I was just overseeing the setup of our shul/synagouge’s Kiddush following services.
The tables were being covered with pretty cloths, plates and napkins laid out just so. Trays of meat and bowls of salad were being carried outside, wine bottles and Kiddush cups lined up and waiting to be poured. It was that lovely in-between moment - everything ready, the air holding that peaceful stillness that comes just before people arrive.
And then, in true Washington fashion, the sky changed its mind.
A single drop, then another - and within seconds, a downpour. Heavy, relentless rain drummed on the schach, soaked through the freshly covered tables, and sent the few volunteers and helpers still outside scrambling. No one else had arrived yet, and within moments our beautiful setup looked defeated: tablecloths sagging, water dripping, the Kiddush that had been minutes away from being served now hurriedly being removed.
And then, as suddenly as it started, it cleared. The rain had stopped, and everything felt calm. The tablecloths were soaked, a few napkins stuck to the chairs, and drops still clung to the schach. Yet somehow, the whole scene felt fresh and serene.
We quickly began setting everything up again - shaking out what we could, replacing what had been destroyed.. By the time the first people stepped into the Sukkah, you never would have known what had just happened. The tables were reset, the food laid out beautifully, the air clear and bright. What only moments earlier had been chaos was now transformed — and those walking in saw only beauty and warmth.
And standing there, I felt it - that quiet realization that this tiny episode held something larger.
For nearly two years, our people have been sitting in a storm. The grief, the waiting, the fear - it has drenched us all. Even moments meant for celebration have been shadowed by pain. Yet through it all, we’ve stayed in our sukkah - our temporary cocoon - fragile but faithful, trusting that Hashem/Gd is holding us even when the walls feel thin.
Maybe that’s what Sukkot is really about: not just the comfort of protection, but the courage of exposure - the choice to stay present even when the rain comes, to keep our faith even when the winds of doubt and fear blow.
Because when it does stop, the air feels different. We breathe deeper. We notice the light.
And we remember that our people have been here before - through exile and return, through fire and flood, through tears and rebuilding. Time and again, we’ve wrung out what was soaked, replaced what was lost, and set the table again.
So too today: as we wait, as we pray for those held captive, for their long road to health and recovery, and for peace to return to our land, we hold fast to that same truth - that even after the fiercest storms, Am Yisrael rises, steadies, and rebuilds.
And that is the message of the upcoming Simchat Torah Holiday: that even after the hardest rain, the Jewish people rise, lift the Torah high, and celebrate once more beneath a shining sky.
Because the Jewish story - like the sukkah itself - may be fragile in form, but it is unbreakable in spirit.