah is almost plain: “We were binding sheaves in the field.” It feels almost too simple for a dream that will change everything.  Just a bunch of kids playing and working in the field together. It’s simple. Quiet. Ordinary. Which is exactly how most beginnings actually look, happening in quiet places long before we understand where they’re heading. Soon after, Yaakov sends Yosef to check on his brothers. Yosef loses his way, and the Torah pauses for a moment: “A man found him wandering in the field.” No name. No backstory. Just someone who notices him and points him toward Dotan. A tiny moment that ends up moving history forward, even if it doesn’t feel that way in the moment. Especially for Yosef, who ends up getting the short end of the stick. Then his brothers throw him into a pit; a place with no water, no answers, no clear way out. They leave him there to die. Next, the brothers show Yaakov the torn bloody coat without saying a word. And Y...

There’s a quiet line in Vayishlach that holds more than it says: “ויותר יעקב לבדו — Yaakov is left alone.” After years of running from Esav’s hurt, from Yitzchak’s blind spot, from the uneven love of his childhood, from Lavan’s manipulation, from the patterns he learned just to survive, the movement finally stops. He sends everything across the river: his family, his belongings, the familiar noise, all the ways he kept himself moving, defended, and distracted. Right before the night begins, Yaakov says one quiet line: “קטונתי מכל החסדים” — I have become small from all the kindness You have given me. He feels unsure, aware of his limits, humbled by everything he has received. It is from that place of smallness that he steps into the night. And in the dark that follows, something steps toward him. The Torah calls it simply “ איש — a man,” but does not identify who or what it is. That lack of detail is intentional. The Torah gives no further description, which is why Chazal understood t...

Every year, Chabad communities worldwide take on a Chalukas HaShas for Yud Tes Kislev. There’s something beautiful about it. Not everyone finishes all of Shas alone, but together we can hold the whole thing. A Siyum woven from sixty-three quiet yeses. This past Shabbos at the Farbrengen for Tes Kislev, we also spoke about preparing for Yud Tes Kislev, the idea of personal Hachlotas and also about doing things together. About how much stronger growth feels when it lifts the whole community, not only the individual. I’ve never been interested in joining a Chaluka before, but this year inspired me to try something small. Looking at the signup spreadsheet after Shabbos, I knew Mishnayos felt easier for me than Gemara, so I chose Maseches Peah and added my name to the list. I kept thinking about what else might speak to me, so I googled for a quick summary of the short masechtos of Gemara and Mishnayos that were still available. Gemara Temurah stood out in a quiet way, so I added my n...

Thanksgiving today shows up as a big American feast, but the first Thanksgiving wasn’t a feast at all. The Pilgrims barely survived their first winter. There was no turkey, no stuffing, no pies. Just a group of people who were exhausted, shaken, hungry, and grateful simply because they were still alive. Gratitude not from abundance, but from fragility. From the humility of, “If we have bread tomorrow, that’s a blessing.” That’s exactly where Vayetze begins. Yaakov is running from his raging brother and falls asleep on a rock in the middle of nowhere. He dreams the most spectacular dream of his life, a ladder reaching heaven, angels rushing up and down, Hashem speaking directly to him.  It’s magnificent and overwhelming. But when Yaakov wakes up, he doesn’t ask for clarity or courage or safety. He isn’t inspired or excited. He’s scared for his life, and he asks for something as basic as it gets: “…וְנָתַן לִי לֶחֶם לֶאֱכֹל וּבֶגֶד לִלְבֹּשׁ” Hashem, just give me bread to eat and clo...