I was a scribe’s apprentice when Ezra returned. Before he came, Torah was something my grandfather spoke about like a treasure buried far away. We lived in Yerushalayim—Jerusalem—but it felt more like a broken shell than a holy city. The walls were still crumbled, and though people had lived here for years since Koresh—Cyrus, king of Persia—allowed the exiles to return, most of us still felt lost. We had come home, yes, but not fully. Not in our hearts. Not in our souls.
I remember when the news spread. “Ezra the Sofer—the scribe—is coming from Bavel,” the elders whispered. “He brings the Torah. He teaches with truth.” Some wept. Others raised their arms to the sky. As for me? I trembled.
I was only thirteen, still learning how to make ink and shape letters with my reed pen. My teacher, old Ben-Zakai, had whispered stories to me in the quiet of our study room—tales of Torah scrolls once read aloud in the Temple, of crowds gathering to hear the words of Hashem—the name we use to speak of God with reverence. I had wanted that. But I never thought I’d live to see it.
Ezra arrived with families and priests, singers and guards, all traveling together from the east. They had left behind comfort and safety, obeying a calling deep enough to move hundreds across desert roads. And Ezra? He carried more than scrolls. He carried purpose.
The moment that changed everything for me happened on a sunny morning outside the city gate. Ezra stood on a wooden platform built just for that day. I was near the front, holding my teacher’s writing tools. The crowd hushed as Ezra unrolled the scroll.
“In the beginning…” he read, his voice strong and clear.
Tears filled my eyes before I knew why. Around me, people bowed their heads and wept or stood frozen. Some clutched their children close. Maybe it was the sound. Maybe it was the weight of the words, words that belonged to all of us but had been forgotten.
I didn’t understand every verse. Not yet. But in that moment, I felt something I hadn’t felt before. Like Hashem was with us again—not just above or beyond, but here, as real as the dust beneath our feet. It was as if our long silence had been broken by a long-lost melody.
That day, I found my own calling. Not just to copy letters onto parchment, but to live the words I wrote. To return, like Ezra returned—not just across land, but toward Hashem. That kind of return is called Teshuvah—coming back to God, even if you never physically left.
Some say Ezra rebuilt the soul of our nation. I believe that’s true. But he also built something inside me: a hunger for Torah, a fire for obedience, and a deep trust that when we take even one step toward God, He meets us with outstretched arms.
Now, whenever I write the sacred words, I remember that day. And I whisper: “Thank You for bringing us home.”
I was a scribe’s apprentice when Ezra returned. Before he came, Torah was something my grandfather spoke about like a treasure buried far away. We lived in Yerushalayim—Jerusalem—but it felt more like a broken shell than a holy city. The walls were still crumbled, and though people had lived here for years since Koresh—Cyrus, king of Persia—allowed the exiles to return, most of us still felt lost. We had come home, yes, but not fully. Not in our hearts. Not in our souls.
I remember when the news spread. “Ezra the Sofer—the scribe—is coming from Bavel,” the elders whispered. “He brings the Torah. He teaches with truth.” Some wept. Others raised their arms to the sky. As for me? I trembled.
I was only thirteen, still learning how to make ink and shape letters with my reed pen. My teacher, old Ben-Zakai, had whispered stories to me in the quiet of our study room—tales of Torah scrolls once read aloud in the Temple, of crowds gathering to hear the words of Hashem—the name we use to speak of God with reverence. I had wanted that. But I never thought I’d live to see it.
Ezra arrived with families and priests, singers and guards, all traveling together from the east. They had left behind comfort and safety, obeying a calling deep enough to move hundreds across desert roads. And Ezra? He carried more than scrolls. He carried purpose.
The moment that changed everything for me happened on a sunny morning outside the city gate. Ezra stood on a wooden platform built just for that day. I was near the front, holding my teacher’s writing tools. The crowd hushed as Ezra unrolled the scroll.
“In the beginning…” he read, his voice strong and clear.
Tears filled my eyes before I knew why. Around me, people bowed their heads and wept or stood frozen. Some clutched their children close. Maybe it was the sound. Maybe it was the weight of the words, words that belonged to all of us but had been forgotten.
I didn’t understand every verse. Not yet. But in that moment, I felt something I hadn’t felt before. Like Hashem was with us again—not just above or beyond, but here, as real as the dust beneath our feet. It was as if our long silence had been broken by a long-lost melody.
That day, I found my own calling. Not just to copy letters onto parchment, but to live the words I wrote. To return, like Ezra returned—not just across land, but toward Hashem. That kind of return is called Teshuvah—coming back to God, even if you never physically left.
Some say Ezra rebuilt the soul of our nation. I believe that’s true. But he also built something inside me: a hunger for Torah, a fire for obedience, and a deep trust that when we take even one step toward God, He meets us with outstretched arms.
Now, whenever I write the sacred words, I remember that day. And I whisper: “Thank You for bringing us home.”
