The women were waiting, the organizer was counting on me, and it was too late. I sent up a heartfelt tefillah to Hashem, and set out for Fallsburg, NY. When I stood up and held the mic, I closed my eyes and imagined Hashem speaking through me. And words came out — strong, clear words — for 45 minutes straight.

After I left the shul where the event took place, I tried to make a phone call, but no sound emerged. Nor did the recording of my speech record any sound.

Hashem literally put words into my mouth and gave me a voice during that Fallsburg event.

This doesn’t always happen.

As a teacher in my community, I’m often asked to speak after a tragedy occurs. I try to help people come to terms with the event and use it as an opportunity for growth.

I remember responding publicly on Chazak hotline right after the Har Nof massacre. I gave a teleconference for the women in my hometown of Denver (and their relatives from New York who hopped on the line) the day they closed our schools due to COVID-19. Last year, I arranged a class when a Sefer Torah fell in our community on the 17th of Tammuz.

But when the Meron tragedy occurred, I was speechless. I didn’t talk about it, not publicly and not privately. No words formed in my mind or my mouth. Nothing.

And I accept that. That’s okay. Sometimes, there are no words.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 760)