The smoke from the burning fields stung my eyes, but I didn’t care. My hands were still raw from gathering figs, and the air tasted bitter, like it always did in the summer. But that day was different. That day, the words of the Torah—our sacred teachings—would be read out loud for the first time in years.
I was just a boy, barely thirteen, standing on the dusty streets of Yerushalayim—Jerusalem—as the crowd gathered near the Water Gate. My father, Abba, had brought me to listen to the words of Ezra. Ezra the scribe, who had returned from Bavel—Babylon—after many years of exile. He was determined to bring us back to our roots.
I hadn’t understood why it was so important until I saw him stand there, on a wooden platform, unrolling the Torah scroll. He looked so small next to it, as though the scroll was larger than life itself, holding the weight of everything we had lost.
When Ezra began to read, the sound of his voice filled the air. “Baruch Hashem Elokeinu”—Blessed is the Lord our God. His voice was calm, but there was something in it—something powerful. People in the crowd stood still, listening intently. I saw my father’s face, hard and weathered from years of hardship, soften as he listened to the words he hadn’t heard in so long.
The Leviyim—the Levites, those who served in the Temple—walked among the crowd, helping explain the words. I hadn’t known that Hebrew could sound so strange, so distant. It had become unfamiliar, even to us.
At first, I didn’t understand what the big deal was. I had heard these words before, in small bits and pieces, in quiet corners of the house. But then Ezra read about Shabbat—the day of rest. The seventh day. A commandment that God had given to our ancestors. “Shabbat is a sign between you and Me,” he said. “It’s a covenant forever.”
That’s when something changed inside me.
I looked at the people around me. Grown men, with tears streaming down their faces. Women holding their children tightly. Abba’s face was wet with tears, too. I couldn’t understand it. Why were they crying?
I pulled at his sleeve. “Abba, why are they crying?”
He wiped his eyes. “Because we didn’t know, Yonatan,” he whispered. “We didn’t know how far we had wandered from what God had given us.”
The words hung in the air like a fog. They had lost their way. We had all lost our way.
Ezra paused for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was soft but full of authority. “Do not mourn or weep today. This day is holy. The joy of the Lord is your strength.”
The crowd was quiet for a moment, and then, slowly, people began to smile. Some even laughed through their tears. For the first time in so long, I felt something stirring inside me—a hope that maybe, just maybe, we could begin again.
That night, we gathered around the fire in our home. Abba said blessings over the bread. We lit the oil lamps, and for the first time in my life, I felt like I understood what it meant to belong to something ancient and holy. We had lost so much, but we still had the Torah. We still had our God.
The next morning, the world seemed different. The same, but different. The sun was the same, the birds sang the same, and the streets were still dusty. But now, the words of the Torah had come alive. They weren’t just laws or stories. They were life. They were hope.
And for the first time, I truly understood: it’s not just about the laws. It’s about the connection to God, the covenant we carry, even in the darkest times. And when we speak those words aloud, when we live them, something beautiful happens.
The road ahead would still be hard, but now, we had something to hold on to. Something stronger than the walls of our city. Something that could never be taken from us.
The Torah had been read aloud, and with it, the seed of our redemption was planted.
The smoke from the burning fields stung my eyes, but I didn’t care. My hands were still raw from gathering figs, and the air tasted bitter, like it always did in the summer. But that day was different. That day, the words of the Torah—our sacred teachings—would be read out loud for the first time in years.
I was just a boy, barely thirteen, standing on the dusty streets of Yerushalayim—Jerusalem—as the crowd gathered near the Water Gate. My father, Abba, had brought me to listen to the words of Ezra. Ezra the scribe, who had returned from Bavel—Babylon—after many years of exile. He was determined to bring us back to our roots.
I hadn’t understood why it was so important until I saw him stand there, on a wooden platform, unrolling the Torah scroll. He looked so small next to it, as though the scroll was larger than life itself, holding the weight of everything we had lost.
When Ezra began to read, the sound of his voice filled the air. “Baruch Hashem Elokeinu”—Blessed is the Lord our God. His voice was calm, but there was something in it—something powerful. People in the crowd stood still, listening intently. I saw my father’s face, hard and weathered from years of hardship, soften as he listened to the words he hadn’t heard in so long.
The Leviyim—the Levites, those who served in the Temple—walked among the crowd, helping explain the words. I hadn’t known that Hebrew could sound so strange, so distant. It had become unfamiliar, even to us.
At first, I didn’t understand what the big deal was. I had heard these words before, in small bits and pieces, in quiet corners of the house. But then Ezra read about Shabbat—the day of rest. The seventh day. A commandment that God had given to our ancestors. “Shabbat is a sign between you and Me,” he said. “It’s a covenant forever.”
That’s when something changed inside me.
I looked at the people around me. Grown men, with tears streaming down their faces. Women holding their children tightly. Abba’s face was wet with tears, too. I couldn’t understand it. Why were they crying?
I pulled at his sleeve. “Abba, why are they crying?”
He wiped his eyes. “Because we didn’t know, Yonatan,” he whispered. “We didn’t know how far we had wandered from what God had given us.”
The words hung in the air like a fog. They had lost their way. We had all lost our way.
Ezra paused for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was soft but full of authority. “Do not mourn or weep today. This day is holy. The joy of the Lord is your strength.”
The crowd was quiet for a moment, and then, slowly, people began to smile. Some even laughed through their tears. For the first time in so long, I felt something stirring inside me—a hope that maybe, just maybe, we could begin again.
That night, we gathered around the fire in our home. Abba said blessings over the bread. We lit the oil lamps, and for the first time in my life, I felt like I understood what it meant to belong to something ancient and holy. We had lost so much, but we still had the Torah. We still had our God.
The next morning, the world seemed different. The same, but different. The sun was the same, the birds sang the same, and the streets were still dusty. But now, the words of the Torah had come alive. They weren’t just laws or stories. They were life. They were hope.
And for the first time, I truly understood: it’s not just about the laws. It’s about the connection to God, the covenant we carry, even in the darkest times. And when we speak those words aloud, when we live them, something beautiful happens.
The road ahead would still be hard, but now, we had something to hold on to. Something stronger than the walls of our city. Something that could never be taken from us.
The Torah had been read aloud, and with it, the seed of our redemption was planted.
