Parshas Noach for Partners in Torah

Parsha Perspectives

ולא מצאה היונה מנוח לכף רגלה ותשב אליו אל התבה כי מים על פני הארץ וישלח ידו ויקחה ויבא אתה אליו אל התבה

But the dove found no resting place for the sole of its foot, so it returned to him to the ark because there was water upon the entire surface of the earth. So he stretched forth his hand and took it, and he brought it to him to the ark (Gen. 8:9).
Why does the Torah point out that Noah extended himself to bring the dove back into the ark? Why didn’t it just fly back home?
Rabbi Naftoli Tzvi Yehuda Berlin (1816-1893), otherwise known as the Netziv, points out that because the dove was not successful in its mission and returned without anything in its mouth, it thought that its master would be angry and not allow it to enter the ark. Noah, however, had compassion on the dove and took it in his hand to warm while it rested from the travails of her journey.
Even though the dove “found no resting place for the sole of its foot” — in other words it did not succeed in its mission — Noah treated it with compassion, and extended his hand to return the exhausted bird to its home.
In the eyes of the Almighty, it is the effort, not the result, that counts. How often do we do everything seemingly right, yet it ends in failure? This idea is apparent in today’s turbulent financial times, where we clearly see that success, or lack of success, is completely in the Almighty’s hands. With regard to spiritual pursuits, it is our responsibility to do our utmost, and we are rewarded accordingly.
A noted lecturer illustrated this idea with the following anecdote:
Dr. Levi was a famous heart surgeon who took his job very seriously. He made sure to keep abreast of all the latest medical developments and to be well rested and alert before beginning surgery. But although he took every possible precaution and reviewed all of Mr. Paloni’s tests and x-rays prior to the operation, Mr. Paloni’s heart stopped suddenly just minutes after beginning surgery, and he died on the operating table.
Dr. Simon was also a famous heart surgeon, but he did not take his job seriously. He laughed at those doctors who wasted their precious time reading medical journals. “After all,” he’d say, “after six years of medical school I should know what I’m doing.” A late night person, he often had to take a break during surgery to down a quick cup of coffee. The night before Mr. Almoni’s operation had been a particularly late one, and the good doctor was exhausted even before he made the first incision. Although he performed the surgery while half asleep, it was incredibly successful, and Mr. Almoni was given a new lease on life.
Although it appears that Dr. Levi failed while Dr. Simon succeeded, in the eyes of G-d it is completely the opposite. Dr. Simon failed — he was lax in his duties — while Dr. Levi was successful, as he did everything humanly possible to succeed.
Just as G-d treats us with compassion and rewards us for our efforts rather than for our accomplishment, we should treat others in the same way. If we ask someone to do something for us, and that person tries yet is unsuccessful, we should behave with compassion and treat him as if he had succeeded in his mission.

The Year of the Flying Sukkah

This story appeared in this month's edition of Jewish Lifestyle

This story took place over a decade ago. Although it's about a flying Sukkah, it really started about a week before the holiday, when the stores throughout Jerusalem were selling a new type of Schach, a light bamboo mat that could be used again and again. Their advertisement ditty, "U'b'Sukkaseinu…" played to a catch tune, blared throughout the streets of the city, and everyone, myself included, found themselves humming it underneath their breath as they busily prepared for the upcoming holiday.

"It'll be so much easier for you to build your Sukkah with this new type of Schach," I told my husband. "And it won't make such a mess in the house," I added. Every year my husband and sons dragged the old, wilted palm branches up from the bomb shelter where they were stored during the year. Somehow, as they maneuvered the schach and Sukkah boards down the hallway over the dining room table and across the living room, they would manage to bang into at least one piece of furniture (to make sure that we'd never forget the holiday), and leave a few wilted brown palm "droppings" on the floor.

This year, I had visions of a clean living room and a very calm and quiet erev Sukkot.

But my husband insisted on roofing our Sukkah with the old-fashioned palm branches. "We've always used them, and we'll continue to use them," he said.

I was frustrated. But it wasn't worth arguing about, and besides, he was the one who shlepped the palm branches up from the bomb shelter and positioned them on the Sukkah roof. I just had to clean the droppings.

We were the only family in our apartment building whose Sukkah was not roofed with a new easy-to-use super-light bamboo rug.

Two days before Yom Tov, I received a phone call from the Chabad Chernobyl program. They had airlifted children out of the area affected by the Chernobyl nuclear disaster and brought them to Israel for medical treatment -- as well as their first taste of Yiddishkeit -- and wanted us to host two nine-year old girls for the entire week of the holiday. Of course we agreed. It would be a privilege to introduce these youngsters to their heritage.

Olya and Katya had never seen a Sukkah before; as a matter of fact, they had never even heard of the Jewish holiday of Sukkot before coming to Israel. Their eyes widened in amazement and delight when, through a combination of sign language and a few Hebrew words we explained that we actually eat and sleep in the Sukkah for an entire week!

At the meal that evening, the girls were delighted by the neighbors singing together in stereophonic harmony, and giggled over our vain attempts to speak a few words of Russian.

Half-way through the soup, the weather suddenly changed. It wasn't long before we could feel the first drops of rain penetrating the palm branches above our heads.  Then, without any warning, the weather became vicious. The storm wind howled on all sides of us. We raced to the window and stared outside in amazement. Just a few minutes before everything had been calm and serene. Now, the trees were bending and… yes, that's when we saw the first roof flying through the air, accompanied to a rousing rendition of "Harachaman hu yakim lanu Sukkot Dovid Hanofelet," "May the All-merciful One rebuild the fallen Sukkah of Dovid" from the neighbor's now roofless Sukkah.

Within less than an hour the street was full of soggy bamboo rugs and ruined decorations were bobbing in the river that had once been our street. Ours was one of the few Sukkahs to survive the storm – and I was very grateful to my husband for being so obstinate and old fashioned.

We tried to explain to our guests that this was not part of the usual Sukkot celebration, but they seemed to think that flying schach and roofless Sukkot were the norm, and they loved every moment of it!

When it was time for Olya and Katya to return to their dormitory at the end of the week, we felt as if they were part of our family, and I believe the feeling was mutual. With their limited vocabulary, they let us know that Sukkot with the Shapiros was an experience they would never forget, and thanked us profusely. I told them that if they really want to show their appreciation, they could do me one favor – one very important favor, that would mean a lot to me, and to the entire Jewish people.

Olya and Katya's interest was piqued. "What's that?" they asked.

"Promise me that when you grow up, you'll make sure to marry a Jewish boy," I answered.

They could not promise.

I can only pray that the All-Merciful One rebuilds His fallen Sukkah, quickly and in our days.