I was tired. And I was tired of asking for miracles

IT

was Shevii shel Pesach, and we discussed the miracle of the Splitting of the Sea over glasses of Merlot and spinach-stuffed London broil. I was happy the meat had come out tasty — it was a new recipe — and even happier to be sitting with my family and two single friends, Rina and Surie.

In between sips, Rina nodded to me and said, “We’re supposed to daven for anything we need tonight. It’s the night of miracles.”

“Can I also do it tomorrow?” I asked.

I was tired. And I was tired of asking for miracles.

Rina shrugged. “Not sure. I davened when I lit candles.” Her eyes held mine for a moment, and I saw the ache there.

I’d davened when I lit, too, said my children’s and husband’s names, asked for the general requests I always do next to the licht — health, good middos, love of Torah and mitzvos, for my children to find their zivugim easily in the right time — but I’d been rushed. I still had to set the table, heat the soup, finish the salad. And though it had been a nice Erev Yom Tov — the whole family had even gotten out for a game of tennis — it was still Pesach. I’d been in the kitchen most of the day before. My legs hurt; my feet hurt. My hands were sore from a week and a half of peeling and chopping. My entire middle-aged body was still feeling the effects of Sedarim that ended at 2 a.m. and the following day of washing dishes, serving, and clearing all over again.

I couldn’t wait to fall into bed after walking Rina and Surie to where they were staying.

But I did need a miracle. In fact, I needed two.