The Half-Shekel, the Heart, and the Rise of Sourdough – A Dvar Torah for Adar
Last week, my sourdough was a flop. The bread was too dense, nobody liked it. But looking back, I know why—My energy wasn’t in it, my heart wasn’t there.
In Parshas Terumah, Hashem asks for contributions to build the Mishkan—not out of obligation, but “מֵאֵת כָּל־אִישׁ אֲשֶׁר יִדְּבְּנוּ לִבּוֹ”—“from every person whose heart moves them to give.” The Mishkan wasn’t just built from gold and silver. It was built from the love, the kavanah, the generosity of the people.
In Parshas Shekalim, every Jew was required to give only half a shekel. No one gave a full one, because wholeness isn’t something we create alone. It comes from opening ourselves up, from participating, from giving.
But last week, my heart didn’t have the capacity to give.
Then came the last flicker of the past week. Saturday 11:59. Midnight. Boom. Yom Rishon. A new day. A Sun Day.
A time of transition, of renewal. A time when one week gives way to the next, when something ends and something else begins. A moment of deep healing. A moment of opening. Of letting go, of making space, of reconnecting. My heart, which had felt closed, softened. And suddenly, there was room—not just to receive, but to give.
And this week, my sourdough rose.
Because sourdough isn’t instant. It doesn’t puff up quickly like yeast that forces itself to rise. It needs to be nurtured. It needs attention, patience, warmth, and love. A sourdough starter is alive. It must be fed, cared for, and allowed to develop in its own time. And when given what it needs, it transforms—what was once just flour and water becomes something greater, something nourishing, something full of depth.
This week, I baked with intention. I prayed, I thanked Hashem, I gave love to the process—and the bread reflected that transformation. The same ingredients. The same hands. But a different heart.
Thank You, Hashem.
For showing that the way we give—whether to others, to ourselves, or even to something as simple as dough—matters. That everything, when infused with kavanah and love, can be elevated. That just as sourdough needs patience, care, and consistency, so too does joy, growth, and connection.
May this Adar bring us all the ability to give with full hearts, to receive with gratitude, and to watch life rise in the most beautiful ways.
Good Shabbos & L’chaim!
In Parshas Terumah, Hashem asks for contributions to build the Mishkan—not out of obligation, but “מֵאֵת כָּל־אִישׁ אֲשֶׁר יִדְּבְּנוּ לִבּוֹ”—“from every person whose heart moves them to give.” The Mishkan wasn’t just built from gold and silver. It was built from the love, the kavanah, the generosity of the people.
In Parshas Shekalim, every Jew was required to give only half a shekel. No one gave a full one, because wholeness isn’t something we create alone. It comes from opening ourselves up, from participating, from giving.
But last week, my heart didn’t have the capacity to give.
Then came the last flicker of the past week. Saturday 11:59. Midnight. Boom. Yom Rishon. A new day. A Sun Day.
A time of transition, of renewal. A time when one week gives way to the next, when something ends and something else begins. A moment of deep healing. A moment of opening. Of letting go, of making space, of reconnecting. My heart, which had felt closed, softened. And suddenly, there was room—not just to receive, but to give.
And this week, my sourdough rose.
Because sourdough isn’t instant. It doesn’t puff up quickly like yeast that forces itself to rise. It needs to be nurtured. It needs attention, patience, warmth, and love. A sourdough starter is alive. It must be fed, cared for, and allowed to develop in its own time. And when given what it needs, it transforms—what was once just flour and water becomes something greater, something nourishing, something full of depth.
This week, I baked with intention. I prayed, I thanked Hashem, I gave love to the process—and the bread reflected that transformation. The same ingredients. The same hands. But a different heart.
Thank You, Hashem.
For showing that the way we give—whether to others, to ourselves, or even to something as simple as dough—matters. That everything, when infused with kavanah and love, can be elevated. That just as sourdough needs patience, care, and consistency, so too does joy, growth, and connection.
May this Adar bring us all the ability to give with full hearts, to receive with gratitude, and to watch life rise in the most beautiful ways.
Good Shabbos & L’chaim!
