Exodus 9

Hook

There are moments in our journey of grief when the world feels utterly out of control, a tempest of sorrow and change that sweeps through everything we thought was stable. We might witness overwhelming forces at play, affecting everyone around us, yet experience our own specific, unique contours of suffering, or perhaps, surprisingly, pockets of grace and resilience. We may feel the ache of injustice, the bewilderment of why some endure while others perish, or why some aspects of life seem irrevocably damaged while others, unexpectedly, persist. This ritual is for those times when the very fabric of existence feels stretched and strained, when we seek to understand where we stand in the midst of a storm, and how to honor what is distinct and enduring within our hearts.

The ancient text we encounter today, from the Book of Exodus, speaks of a time of profound upheaval in the land of Egypt. It describes a series of powerful, unyielding forces—plagues—that disrupt the natural order, affecting humans, animals, and the very landscape. Yet, even in this narrative of widespread devastation, there is a recurring theme of distinction, of certain things being set apart and preserved. It is a story that, while not directly about personal loss, offers a potent metaphor for navigating the chaos of grief and discerning what remains, what is protected, and what continues to hold meaning for us. It invites us to consider the nature of enduring strength, even when everything around us seems to be falling apart.

Text Snapshot

From Exodus 9:

"But יהוה will make a distinction between the livestock of Israel and the livestock of the Egyptians, so that nothing shall die of all that belongs to the Israelites. ... Only in the region of Goshen, where the Israelites were, there was no hail. ... But the wheat and the emmer were not hurt, for they ripen late."

Kavvanah

Our intention today, our kavvanah, is to consciously seek and acknowledge the points of distinction and enduring resilience within our personal landscapes of grief. We hold the intention of discerning what has been spared, what ripens late, and what remains true, even when the surrounding world feels engulfed by overwhelming forces.

The plagues described in Exodus 9 – the pestilence, the boils, the devastating hail – can be seen as powerful metaphors for the multifaceted nature of grief itself. As Ibn Ezra noted, these plagues manifested through different elements: water, earth, air, and fire, affecting various aspects of life. In our own lives, grief, too, can feel like a series of "plagues" impacting every dimension of our being – our physical health, our emotional landscape, our mental clarity, our spiritual connection. It can feel like a pestilence that drains our vitality, boils that erupt in unexpected pain, or a hail storm that shatters our sense of safety and permanence.

Yet, within this narrative of widespread affliction, the text repeatedly emphasizes "distinction." "But יהוה will make a distinction...so that nothing shall die of all that belongs to the Israelites." And again, "Only in the region of Goshen, where the Israelites were, there was no hail." This distinction is not about a denial of suffering, but an affirmation that even in the most comprehensive devastation, there can be a designated space, a particular quality, or a cherished memory that remains untouched, a "Goshen" within our hearts.

Consider also the subtle detail about the crops: "the flax and barley were ruined, for the barley was in the ear and the flax was in bud; but the wheat and the emmer were not hurt, for they ripen late." This speaks to the wisdom of timing, of natural cycles, and the endurance of that which has deeper roots or a longer maturation process. In grief, some sorrows hit immediately, like the flax and barley, while other understandings, other forms of connection, other aspects of love, are like the wheat and emmer – they ripen late. They are not destroyed, but simply waiting for their season to fully reveal themselves, to offer their sustenance when the immediate storm has passed.

Pharaoh’s stubbornness, his "stiffened heart," can also be seen as a reflection of our own resistance or the world’s resistance to acknowledging the depth and truth of our grief. But Moses, in his encounters, walked into Pharaoh's palace, past guards and even lions, unhindered (as Or HaChaim suggests). This image offers a powerful symbol for how we might approach our own formidable inner landscapes of grief – not with aggression, but with a quiet, resolute presence, trusting in a deeper authority and purpose.

Finally, Rav Hirsch reminds us that the Hebrews, though foreigners, were God’s property, with an "unverlierbar" – an unlosable, unshakeable – human right and dignity. In our grief, we, too, hold an unshakeable dignity, and the memory of our loved one holds an unshakeable place. Even when we feel like foreigners in a new landscape of loss, our inherent worth, and the sacredness of our love, remain intact.

As we move into practice, hold this intention: to acknowledge the full scope of the storm, while deliberately seeking and honoring the "Goshen," the "wheat and emmer," the "unshakeable dignity" within your own heart and the memory you carry.

Practice

The Enduring Harvest: A Story of Distinction and Resilience

In the midst of the plagues, Exodus 9 offers us images of destruction, but also of quiet preservation: the livestock of Israel, the region of Goshen, and the wheat and emmer that ripen late. These are not platitudes suggesting that "everything happens for a reason," but rather acknowledgments of complexity, of the intricate dance between loss and endurance, devastation and distinction. Today, we will engage in a micro-practice to tend to our own "enduring harvest"—the specific stories, qualities, or connections that, like the wheat and emmer, were not struck down, but continue to ripen and sustain us.

Setting the Space (1 minute)

Find a quiet corner where you can sit undisturbed. You might choose to light a candle, symbolizing the "fire flashing in the midst of the hail" – a light that persists even within the storm, a beacon for what remains. Hold a cherished object, a photograph, or simply close your eyes and bring to mind the person you are remembering. Take a few deep, intentional breaths, allowing yourself to arrive fully in this moment, in this space of remembrance.

Reflection on Distinction (2 minutes)

Recall the image of the "distinction" made between the livestock of Israel and the Egyptians, or the region of Goshen spared from the hail. In your own experience of grief, what aspects, memories, or qualities of your loved one, or of your shared life, feel like they have been remarkably preserved? This is not to diminish the pain of what was lost, but to acknowledge the miracle of what endures.

• Is there a particular trait of their personality that seems utterly unblemished by time or absence?
• Is there a specific memory that brings comfort, a quiet joy, or a clear sense of their essence, even amidst the surrounding sorrow?
• What unique "region of Goshen" exists within your heart, a sanctuary where their presence feels undiminished?
• Perhaps it’s a specific laugh, a unique way they offered comfort, a particular piece of advice, or a shared secret. Allow this distinct quality or memory to surface gently.

Unearthing the Enduring Harvest (2 minutes)

Now, let us turn to the image of the "wheat and emmer" that were "not hurt, for they ripen late." This speaks to a deeper, slower maturation, a resilience that isn't immediately apparent but proves to be profoundly sustaining. Think of a story or a lesson from your loved one's life, or from your relationship with them, that has revealed its deeper meaning or comfort over time.

• What values did they embody that continue to guide you?
• What particular wisdom did they share that resonates with you more profoundly now?
• Is there a quiet strength you inherited from them, or a way of seeing the world that they instilled in you, which has only grown clearer and stronger with time?
• This "enduring harvest" might be a quiet understanding, a profound sense of connection, or a living legacy that continues to ripen and bear fruit in your life.

Rav Hirsch’s insight reminds us of the "unverlierbar" – the unlosable – aspect of our connection and their inherent worth. This enduring harvest is part of that unlosable truth.

Expressing and Anchoring (1 minute)

Take a moment to name this "enduring harvest." You might speak it aloud, whisper it, or write it down. Say: "I honor the enduring harvest of [name of loved one]'s [specific quality/story/value]. It is like the wheat and emmer, ripening late, sustaining me." If you lit a candle, you might place your hand gently near its warmth, imagining this enduring quality shining brightly within you, a testament to a love that transcends the immediate storm. This is not about forgetting the pain, but about recognizing the persistent light, the unwavering connection that continues to nourish your spirit. This quiet, resolute act of remembrance, like Moses walking unchallenged into Pharaoh's palace, affirms your internal power to navigate the landscape of grief.

Community

Grief, while intensely personal, is also a profoundly human experience that can be held and witnessed by others. In Exodus, the distinction was made for the people of Israel, a collective. While the plagues raged, there was a shared "Goshen," a collective shelter. How might we create such a "shared shelter" for our own enduring harvests, for the distinct stories and resilience we carry?

The Shared Shelter: Bearing Witness to Enduring Love

This practice invites you to consider sharing your "enduring harvest" – the distinct quality or story you identified – with one or two trusted individuals. This is not about seeking advice or fixing anything, but rather about the profound act of being witnessed, of allowing another to hold space for the enduring aspects of your love and memory.

• Choose Your Shelter-Keepers: Think of someone who listens with their heart, who understands that grief is not to be solved but to be held. This could be a friend, a family member, a spiritual companion, or a therapist. It is a choice, not a should.
• Set the Intention: When you reach out, you might say something like: "I’m in a period of remembering [Loved One's Name], and I've been reflecting on a particular quality or story that feels especially enduring, like a 'harvest' that continues to sustain me. I would be so grateful if you could simply listen as I share this with you, with no need to respond or fix anything, just to bear witness."
• Share Your Harvest: Share the specific story, quality, or value you identified in the practice. Describe what makes it distinct, how it feels like "wheat and emmer" that ripens late, and how it continues to live in you. This act of sharing is an act of courage and vulnerability, allowing your "Goshen" to be seen and acknowledged by another.
• Receive the Witnessing: Allow their presence to be the "shelter." Just as those who "feared יהוה’s word brought their slaves and livestock indoors to safety" (Exodus 9:20), a true listener offers a safe space for what is precious to you. Their quiet attention affirms the reality of your enduring love and the significance of your memory. In their presence, you are reminded that the "earth is יהוה’s," and that you are not alone in navigating its mysteries.

This gentle sharing strengthens the bonds of community, allowing others to witness the unshakeable dignity of your experience and the precious legacy you carry. It creates a collective "Goshen," a space where enduring love is honored and sustained.

Takeaway

Even when the world feels like a storm, with "plagues" touching every aspect of life, there are always places of distinction, threads of resilience, and an enduring harvest that ripens in its own time. Your grief is unique, and so too are the profound, unshakeable truths that remain within your heart. May you find comfort in recognizing what was not struck down, what continues to live, and what will forever sustain you.