Parashat Chukat-Balak | Numbers 19:1–25:9
This past week I experienced firsthand the crossroads of grief and blessing when I got a call Thursday evening from a family friend asking if I could officiate at her wedding the next afternoon. She was not sure her father would survive the weekend, and wanted him to be present as she and her beloved stood beneath the chuppah. Although I have my officiant’s license, and have officiated at numerous funerals, this was my first wedding. So instead of writing my weekly blog, I focused on writing a wedding service to help the family find a measure of joy during a time of deep sorrow.
It is traditional at Jewish weddings to offer the couple seven blessings, and I wanted to share the contemporary blessings I wrote for the bride and groom.
May the light of love illuminate your path,
and may the love you share continue to grow, deepen,
and bless all who are touched by it.
May you find joy on your journey,
and may your love for one another
be a shelter in times of uncertainty.
May you respect and honor each other’s differences,
and help one another grow
as individuals and as partners.
May the light of hope sustain you,
the light of love guide you,
and may gratitude open your hearts
to the blessings that surround you.
May you feel connected
to one another and to your heritage,
and may you find wisdom in the words
of those who have come before you,
May you be surrounded by the love of family
and embraced by the support
of a caring community.
May you be blessed with strength, hope, and courage
when you need them most,
and may your home always
be filled with laughter, light, and love.
I was honored that the couple chose my Round Floral Ketubah and requested the egalitarian text my husband and I wrote when we got married. I’ve signed a lot of Ketubot as the artist— and this is the first time I’ve signed as the officiant!
This Shabbat, June 27th, would have been my 44th wedding anniversary. The “I Promise” piece below, lettered in the early 1980s, features the vows Andy and I spoke under our chuppah.
I Promise
©1982, Joanne Fink & Andy Trattner
I promise to share with you in times of joy as in times of trouble.
To talk and to listen; to honor and to appreciate you.
To provide for and support you in trust and in love.
I take you to be mine according to the laws of Moses and Israel.
I promise to share my hopes and thoughts and dreams with you.
I will work with you to build our lives together.
I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine.
May we grow… our lives forever intertwined, our love always bringing us closer.
Let us create a home for us and for our children based on love, on Torah and on the traditions of our Jewish heritage.
May it be a home filled with peace, with happiness, and especially with love.
One of the things I’ve learned on my own grief journey is that joy and sorrow can coexist.
It’s hard to believe that it’s been almost 15 years since Andy died. This is one of the many commemorations I’ve made for him:
This year, on my anniversary, I will be flying to Houston and meeting my daughter— who was diagnosed with stage 4, triple-negative breast cancer in October— at MD Anderson for another round of scans. We are praying that the current chemo regimen is working, since the last one didn’t, and we are praying for a miracle in the form of a new protocol that is effective against this aggressive form of cancer. I am so grateful to everyone who has Sam— Shira Natanya bat Yocheved— on your prayer lists. Thank you for caring, and for accompanying us on this journey.
So much love. So much life happening all at once.
This week’s double parashah, Chukat-Balak, meets me exactly where I am: standing at the crossroads of heartbreak and blessing, grief and gratitude, endings and beginnings, Being and Becoming.
Parashat Chukat
Parashat Chukat is filled with the kind of wilderness moments that change a community forever. Miriam dies. The people thirst. Moses struggles. Aaron dies. The Israelites mourn.
The verse I illuminated from Chukat says:
“When Moses and Eleazar descended from the mountain, the whole congregation saw that Aaron had died, and the entire house of Israel wept for Aaron for thirty days.”
There is something deeply human, and deeply holy, about that image: the entire house of Israel weeping together.
Not rushing. Not explaining. Not fixing. Just weeping.
Judaism understands that grief needs time, space, ritual, and community. We sit shiva. We say Kaddish. We show up for one another. We bring food. We sit in silence. We listen to the stories. We remember. We hold space for what cannot be made better, but can be made less lonely.
There are losses that rearrange the landscape of our lives. There are deaths that leave us standing at the base of a mountain, looking up at what has changed, not knowing how we are supposed to keep walking. Grief can force us to cross the great divide between the life we once knew, and the unknown, often unwelcome, future.
I’ve learned the importance of allowing myself to be present to what is true for me in this moment. I can allow myself to feel both sorrow and joy. I can remember Andy with love. I can mourn with friends. I can bless a couple beginning their married life. I can pray for those who are suffering. I can be present to the pain of the world and still search for light.
The Torah does not end with the people standing still in grief. The wilderness journey continues.
That does not mean the grief is over. It means that grief becomes part of the journey.
That is one of the hardest truths I know. We do not “move on” from the people we love. We carry them with us. Their love becomes part of the light by which we walk.
As I approach what would have been my 44th wedding anniversary, I feel the tenderness of that truth. Andy is not here to celebrate with me in the way I would have chosen. And yet, the love we shared continues to shape my life, my work, my art, my prayers, and the way I try to show up for others.
Love does not end. It changes form.
It becomes memory, blessing, compassion, courage, creativity, and light.
Chukat gives us permission to be human: to grieve, to thirst, to falter, to be tired, to need help, to long for what can no longer be. It reminds me that even our greatest leaders are not untouched by loss. Even sacred communities know heartbreak. Even those who lead others through the wilderness need time to pause, weep, and begin again.
Here’s my prayer for this parasha:
Permission
May we give ourselves permission
to begin again—and again—and again—
knowing that we are part of
something greater than ourselves.
May we grow in patience and resilience,
and be blessed with courage and strength
to address whatever challenges arise
on the next leg of our journey.
May we understand that
we are human BEings,
not human DOings,
and take time for the
introspection and reflection
necessary to fuel our soul’s sacred light.
Parashat Balak: The Turn Toward Blessing
And then, because this week is a double parashah, we move from Chukat into Balak.
Balak is a strange and wonderful portion. King Balak hires Balaam to curse the Israelites, but the curses do not come. Instead, blessing breaks through.
The words Balaam speaks are so beloved that they became part of our morning liturgy:
“Mah tovu ohalecha Yaakov, mishkenotecha Yisrael.”
“How goodly are your tents, O Jacob, your dwellings, O Israel.”
I have always loved the idea that blessing can come from an unexpected place. Sometimes we are blessed by the people who love us. Sometimes we are blessed by the people who show up when we are grieving. Sometimes we are blessed by a moment of beauty that catches us off guard. Sometimes we are blessed by the strength we did not know we had.
And sometimes, when we feel most lost, blessing appears as a path we could not yet see.
That is where Balak speaks to me this week. Not as a denial of the grief in Chukat, but as a companion to it.
Chukat says: Weep.
Balak says: Blessing is still possible.
Chukat says: You are human.
Balak says: Open your heart to the horizon.
Chukat says: Let the community carry the sorrow.
Balak says: Look again. There is goodness here, too.
That does not make the pain go away. It does not explain why young people die, or why families suffer, or why some anniversaries arrive with tears instead of celebration.
But it does remind me that grief and blessing are not opposites.
They often live side by side.
We can be heartbroken and grateful.
We can be weary and still willing.
We can be unsure of the next step and still ask for courage to take it.
We can stand at the crossroads of Being and Becoming, not yet knowing what path to take, and still open ourselves to the blessing of this moment.
Crossroads
Source of All—
I am standing here
at the crossroads of Being and Becoming;
my heart yearning for something I cannot name.
Allow me to sojourn into spaciousness
and open to the blessing of this moment.
Grant me the courage to set forth
when I do not know
which path to take.
Guide me as I begin to explore new directions,
and help me embrace the love and the pain,
the hope and the joy that are part of my journey.
Guided Journaling Questions
Where are you standing at a crossroads in your life?
What helps you feel seen when the road is hard?
Who in your life may need you to simply show up, listen, or bear witness?
What blessing might be present, even in a difficult season?
What would it look like to give yourself permission to be a human BEing, not a human DOing?
Closing Blessing
May the light of hope sustain you,
the light of love guide you,
and may gratitude open your heart
to the blessings that surround you.
May you be surrounded by the love of family
and embraced by the support
of a caring community.
May you be blessed with strength, hope, and courage
when you need them most,
and may your journey be illuminated
by laughter, light, and love.
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