Word Prompt

It was on the last moed that our world fell apart, terrorists tortured and kidnapped our brothers and sisters. Did we imagine that we would approach this moed of Pesach with them still in captivity?

Whether it's a time for growth, reflection, mourning, celebration, or rest, understanding the significance of moed encourages us to embrace the present moment fully, trusting in the divine timing of our journey.

Moadim offer a parallel approach. We live our lives on the dance floor, and that’s okay – we are here to learn, to do, to give. But the opportunity moadim provide to go up to the balcony helps us recalibrate when needed, and notice the things that have crept up on us.

Judaism is about sanctifying every aspect of life including time. But the word muad teaches us that consistency is only positive, assuming that the act you’re doing constantly is a positive one.

We are looking forward to Mashiach coming and leading us through this time in history. We are looking forward to the third Beit HaMikdash being built and the ingathering of the exiles from all over the world.

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During these crazy times with our hearts in Israel the four promises of redemption really resonate. Now more than ever we pray for Hashem to save us from Hamas, bring our hostages home and out of Gaza, bring them all back to Israel, and have our nation come together as one.

Motherhood is a fascinating rollercoaster ride and the ultimate tool for self-growth; nothing is as challenging or rewarding as being a mom.

According to the Gemara, the fourth letter of the Hebrew alphabet, daled, represents a poor person. When studied closely, we learn that rather than impoverished, it corresponds to selflessness.

Four extraordinary mothers, women that shaped and molded our Judaic history.

Towards the end of the Seder, there is a song we sing that answers the question of how many matriarchs launched the people of Israel. Four.

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Although not present in my circles, it's hard not to admire the grandeur. It’s also hard to mistake the shtreimel as anything but a sign of proud Judaism.

The shtreimel serves as a tangible connection to the rich cultural heritage of Eastern European Jews. By wearing the shtreimel, individuals affirm their identity and connection to their ancestors who also wore similar attire.

Shtreimel signifies pride in Judaism and in traditions. It’s pride in connecting our current to our past.

My shtreimel is my symbol of Jewish pride and not because it’s become trendy, but because I’ve been wearing it since the day I got married in the tradition that goes back in my family several generations. It’s my greatest honor and privilege to do so.

Another possibility is that shtreimel is related to the Polish word stroj meaning uniform, clothes. Maybe it meant the “uniform” of those Jews wearing it, or perhaps it also had a specific association with head coverings.

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My watch is eight years old, its age unforgettable because my husband bought it for me the year I was in aveilus for my father. His death had left me untethered, disconnected; the watch promised connection – no more missed phone calls and texts delivered instantly to my wrist.

These days, as was the case during many such difficult periods in our long history, doing the bris on the eighth day has taken on new meaning.

During the Pesach Seder, we say that eight is the days until the baby’s bris. But there is something else which also has the significance of the number eight, and that is Shmini Atzeres.

Have you ever considered that even the Hebrew word for eight, shemonah, literally means to nourish.

As my father, Rabbi Uziel Milevsky, of blessed memory, taught me, it is the number beyond the natural.

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One perk is that on Simchas Torah, being a Kohen or Levi is like having TSA PreCheck. I know I just got here five minutes ago and I get an aliyah all the time, but I guess I’ll go straight to the front of the line.

The relatively small measure of honor paid to them is more of a historical reference to their ancestral heritage than a reflection of their personal celebrity.

Maybe it had to be that way. Maybe the lack of emphasis on wealth is baked into sharing Torah and sharing song.

It's an ancient Hebrew name, a tribal affiliation, that also confers social status and serves as a surname. This status is meticulously preserved through the generations – a non-Levi would not dare claim this status to obtain the second aliyah, and if one did, he would soon be discovered.

Personally, I love the distinction of being a Levi. As a Levi you are encouraged to excel at tefillah and zemiros and there is an expectation that a Levi's voice will inspire and touch others.

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