parsha of the week

We are all in Italy

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The first narrative in the book of Vayikra describes the eighth day of the dedication of the Mishkan, culminating with the deaths of Nadav and Avihu and the aftermath of that tragedy.

Aharon’s reaction of silence is well known. But how did their mother respond to their untimely demise?

The Talmud (Zevachim 102a) tells us that on the day of the inauguration of the Mishkan, Elisheva had five reasons to rejoice, and one cause to mourn. Her brother-in-law was leader, her husband was High Priest, her son was assistant to the High Priest, her grandson was a kohen anointed for war, and her brother, Nachshon, was the prince of a tribe. Her mourning was because her two sons died.

This narrative is presented in countless Midrashim, in slightly different formats, some of which focus on Koheles’s question of what joy is worth if people die anyway, or on the verse in Tehillim that says “Israel will rejoice with its Maker” at the right time. Elisheva rejoiced over all her good fortune and didn’t see what was coming (Pesikta D’rav Kahana).

The Midrash Tanchuma gives case after case of Biblical heroes who celebrated their good fortune, but starting with Adam and continuing with Avraham, Yitzchak, Yehoshua, and Eli the High Priest, they either sinned or otherwise suffered through difficulties in rearing children. (In Yehoshua’s case, he died childless.)

There is a troubling Midrash (38:7) on Parshat Tetzaveh. Weaving together a number of verses, it says that when Aharon was to atone for Israel, he was told to take one bull and two rams (Shemot 29:1). The Midrash identifies the bull as Aharon and the two rams as his sons Elazar and Itamar, suggesting that Aharon was getting the hint that only two of his sons were destined to serve and two were slated to die.

But if that were the case, why not spare him the pain and allow him to just have two sons? The answer is that part of what made Aharon was his loss. We can say the same thing of Yehuda, who lost two sons, and of David, who lost four children in his lifetime.

Many years ago I read an essay entitled “Welcome to Holland,” written by Emily Perl Kingsley to try to explain life as a parent to a child with a disability. She compares it to preparing for a trip to Italy that ends with a flight attendant welcoming you to Holland. It is a journey that is not what you expected, but Holland has its fine points as well.

But in looking for it, I found another essay by Zita Dulock, who hates “Welcome to Holland.” She argues that everyone ends up in Italy. Parenthood — Italy — is what everyone who has a child signed up for.

“But we’re all having very different vacations, because we’re very different people, raising very different children. Is life with my autistic child quite the same as what I thought parenting would be? Nope — it sure isn’t.

“But neither is life with my neurotypical daughter. And neither is life with my husband. And neither is my life, in and of itself.”

Her version of the essay is more like this: Welcome to Italy! Despite your plans, you can’t find your hotel, you should have learned Italian much better, you lost your luggage, it rained the whole time. Some found an incredible bed and breakfast, some discovered Italy through museums. Some spent the whole vacation not leaving their hotel.

“The truth is, this trip is nothing like what you planned it to be,” Dulock writes, “even if everything goes exactly as planned! Because you can’t predict how something will feel. You can’t predict how something will smell. You can’t predict what will captivate you, or terrify you. All you can do learn as much as you can, before you leave and when you land, and focus on being adaptable and flexible. 

“Whether or not you enjoy the trip is entirely up to you.”

T

he essay, of course, is about disabilities. But I think there is wisdom in it for loss. The Torah paints Nadav and Avihu in a very positive light in Parshas Acharei Mot: as they were getting close to G-d, they died. That doesn’t take away from their parents’ pain, but what a tribute, a source of some comfort to their parents.

I have found some parents who have suffered loss — whether to illness, car accidents, terror, SIDS, or other tragedies — to be extremely inspirational. Whether they have the strength to realize what “Italy” has become, or whether they have worked through a tragedy to come to terms with moving on, they don’t want anyone to suffer as they have. Their drive to live has motivated thousands upon thousands of others.

I wonder if Aharon became famous as an ohev shalom v’rodef shalom (lover and pursuer of peace) after the deaths of his sons. Because if it was after their deaths, then he took his tragedy as a charge to remind people that life is much bigger than fighting over things that might be, in the larger scheme of things, rather trivial.

Those who emerged from the Holocaust to build families are more than inspiring. Their strength and tenacity is legendary.

The people of Israel who have lost sons and daughters in the IDF and to terror have shown resilience when they go from tragedy to joy, with all the emotional support needed to help them get there.

Elisheva learned that when there is joy, there will be joy — sometimes a lot of it. But she also learned that sometimes there will be sadness. But that sadness, like the trip to Italy, is what helps us become the people we are.

When sadness comes, we need community to bring us back to reality, and then we need the rest of our lives to figure out what to do with that hole in our hearts. How we can infuse our lives and our circles with kedusha.

Rabbi Soloveitchik lost his wife, mother and brother in the same year. He wrote mounds and mounds of essays, some published posthumously, about suffering and navigating the curveballs life throws our way. Those who find the gift of life worth continuing will find that whether you’re in Holland or just a very different trip to Italy, it is the fundamental meaning and profound connections that we make in life that help us become who we ultimately become.

Like Aharon and Elisheva, a community feels your pain. Like Aharon and Elisheva, we hope your tragedy will not destroy you, but will turn you into an inspiration.