When my mother told me to leave

The opening words of this week’s Torah portion, Acharei Mot, pull us back to the traumatic death of Aaron’s sons, Nadav and Avihu, during the inauguration of the Mishkan. With his sons’ bodies before him in the Tabernacle, the Torah states: “Vayidom Aharon,”- “And Aaron was silent.” (Vayikra 10:3)

Commentators throughout the ages have embraced Aaron’s response as a quiet nobility in the face of overwhelming loss. The Midrash even teaches that Aaron was rewarded with prophecy for his restraint. Approaching this episode through the prism of pain, Ramban holds that while Aaron did initially sob loudly, he quickly contained his grief.

The Medieval rabbinic commentator Ba’al HaTurim goes in a different direction, pointing out that “Vayidom” appears only one other time with the same spelling in all of Tanakh. Joshua 10:13 reads: “Vayidom Hashemesh” – “Then the sun stood still.” There, “Vayidom” isn’t about quiet; rather, it’s about stillness, the halting of time itself.

This other translation of “Vayidom” invites us to look at Aaron’s behavior in a new way. Perhaps what Aaron experienced is less about stoic silence than disorientation in the face of loss.

As many of us know, the loss of a loved one can upend our lives and make time lose meaning. Shiva itself can feel both like an eternity and a blink. In mourning, we may not know what to say, let alone move forward.

Nearly 30 years ago, when my father died, it was an unexpected life disruption. Even when we finally embraced that there would be no miracle cure for pancreatic cancer, it still seems hard to fathom that my father would go so quickly.

Just after my father died, job search season commenced during my last year in rabbinical school. The bitter irony was that I entered into search when I was essentially lost on an emotional level.

But I wasn’t the only one. During shiva, multiple family members and close friends pulled me aside. Concerned about my mother, they suggested, “Look for a job in Boston, so you can take care of your mother. Maybe you should take a year off.” Their message was clear: my mother would need support as she shouldered the family business and took her place at the head of the dining room table.

One weekend, as my job search unfolded, I came home for Shabbat. Sitting at the kitchen table, my mother and I talked about the future, even though we were barely functioning in the present.

After informing her of job openings in Chicago, LA, and Baltimore, I shared what was percolating inside: “Mom, I’m thinking about staying close to home.”

“Are there any jobs up here?”

“No.”

“Why would you do that?” Her quizzical expression showed she wasn’t buying it.

“To tell you the truth, some members of our family think you need help, and I want to do my part.”

I expected relief and gratitude from my mother, but instead, courage and determination glared back at me. Suddenly, I remembered who I was talking to.

When my father proposed to my mother, he said, “If you love me, you’ll move with me to Israel.” You have to understand that up until this time in her life, my mother had barely spent a night away from her parents’ home. Swept away by the man, the dream, and the family they dreamed of creating, this nineteen-year-old and her groom left for Israel two days after their wedding in 1960.

Next to my gregarious father, my mother appeared to be a quiet, reserved presence. But all along, a courageous soul and humble persistence have guided her path and our family.

That night, in a home with palpable grief still lingering in the air, her blue eyes met mine as she asserted, “You have worked your whole life for this. You’re not coming home. Dad wouldn’t want it, and neither do I. You have to go!”

When the conversation ended, I didn’t just get up from the kitchen table, I took my first steps towards healing. With my mother’s strength as my guide, time had resumed.

In the Torah, Aaron’s response to loss may have indeed been silence. Not because he was stoic or speechless, but because mourning and loss can be disorienting.

But Hashem never lets the story end there. Again and again, our tradition insists that “Acharei Mot”, after death, there will be a new chapter of life. And the first step forward awaits whenever we are ready to take it.

Dedicated in honor of my mother, Linda Mirkin Savenor, for Mother’s Day.