Even when it’s bitter: Marror, matzah, and mourning

At the Seder table, there is a quiet moment that has no drama, no singing, no symbolic cup of wine—just a simple, strange ritual. We take marror, and we wrap it in matzah, the dry bread of affliction. Together, they become korach.

Why combine two symbols of suffering? Why sandwich bitterness between reminders of struggle? Why not separate the pain from the hope?

But this year, korach feels different. This year, I am not just remembering pain. I am living it.

My father died just nine months ago, and with his passing came a wave of grief I wasn’t ready for and has not gone away — and a mourning process I still don’t fully understand. Aveilut is heavy. It’s disorienting. Sometimes it feels like every step I take pulls me deeper into sadness, and the halachot of mourning — which I respect — can at times feel like they’re amplifying a grief that already consumes me. I don’t need reminders to feel sad. I already am.

And yet… korach.

Marror is the bitterness we taste. The slavery we remember. The parts of our story that hurt and sting and scar. But matzah—matzah is something else. It is the bread we took with us when we had nothing. When we left everything we knew behind and ran into the desert with no time, no plan, no yeast. Matzah is faith in its rawest form: not because we were sure everything would be okay, but because we believed Hashem would not abandon us. Because we had no one else to lean on but Him.

And this, I think, is why we eat them together.

Korach doesn’t erase the bitterness. It wraps it. It holds the pain in a thin, dry, holy reminder that even here—even in this—Hashem is with us.

This year, I eat korach as a mourner. With a heart that is broken and eyes that fill too easily with tears. I don’t always feel joy. I don’t always feel connected. Sometimes I just want to cry and sit in the sadness and wonder why this has to be so hard.

But when I hold marror and matzah together, I am reminded: Even when life is bitter, Hashem is still holding me. I may not feel comforted, but I am not alone. That, to me, is emunah. Not pretending to be okay. Not ignoring the pain. Just whispering, through the tears: “I still believe You’re here.”

So this Pesach, when I eat korach, I will be thinking about the pain I carry. But I will also be thinking about the strength it takes to carry pain and faith in the same hand. That’s what korach is. That’s what mourning is. That’s what this year has been for me.

If you are entering this Pesach carrying your own marror—grief, heartache, unanswered questions—please know you’re not alone. This holiday does not ask us to hide our pain; it invites us to bring it to the table. When we wrap the bitterness in matzah, we’re not pretending it’s sweet—we’re reminding ourselves that even in the depths of sorrow, Hashem is with us. Faith doesn’t always look like joy; sometimes it looks like showing up, tears and all, and trusting that we are still being held. That, too, is redemption. That, too, is part of your story.