When the Fire Fades
Rabbi Meyer Laniado
Last summer, my family and I went to a secluded cabin in the forest. One night, I built a large fire pit and sat by it, alone, for nearly an hour, deep in thought. In a flash, I had an insight and called a friend to share it. He asked me, “Where are your wife and kids?” I answered, without thinking much of the question, that they were inside, and my wife was putting them to bed. He paused and said, “She is doing the real work. That is real life.”
His comment struck me, not because I believe we shouldn’t have moments of solitude and reflection, but because of the contrast between seeking grand moments and returning to the everyday rhythm once those moments subside. This is something I have struggled with, and his words brought it sharply to the forefront.
The real question is not how we are in the grand moments, when our child is born or when we stand under the huppah, but how we show up when we return to daily routine. How do we show up once the excitement fades and life settles back into routine? When the focus needs to be on the ordinary, repetitive and often uncelebrated acts of responsibility.
Benei Yisrael confronted this challenge after their huppah at Mount Sinai, when they entered into a covenant, a marriage, with G-D. The scene was one of cinematic grandeur: lightning, thunder and the sound of a booming shofar. The people prepared with awe and anticipation, and the experience was overwhelming. But in the quiet, unremarkable days that followed, sustaining that moment proved far more difficult. What gives the revelation at Mount Sinai its enduring meaning is carrying its commitment forward into ordinary time, day after day.
This idea is at the heart of the story of Hannah (I Samuel 1). Hannah was a barren woman who longed for a child. At the height of her anguish, Hannah made a vow: If G-D would bless her with a son, she would dedicate him to serve in the Mishkan all the days of his life. G-D did, at last, answer her prayers. With excitement, Hannah returned to the Mishkan, the place where she had prayed for a child, and told the Kohen Gadol, Eli, “This is the boy I prayed for! G-D gave me what I asked for and what I requested of Him.”
The story of Hannah could have concluded here with this happy ending, G-D answering her prayers. Instead, it continues to describe what takes place after, in the quiet, ordinary commitment of the life that follows. The text tells us that she would go year in and year out, miyamim yamimah, to the Mishkan with a new me’il qaton, a small, hand-sewn robe for her son. Why tell us about this detail? What was its purpose and significance?
When you hear the word me’il, robe, in the context of the Mishkan, you would expect the splendor like that of the Kohen Gadol’s: ornate with intricate embroidery, pomegranates and bells sewn along the hem, a garment of glory. But the robe Hannah made for her son was just a simple little tunic, resized each year as her boy grew. This is the image of a mother buying her son new clothes as he grows, like taking our kids school shopping year after year as they outgrow their previous year’s clothing. It’s not glamorous, not a big moment, not a new height of accomplishment. That was Hannah’s me’il, the little robe. Every year, miyamim yamimah, a new size, another trip, another robe, continued commitment in the everyday moments. The emphasis is not on the miracle itself, but on the consistency that follows, miyamim yamimah, year after year.
The simha at a wedding is not really about the wedding itself, but about what it points toward, the hope that two people will keep returning to one another day after day. We are not cheering only for the moment the hattan stands under the huppah. We are cheering for the days, weeks and years that come after. We celebrate the person who leaves in the morning and is eager to come home to his bride again each night, who is pulled in countless directions by the demands of life and yet remains drawn back, again and again, to the same relationship. That is the “real work” my friend was talking about that night in the forest. He was reminding me of the importance of the quiet, repetitive work of being a father and a husband.
The miracle of a child or a marriage is the peak, but the meaning is given weight and impact through carrying the moment forward through daily commitments. That is Hannah’s me’il, the simple, unglamorous tunic that must be resized year after year as life grows and changes. It was Hannah’s continuous showing up that gave greater meaning and purpose to the blessing of a child. And so, miyamim yamimah has become my mantra. It grounds me in the daily commitments I once experienced as interruptions to my “real” work. When I feel the urge to tell my kids I’m too busy, I pause and remind myself, miyamim yamimah, this is the real work.
Rabbi Meyer Laniado is an associate rabbi at Congregation Kehilath Jeshurun and leads its Sephardic community on New York City’s Upper East Side. He teaches at Ramaz and is a growing voice in the broader conversation on Sephardic history, ideas, and culture, having shared perspectives at UJA, the Maimonides Fund, and the Bronfman Fellowship.
