Where Did I Put the Tablets? A Midrash for the Neurodivergent Prophet

Author’s Note
What if Moshe Rabbeinu—Moses our teacher, the humblest soul who ever lived—had ADHD?

I don’t mean that as a joke, or a diagnosis. I mean it as a lens:
What if the overwhelm, the speech struggles, the sacred temper, the obsession with justice, the deep emotional swings, and the constant need for ritual structure weren’t flaws to overcome—but traits to be held?

This midrash-fiction piece began as a whisper inside my own sacred chaos.
I live with Type 1 Diabetes, ADHD, grief, and the kind of looping inner monologue that would make most golden calves nervous.

I wanted to imagine a Moshe who wasn’t superhuman. I wanted to hear him breathe. To stumble. To need reminders. To forget the word for rock, and still be worthy of revelation.

This is not a parody. It is a tribute.

I wrote it with fear and trembling—and some color-coded sacrifice charts.
I wrote it because I believe holiness includes forgetfulness.
That Divine speech can land on anxious hearts.
That a leader can carry tablets and doubt, fire and overwhelm—and still be chosen.

This piece is for anyone who’s ever loved Torah but felt too messy to carry it.

You’re not too messy.
You’re already in the tent.

—Mark E. Paull
Montreal, Quebec

Where did I put the tablets?

The second ones. The ones Hashem carved.

I had them. I was holding them. I think I set them down near the kevesh when I was checking the placement of the shulchan—but now the kevesh is gone. Or moved. Did someone move the kevesh?

“Moshe,” says Aharon gently, “you’re holding them.”

Oh.
Right.

I nod. Don’t say anything. He’s looking at me like he’s worried again. Like maybe I’m about to misplace the Ark of the Covenant. Again.

Then the cloud moves. Just a little. Just enough to know. He’s about to call me.

I haven’t finished reading yesterday’s instructions.
I’m still trying to understand the difference between chatat and asham.
They both sound like apologies with different side dishes.

And now He’s calling me?

Vayikra el Moshe. Of course.

I step into the Ohel Moed like a man about to be handed a very large scroll with very small writing and no bookmarks.
I try to look calm.
I try to remember: last time He spoke, it was about the Mishkan. Before that, the ketoret. Before that…

“You will speak to Bnei Yisrael and say to them…”

And we’re off.

Korban olah. Korban mincha. Korban shlamim.

I nod. Slowly. My right hand is touching my left wrist so I don’t interrupt. That helps sometimes. Just barely.

“You shall take the kidneys… and the fat… and the lobe above the liver…”

I don’t know what a lobe is.
I should know.
I want to know.
I just… I can’t remember if the lobe goes on the fire, or beside it, or in a bowl of blood before it’s sprinkled seven times in the northeast corner. Or was it southwest?

I should’ve written it down.

I glance sideways. Aharon hasn’t moved. Of course not. He remembers everything.

Maybe if I just ask—

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” I whisper.

He shrugs.

“You called me.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You always call me when you’re about to forget something.”

I say nothing.
The cloud is pulsing.
I’m supposed to be listening.

“You will offer the blood upon the altar…”

I nod again. A little too hard.
Don’t forget this time.
This time you’ll remember. North side. Not east. Or maybe east. You’ll ask Aharon later, casually, like you already knew.

Hashem keeps speaking. The words are precise. He’s giving me the map.
But my mind is moving ahead, trying to organize steps out of order.

“…the entrails shall be washed with water…”

Who is doing the washing? Do I say that part aloud? Do I assign it? Or do they know? Do they already know?

I feel my stomach tighten. It always happens when I get too many details at once.
The kind of tightness that used to come when I was a boy in Mitzrayim, when someone asked me a question and the answer wasn’t in the right part of my head.

“You may write this down,” Hashem says.

It’s not a suggestion.
It’s mercy.

I reach for the scroll. It’s upside down.
Aharon flips it without a word. I don’t thank him. I can’t.
The words are coming again.

“You shall bring it willingly…”

Willingly.
What if I’m not willing?
Not unwilling, just—overwhelmed. Is that the same?

Aharon clears his throat softly. He’s standing behind me, but I can feel him lean in.

“Just write olah and draw a little fire next to it,” he whispers.

“We’ll color-code them later.”

I want to hug him. I don’t.

“Where does the blood go?” I whisper back.

“Same corner as the last one.”

“There are four corners.”

“I know.”

I look up at the cloud. It hasn’t moved.
Hashem is waiting.

“You shall place the fat upon the fire,” He says again, and I try—I do—I try to hold the image in my mind, but it slides off the moment I grasp it. The same way the word for rock disappears, or the map folds in on itself, or I mix up which corner gets sprinkled first.

There are days I can hold it all, and then there are days the map folds in on itself, and I am left staring at symbols I wrote in my own hand but no longer understand.

He does not move. The cloud holds still. He waits.
Not impatient. Just amused, maybe. The way a parent watches a child tie a sandal for the seventh time.

And then He speaks again, like He’s drawing me close enough to hear the silence behind the words.

“Do you know why I chose you, Moshe?”

I don’t answer.

“I did not choose you for your speech. I did not choose you for your memory, or your strength, or your certainty. I chose you because you feel everything. You see too much, sometimes all at once. You interrupt Me not out of disrespect, but because your questions rise faster than the words can form. You forget where the tablets are because your soul is still holding the fire from the mountain. You break things—not because you are careless—but because the weight of justice is too much to carry quietly.”

I swallow. My mouth is dry. I cannot look up.

“You want to get it right,” He says, “and you will—but not alone. That is why I gave you Aharon. That is why I gave you seventy elders. That is why I gave you time, and repetition, and ritual. Because I do not need perfection. I need presence.”

I feel the words settle into my chest, where the air used to tighten.
My shoulders drop. The parchment in my hand softens.

“You remember what matters,” He says.
“You remember the cries of the slaves. You remember the blood on the doorposts. You remember to speak to Me when you are tired, and angry, and lost. You remember to come back.”

I nod, but only just.
He already knows I understand.

And then He continues, steady and clear:

“You shall bring the olah offering, and it shall be wholly consumed, a fire that rises upward, as your heart does.”

I nod.
I breathe.
I understand.

And then Aharon taps me on the shoulder and whispers,
“You’re holding the goat upside down.”

I look down. The legs are in the air. The liver is… somewhere else.

“I thought this was the mincha,” I whisper.

“That’s flour.”

“Oh.”

“Also, you’re barefoot.”

I am.
And the ketoret is burning.
And the people are watching.
And I may or may not have tucked the scroll into my robe and now it smells like roasted fat.

And still—somehow—Hashem keeps speaking.

So, I stand there, barefoot in the desert, holding a goat like a toddler holds a cat, trying to remember which way is north, nodding wisely as if I totally understand what “wave offering” means, and thinking:

Maybe He didn’t choose me despite the chaos.
Maybe He chose me because of it.

Or maybe I was just the only one who said yes while hallucinating a bush on fire.

Either way, we’re here.
The altar is lit.
The people are waiting.
And I’m about to offer up a goat in four carefully choreographed steps I definitely do not remember.

Chosen to receive divine law. Can’t locate a compass. That tracks.

But it’s fine.
Aharon will fix it.
He doesn’t roll his eyes. He never does. That’s how I know I’m safe.

Hashem will be patient.
And next time, I’ll write it down.

In which case—I’m bringing pigeons.