A Dvar Torah on My Mother’s 3rd Yahrzeit
In biblical times, the firstborn, the bechor, had both special rights and special responsibilities. He was the one to receive a double portion of his father’s estate. But the firstborn was also tasked with a large undertaking: carrying on his family’s legacy.
Yet, Rabbi Jay Kelman explains, the Torah teaches us that the status of the “firstborn” was not always determined by order of birth. After all, Yaakov purchased the birthright from Eisav, and it was Yosef, the eleventh son, who received a double portion of land in biblical Israel. Again and again, we see that what matters isn’t who’s born first; it’s who’s most responsible.
This idea is woven into the Jewish people’s identity. While far from the first of nations, it was the Jewish people who were granted the status of firstborn. As the Torah says in Shemot, chapter four, “And you shall say to Pharaoh: Thus says Hashem, Israel is my son, my firstborn.” The Jewish people were granted the privilege—and even more so the responsibility—of having a special relationship with Hashem, a moral calling—to be a people who bring light onto the nations.
In this week’s parsha, Parshat Bo, Hashem delivers the final plague, makat bechorot, the plague of the firstborn. While the first nine plagues caused untold economic damage and human misery, they didn’t have a lasting impact on the Egyptian psyche. It wasn’t until the plague of the firstborn that Pharaoh and the Egyptian people were finally convinced to free the Jewish people. For the first time in the story, we hear the voice of the Egyptian people, “There was a great outcry, since there was no house where there were no dead… Pharaoh sent for Moshe and Aharon in the night and he said: Get out from my people!” (Shemot, chapter 12).
This final plague taught the Egyptians the true meaning of being a firstborn. It’s a responsibility, not just a privilege. It requires leading by example, maintaining strong moral fortitude. Confronted with devastating loss, the Egyptians were forced to reevaluate their society’s moral underpinnings, a society built on the backs of slaves. They knew they needed fundamental societal changes, beginning with the release of an enslaved people.
Ultimately, the Torah downplays the special privileges of the firstborn, both in Shemot and earlier in the Torah. In fact, one of the central themes of Sefer Beresheit is the insignificance of birth order. It was Yitzchak who took the mantle, not Yishmael; Yaakov, not Esav; Yosef, not Reuven. It was Moshe, not his older brother Aharon, who led the Jewish people out of Egypt. A birthright is never guaranteed—it’s earned. For the Jewish people, what matters is recognizing the responsibility that being Hashem’s “eldest” places on us.
Today, the 29th of Tevet, marks the third yahrzeit of my mother, Rose Newman, Shoshana Tziporra Bat Nechemia HaLevi, Z”L. May the Torah and lessons shared here serve as an aliyah for her neshama.
My mom was an only child, but she was in every way an “eldest child,” someone who would carry on her parents’ legacy and take on a tremendous amount of responsibility throughout her lifetime.
The daughter of two Holocaust survivors, she took on the responsibility that so many children of immigrants bear: helping her parents navigate a world they weren’t born into. Born in Chicago and a native English speaker, my mom helped her parents navigate daily life—translating, interpreting, and shouldering burdens far beyond her years.
My grandparents owned a shoe store and they relied on my mom for help. When she was 16, her parents took their first vacation in decades—to Israel—and my mom took two weeks off of school to run the store. Talk about responsibility.
When her parents got older, she was tremendously devoted to them, taking on the responsibility of driving them to appointments, managing their medications and finances, and caring for their overall well-being.
Perhaps more than anything else in her life, the greatest responsibility she embraced—with so much love—was raising four children. Knowing how much of her family had perished in the Holocaust, she was determined not only to bring Jewish children into the world but to ensure they thrived. She did everything in her power to help her children live good lives, driving countless hours to extracurriculars; taking us on trips, to plays, and to concerts; making sure we got a good education; and above all, creating a loving Jewish home.
Finally, my mom took on tremendous responsibility for her community. Just two examples: She ran countless blood drives, spending hours and hours calling community members to sign up and donate. On every call, she’d ask about their families, remembering names and details. After a long conversation, people couldn’t help but commit to donating. I have no doubt that the work my mom put into those blood drives saved hundreds, if not thousands, of lives.
At my childhood shul—Young Israel of Southfield—she took on the many thankless and often unglamorous jobs that kept the shul running: buying food for shalshudes, managing kiddushes, coordinating the janitorial staff, setting up for bar and bat mitzvahs, sending out mailings, printing the weekly shul bulletin, managing shul events, and so much more. She saw what needed to be done and just did it.
It’s hard to believe it’s been three years. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about how grateful I am for my mom—for the immense love she gave me and that I still feel, for teaching me to build connections and deep relationships, for being a role model and an example, for making sure that I live a good and happy life. Every success of mine is hers to share.
If the Torah teaches us anything about the firstborn, it’s that their role isn’t about privilege; it’s about purpose. My mom lived with purpose. She carried on the legacy of those who came before her and built a future for those who came after.
May her neshama have an aliyah.