From Heavy Darkness to the Renewal of Light
January 31, 2025

 

By Zahava Fried

In this week’s Torah portion, Bo, we encounter one of the most striking plagues to befall Egypt – the plague of darkness. When I was a sophomore in college, I was introduced to Rashi’s commentary that the darkness became so heavy and viscous that the Egyptians would not be able to move, let alone go from sitting to standing. The darkness was literally paralyzing, causing the Egyptians to be glued in place. During the six days of this plague, each Egyptian was completely left alone in their own darkness- unable to see, unable to move, unable to seek comfort, and unable to imagine an end to the darkness. As a college student, I recall thinking how disconcerting and terrifying that must have felt for the Egyptians, but I didn’t have the frame of reference for that type of darkness as a college student. I don’t think I did until the days after my son was born.

I gave birth to my third child almost six weeks ago. He was born at 6:20 pm in the evening on a cold and dark December evening, and his initial arrival was filled with warmth and joy. As a third-time parent, I was ready, and I was prepared. From my prior experiences with my daughters, I had envisioned the first few hours after his birth to be pure newborn bliss. Instead, twelve hours later, every expectation that I had was dashed. The medical staff informed me that my boy was going to be sent to the NICU. He had developed a disorder called Transient Tachypnea of the Newborn. Infants should breathe at a respiratory rate of 40-60 breaths per minute. My little man was breathing at a rate of over 110 breaths per minute in an effort to expel excess fluid from his lungs. I later learned that this disorder rarely becomes more complicated and tends to resolve in 24-72 hours. However, in those initial moments and during our six-day NICU stay (oddly, the same amount of time that Darkness plagued the Egyptians), I did not see an end to the darkness. All I saw was my perfect newborn with tubes and wires coming out of his body. I could not hold him. I could not feed him. I hadn’t even had the chance to change his diaper. My darkness manifested itself in the sterile brightness of the NICU and I was completely paralyzed by fear and the unknown. Every rapid breath from his body and every beep of the monitors added another layer to the thick darkness of panic that engulfed me.

Interestingly, the text says that during the plague, “the Egyptians could not see his fellow.” With this ordeal in my rear-view mirror, I am re-reading this verse with a new lens. Despite the presence of unbelievably caring medical staff and unbreakable family support, the experience of watching your child struggle with their health creates a uniquely solitary kind of suffering. Each moment becomes a universe of worry that seems impossible to fully share with others let alone articulate. My darkness grew heavier as 24 hours passed. I felt stuck when 72 hours passed and he was not getting better and the transience of this tachypnea seemed not so transient anymore. I lost track of time after four days and became stagnant in the monotony of heavy sadness and constant panic. But then on the fifth day, things began to look, well, brighter. Just as I thought that the darkness would not lift, I saw the cliched light at the end of the tunnel. His breathing began to stabilize, and the wires and the tubes began to be removed. I could hold him, feed him, and I finally got to change a diaper! The irony does not escape me that light is also juxtaposed with darkness in this week’s parsha when we learn about the first mitzvah given to the Jewish people- the counting of a new month, or Rosh Chodesh. Through this mitzvah, we learn that renewal begins in our darkest moments, reflecting the initial darkness before the emergence of a bright, full new moon.

I am writing this thought at my desk on Monday, January 27th – International Holocaust Remembrance Day- a day that marks a period of true anguish and darkness. As I reflect upon my gratitude for my son’s health and our family’s emergence from our darkness, I remember Elie Wiesel’s timeless words: “Even in darkness, it is possible to create light and encourage compassion.” We cannot truly understand the darkness that afflicts those around us, but we can always do our best to be compassionate, and in turn, spark the light.

 

Zahava Fried, Manager of Young Family Engagement at Buffalo Jewish Federation and Cantorial Intern at Temple Beth Tzedek, is enjoying all the newborn snuggles with her son, Rami, during her maternity leave. Besides changing diapers, she is taking this time to enjoy her family, continue her Cantorial classes at the Academy for Jewish Religion, and actually finish her thesis!