I just returned from Israel.
It was a very special time.
We were blessed to spend the Passover holiday with my Mother.
I’m in that sandwich generation.
Wherever I am, I’m missing someone.
So while I was blessed with the privilege of spending time with my beloved Mom, I really missed the children and grandkids.
It was really quiet.
It’s funny though.
Sometimes in the quietest of places, sounds take on such a profound meaning.
The times I made my Mother laugh were precious. The laughter was all the more resonant as it rang out on its own. There was no competition with other sounds.
As things were so quiet, somehow certain sounds became very impactful.
There were some ominous sounds that had a very different effect.
During the holiday there was a “red alert” the siren that indicates incoming missiles.
That sound propelled me to move my very elderly Mother from her chair out into a protected stairwell. She laboriously made her way down to a landing and sat as the building’s intercom system noisily blasted warnings to take cover.
That noise was jarring and frightening. My Mom was stoic throughout but I know she thinks of the bombs that fell during WW2. She often told me about the “doodlebug” bomb which would enter the area with much noise but would fall eerily silent just before it would explode. How awful that all these years later she has to suffer through those terrible sounds again.
Walking towards the Kotel, the Wailing Wall, I heard another sound that chilled me to the bone. We passed a long line of priests marching as part of a religious ritual. They walked with staffs in hand and knocked the sticks on the ground in a methodical beat.
The reverberations of the staff beating on the cobblestones made a bone chilling sound.
I felt as if I was hearing the call that heralded pogroms of centuries past.
We stopped respectfully to allow the priests to pass, but I shivered inside from that stark sound echoing through the passage of time.
Silence is challenging.

We never talk about awkward noise, just awkward silence.
Often we feel the need to fill that silence, maybe to a detriment.
This weeks Torah portion is called Shmini, which means the Eighth. It refers to the eighth day of the inauguration of the Tabernacle when Aaron and his sons, the priests, would begin doing the service. It was a very joyous time. Unfortunately, the joy was marred by tragedy when two of Aaron’s sons brought a foreign fire into the Tabernacle and died as a result of this action.
When Aaron hears about the loss of his children his reaction is silence. Our Sages teach us this was a reflection of Aaron’s faith in Gd, he did not question.
This response of utter faith in the face of tragedy is powerful.
Gd supports Aaron and rewards his act of faith by speaking directly to Aaron in the next part of the portion and divulging directly to him Mitzva, a commandment. This is perceived as a reward and admiration for Aaron’s strength of faith and silence.
What Mitzva is shared?
Gd commands the priests that they may not drink wine when they are participating in the Temple service.
This may hark back to the sons of Aaron, some commentators say they were inebriated when they participated in the Temple Service and that was an egregious sin at the time which resulted in their demise.
My friend Esther Pransky brought to my attention the teachings of the Kli Yakar, a 16th century commentary on this subject. He shares a number of deep insights regarding the reward of this particular Mitzva for Aaron’s silence.
The Kli Yakar says that when a person is quiet, we do not know what they are really thinking about the situation at hand. They may be at peace with it, or they may be roiling inside-angry and resentful. If they don’t say a word, we cannot plumb their feelings. By giving Aaron this particular Mitzva, we understand that he was at peace with Gd inside and outside. Because the Mitzva goes to the core of what had gone wrong and Gd was able to give such a Mitzva to Aaron knowing that his silence was one of faith both inside and out.
Then the Kli Yakar continues by saying that alcohol is something which combats silence. But, if a person imbibes too much, some negative behavior results - loose lips, inappropriate language or hurtful remarks that are spewed when the barriers are down.
Gd gifts Aaron this Mitzva which maintains proper speech by prohibiting alcohol as a commendation of Aaron’s behavior, an appropriate silence.
This made me think of the many times I said something and as soon as the words have escaped my lips I wished I could retrieve them.
Often people are unnecessarily hurt by the casual, insensitive comments which are shared just to fill the quiet.
Perhaps we could spare others and ourselves pain just by being silent, by taking a moment to consider our words before we mindlessly speak.
So while I do not advocate the “silent treatment” which can cause pain or mask anguish, I know I can learn to cherish the quiet and all the silent gifts that come in its wake.
Shabbat Shalom and so much love!