Taking Care of Yourself
Many of us can recite the pre-flight safety instructions by heart, but on my recent trip to London, one sentence stood out:
“In case of emergency, put your own oxygen mask on first, before assisting your children or anyone else sitting next to you.”
Such a simple, yet profound idea: first, secure your own well-being. This is not selfishness, but common sense. If you don’t take care of yourself, you cannot take care of others.
Parents who are calm and happy are better able to care for their children. When they also nurture their relationship as a couple, the whole family benefits. The same is true in every area of life: we need to “fill our own cup” in order to have something to pour for others. If our cup is empty, we have little to give.
Especially in times like these, with all the struggles and challenges we face, we must remember: prioritizing your body and soul is not shameful. It’s vital.
What’s Next?
One of the hardest feelings, especially now, is uncertainty. We don’t know what tomorrow will bring, and so many people search for answers that can guarantee the future.
But the Torah rejects the notion that everything is predetermined and that we need fortune tellers, mystics, or idols to reveal what lies ahead. Instead, this week’s parashah teaches: “You shall be wholehearted with the Lord your God.” In other words: live with integrity, in the present, without obsessing about what tomorrow may bring.
Judaism affirms free will — our capacity to change, to repair, to choose a better path and thereby shape a better future. The future is not sealed; it depends on our deeds and intentions.
This is the essence of Elul, the month of teshuvah, forgiveness, and atonement. Every year we are given a gift: the chance to begin again. God believes in us, believes we can change, and in these days extends a special closeness to anyone who reaches out to Him.
So, what’s next? The real question is: What will we do next? This year especially, it is essential not to despair, but to remember that our choices and our actions are what truly determine what happens next.
Parashat Shoftim: Translating Hebrew to Hebrew
I remember it vividly. I was fourteen, sitting in shul, listening to the rabbi speak with passion and fire — and not understanding a word. He quoted the opening verse of Parashat Shoftim: “You shall set up judges and law enforcement officials for yourself in all your cities that the Lord your God is giving you.”
He explained that just as cities need judges and officers at their gates, so too each of us must place “guards” at the personal gates God created for us: our eyes, our ears, our mouth. We must watch what we take in — what we see, hear, consume — and be just as careful about what we let out — the words we speak.
But at fourteen, it felt like a foreign language. The Hebrew of religious discourse was so different from the Hebrew I knew. The rabbi leapt between the Written Torah and the Oral Torah, and I was lost. I didn’t realize that almost every verse carries an educational message — sometimes obvious, sometimes hidden.
Then the girl next to me whispered: “The Torah speaks of guarding the gates of a city. The rabbi is using it as a metaphor. We also need guards at our own gates — to think about the programs we watch, to avoid gossip, to speak kindly.” Suddenly it all made sense.
Ever since, whenever we reach Parashat Shoftim, I remember that moment — and the ongoing challenge of bridging the gap between two Hebrew languages, making the Torah’s lessons clear, close, and accessible to everyone.
Find Refuge in Elul
In this week’s parashah, the Torah commands us to establish arei miklat — cities of refuge. Someone who committed an accidental killing could flee there, finding both protection and the chance to rehabilitate before rejoining society as a new person. It’s a concept foreign to modern criminal law. A city of refuge was not a prison, but a place of safety and re-education, where life could begin again.
For centuries, commentators have also read this as metaphor. The chassidic approach compares the month of Elul — the month before the High Holy Days — to a city of refuge. Fittingly, Parashat Shoftim, which speaks of these cities, is always read during the first week of Elul.
Most of us know the famous acronym for Elul: Ani ledodi vedodi li — “I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine.” But there is another, less familiar acronym, drawn from Shemot 21:13 in the context of the accidental killer: ina leyado vesamti lekha makom — “God put it into his hand, and I made a place for you.”
Elul is our annual “city of refuge” — a time to pause, reflect, and admit what has slipped from our hands: the careless words, the wrong turns. It is our chance to repair and return.
Let’s bear in mind that there are two other “cities of refuge” available to us not only in Elul, but every day of the year: Torah study and prayer.