| Sometimes You Don’t Need a Lecture — You Need a Memory In this week’s Torah portion, there’s a quiet verse that is easy to miss. It describes the death of Devorah, the nursemaid of Rebecca (Rivka): Devorah, Rivka’s nurse, died… and Yaakov buried her and named the place Alon Bachut, the Oak of Tears. (Gen. 35:8) If you’ve never heard of Devorah before, you’re not alone. She’s not one of the famous characters of the Bible. She doesn’t give speeches, doesn’t lead armies, and never performs miracles. She’s simply Rivka’s childhood caregiver — a warm, nurturing presence in the home where the Jewish story takes root. But Rashi, the classic commentator, asks: What was Devorah doing traveling with Yaakov at all? Why did Rivka specifically send her to bring Yaakov home after so many years away? Rivka had promised Yaakov that when it was safe to return home, she would send word. And she chose Devorah — an elderly woman, 133 years old according to the Midrash — to make this long, difficult journey. Why her? Rabbi Dov Weinberger (Shemen HaTov) explains that when Yaakov was young, he didn’t want to leave his parents’ home — a home filled with holiness, values, and goodness. But Rivka, his mother, insisted he must leave for his own safety. Yaakov worried, but how will I stay spiritually grounded in Lavan’s house? How will I retain my integrity and Jewish identity in a corrupt environment?” Therefore, Rivka promised him, I have a plan that will bring you back and restore the spirituality you may lose while you’re away. Years later, when it was time to come home, Rivka knew that this message could not be delivered by a stranger or a hired messenger. To bring Yaakov home spiritually, not just physically, she needed to send someone who represented the old home — the beauty, values, and purity of earlier generations. Someone whose very presence would be a reminder of who Yaakov really was—so she sent Devorah. Sometimes you don’t need a lecture, you need a memory; every one of us knows this feeling. There is something powerful about meeting a person whose life spans generations — someone whose presence itself reconnects you to something deeper and truer. I grew up in a world where every synagogue — Reform, Conservative, and Orthodox — had members with numbers tattooed on their arms. Survivors of the Holocaust. They didn’t have to say a word because their lives were the message. You looked at them and remembered that there is a Jewish story worth fighting for. There is a strength inside our people that can survive anything. There is holiness in staying connected, no matter what life throws at you. That’s what Devorah was for Yaakov. She was neither a scholar or leader; she was a living reminder of who he came from. There’s a story told about one of the most respected rabbis of the early 1900s known worldwide as the Chofetz Chaim. He was famous not only for his scholarship, but for his kindness, humility, and gentle way of living Torah. By the time he reached his 90s, he was very frail. After a lifetime of teaching and guiding Jewish communities, he felt it was time to step back; he wanted to move to Israel and spend his final years there. His thinking was simple: I’m old and can’t teach or lead like I used to; let the next generation of Jewish leaders carry things forward. But before leaving, he went to speak with Rav Chaim Ozer Grodzinsky in Vilna — a younger but highly influential rabbi who was carrying the weight of European Jewry on his shoulders. Rav Chaim Ozer listened, and then said, please don’t leave. Even if you can’t teach anymore, even if you cannot lecture or write, your presence here still matters. He explained with a metaphor and said, When the Zaidy (grandfather) sits at the table, the grandchildren act differently. In other words, just by being here —your mere presence—reminds people what an authentic Jew looks like, where we come from, and what it looks like to Jew is at his best. One of the gifts of the older generation is that they carry the memory of what life looks like when values are clear. They don’t need to give a sermon or intricate lecture—sometimes their presence is the lesson. Most of us don’t have someone like Devorah or the Chofetz Chaim sitting at our table, but we do have people — sometimes older, sometimes surprisingly young — whose lives remind us of our best selves. A grandparent. A Holocaust survivor. A teacher. A friend whose kindness feels like something from another world. Sometimes even a child whose innocence resets our perspective. The Torah is teaching us that when you feel lost, find someone whose life reminds you of who you really are. Not someone who explains it, but someone who lives it.Rivka understood that to bring Yaakov home, she needed to send him a memory. A person whose presence said, you come from greatness. Come home to yourself.We, too, can become “Devorahs” for the people around us. We can be the person whose kindness, integrity, and humility quietly remind others: This is what a Jew looks like. This is what goodness looks like. No speeches required, just presence and consistency. Just being who we are meant to be. |
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