Doing it for Hashem, when no one else can see the difference? That’s when one becomes a partner in creation

“In the beginning, Hashem created…” (Bereishis 1:1)

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we begin our cycle of parshiyos once again, there’s a particular concept within limud Torah that we’ve grown so used to that we’ve ceased to question it. A sefer Torah has no vowels or notes to tell the reader how to properly pronounce a word. For such a precise people, doesn’t this seem like an imprecise way to learn?

According to the Torah, there are two basic ways of living.  A person can see himself as a soldier following instructions, or as a partner in creation with Hashem.

The first approach requires spiritual stamina; the second, the ability to offer something personal to Hashem. What can we offer that Hashem doesn’t already have? (Rabbi Pinchas Winston, Torah.org)

My sons’ cheder was having a hachnassas sefer Torah. The excitement leading up to the event was palpable. When the big day finally arrived, the procession went right by my house. We all rejoiced with Yitzi and his torch and with Binyamin dancing in front of the chuppah.

When the procession reached the cheder, the men continued dancing in the large playground, while the women were invited to view the ceremony via video hookup in the school entranceway.

I entered the building and then halted in dismay. The entranceway was packed, the huge screen dominating the hall barely visible as kids craned to see their brothers and fathers. Plus, there was no AC in the area; it was beyond stifling.

I couldn’t even see my kids dancing. They certainly couldn’t see me. No one would know if I slipped out and went home.  But my boys were in the choir and they’d told me how much they wanted me to hear them sing and watch them on the screen. I couldn’t leave now.

The answer can be learned from the building of the Mishkan. We gave “offerings” to Hashem… from things we originally received from Hashem! So what were we offering? Our will — our ratzon. 

When we offer our will, our service is more than just that of a soldier; accessing our ratzon enables us to push further in our avodas Hashem.

So, I stayed, swaying on my feet as the dancing wound down and the speeches began.Still, I stayed, swiping the sheitel bangs plastered to my forehead, congratulating myself on the sacrifice I was making for my children.

Finally, the choir began. I maneuvered closer to the screen, desperately wanting to see my boys’ sweet faces as my reward for surviving this heat chamber for so many hours. But as the video passed over face by face, not one was mine! Where were they?

After all I’d melted in the name of mommyhood, I couldn’t even share this one moment that meant so much to them? I was so drained, so frustrated at the logistics and the technicalities that somehow had resulted in my boys being blocked so they didn’t appear on the screen.

I could’ve been sitting in the comfort of my air-conditioned living room, instead of standing here for no reason!

There’s nothing new about this idea. Our society venerates those who push to succeed in business, sports, and so on. But that type of pushing is easy, as it’s tangible.

Doing it for Hashem, when no one else can see the difference? That’s when one becomes a partner in creation.

Hashem left out the “vowels” within a sefer Torah as an invitation to each individual to make his contribution to the world. Hashem may provide the “letters,” but it’s only through our individual will that we can supply those missing “vowels” to make Creation more perfect.

Yet suddenly the words of the song, the sweet tenor of those young voices, penetrated my lousy mood. “Torah Hakedoshah,” they sang, “hischaneni b’vakashah…”

My boys were out there. True, I couldn’t see them. But they were singing those words and I too could add my request to their song.  I closed my eyes, brought their faces to mind.  And began to daven. Hashem, let the Torah Hakedoshah always be there for them as they walk along Your way.

I was still there in that hot, packed room, but my thoughts lifted me higher.

The music drew to a close and I opened my eyes. No, I hadn’t seen my boys. But I’d felt them, heard them, davened with them. And I was so happy I’d pushed myself to experience this event. We may not have been able to see each other, but together, we’d created this moment.

 (Originally featured in Family First, Issue 814)