Three Years of Writing: Parshat Naso and Personal Reflection

Exactly three years ago, on June 7th, 2022, I began writing my blog. At the time, I didn’t realize it would become a weekly commitment—one in which I would seek to connect the weekly parsha with the world around us. This week’s Parshat Naso is one of the longest in the Torah. It’s a sprawling portion, at times repetitive, yet filled with compelling content: the priestly benediction, the laws of the Nazarite, the vows, and the disturbing ritual of the Sotah—the suspected adulterous wife. I often link this part of the parsha to its haftarah, which tells the story of Samson’s mother, who encounters an angel foretelling the birth of her son. Her husband, Manoach, is struck by jealousy over her spiritual experience. The theme of suspicion runs parallel to the Sotah ritual in the Torah reading.  I explored this connection in a previous blog post, and invite you to read it here.

BETWEEN SHAVUOT AND TISHA B’AV
The weeks between Shavuot and Tisha B’Av have always carried deep personal meaning for me. It’s a season full of memories—some joyful, others painful.

• Many get married after Shavuot—my eldest daughter did, and so did I.
• Had my husband lived, we would have celebrated 62 years of marriage on June 9th.
• My oldest grandson read the entire Naso portion for his bar mitzvah sixteen years ago.
• I always celebrate my birthday in August, during this stretch.
• My mother passed away a few days after Shavuot in 1999.
• After Shavuot in 1967, my husband and I made the life-changing decision to move to Israel. We arrived on August 27, 58 years ago.
• This month will finally see the publication of the Hebrew translation of my book on wifebeating–which I’ve been working on since 2020!

A QUIET TIME ON THE CALENDAR

If you look closely, the nine weeks between Shavuot and Tisha B’Av are the longest stretch on the Jewish calendar without a major holiday. Just as we count 49 days from Passover to Shavuot, we mark the “Three Weeks” leading to Tisha B’Av—a time of mourning and reflection.

As a child in an Orthodox summer camp, the Three Weeks felt endless—no swimming, no meat. But now I understand a different kind of “endlessness”—the pain of waiting for something that may never end. The continued suffering of hostages and their families has sharpened this sense of spiritual and emotional limbo.

This year, I reflect differently. I am now a widow, a status to which I’ve slowly adjusted. When I was younger, I saw myself in Ruth—the brave outsider seeking belonging. Today, I identify more with Naomi, who grasps on to life with both hands in order to have continuity.

During our Tikkun Leil Shavuot, I gave a TED-style talk on the resilience of widows in the Bible. Ruth and Naomi are both displaced and starting over. The Book of Ruth is often read as a story of return, hope, and rebirth. But so is Lamentations, in its own way—a story of loss and longing for a return that feels impossible.

“Oh how lonely sits the city
Once great with people!
She that was great among nations
Is become like a widow–  כְּאַלְמָנָה
(Lamentations 1:1).

Jerusalem is like a widow, but not truly one. If she were, it would imply that God is gone. That metaphor continues to echo today. What happens when God seems hidden? When I place Ruth and Eicha side by side—the hopeful return to the land versus the despair of exile—I find myself wondering: Can we avoid the fate of destruction and banishment? Or are we destined to repeat it?

HOLIDAYS, HIDDENNESS, AND HOPE

Rabbi Michael M. Cohen, a friend and colleague, recently wrote about how Jewish holidays can be grouped into trios. He added Purim to the familiar duo of Passover and Shavuot, highlighting how these festivals form a thematic arc—revelation, redemption, resilience.

He quoted Rabbi Caryn Broitman, who writes: “From this verse derives the Jewish concept of hester panim, God’s hiding… It is not that God is absent, but that God is in hiding.” The hiddenness isn’t static, Rabbi Cohen reminds us—it’s dynamic. What is concealed can, eventually, be revealed. I wrote to Rabbi Cohen to remind him that after Ruth, we read Lamentations. That progression—from return to exile, from hope to heartbreak—still holds meaning for me. What lesson lies in that sequence?  Is it reversible?

PERSONAL SUSTENANCE IN DIFFICULT TIMES

Over the last five years—between COVID lockdowns and war—a few things have helped sustain my spirit:

• Daily swimming, when possible
• Zoom classes, especially through Beit Avi Chai, which I still attend every morning at 9 a.m.
• My teaching classes on zoom.
• A growing love for word puzzles: Wordle, Spelling Bee, Connections, Strands

These small rituals matter. They ground me.

As my husband’s health declined, I was buoyed by the support of community, friends, and family. I also learned when to choose my battles. I am not silent, and I do not back down easily, but I’ve learned to protect my peace. I still read five newspapers online every day, yet I avoid televised news, which often models aggression instead of discourse. It is not just disheartening; it’s corrosive. We used to respect experience—whether in a parent, a principal, a president, or a rabbi. That era has eroded. We no longer listen to each other. We shout, certain that louder voices win arguments. We confuse volume with truth. We are not yet killing each other, as happens far too frequently in the US, but we are tearing each other apart with disrespect, dismissiveness, and contempt.

THE QUESTIONS THAT REMAINS

And so I return again to this space between Shavuot and Tisha B’Av. Ruth and Naomi returned to Bethlehem with nothing—and found a future. Can we say the same? Or are we walking blindly toward destruction and exile like those who ignored the warnings in generations past? Is all the good we have received—the bounty, the miracles, the homecoming—at risk of unraveling? Is there still time to change course? Or is it too late?