The wisdom is to know when

In parshas Va’eira, we encounter one of the most visually dramatic moments of the ten plagues: the plague of hail. Fire and ice descend together, smashing the Egyptian landscape with unprecedented force. Yet the Torah pauses to tell us something seemingly technical, almost agricultural: certain crops were destroyed, while others survived.

The flax and barley, which had already ripened and hardened, were shattered by the hail. The wheat and spelt, however, were still soft and unripe. Instead of resisting the storm, they bent. And because they bent, they survived.

This detail is far more than a farming report. It is a profound insight into human resilience.

There are moments in life when strength means standing firm. When a person must be unyielding, principled, and immovable—like iron. When values are on the line, when integrity is tested, when truth must be upheld regardless of pressure, cost, or convenience. In those moments, bending is not wisdom; it is compromise. A person must know who they are and what they stand for, and refuse to be pushed off course.

But Va’eira teaches us that rigidity is not always strength.

There are other moments when survival itself depends on flexibility. When insisting on being “right” may lead to being broken. When wisdom lies not in resistance, but in adaptation. In thinking ahead. In asking not only, “What is correct right now?” but “What outcome am I ultimately trying to preserve?”

The unripe crops were not weak. They were unfinished. And because they were still growing, they had the capacity to bend without breaking. Their softness was not a flaw—it was a strategy for survival.

We see this same principle reflected in Jewish law itself, particularly in the laws of Shabbat. Shabbat is one of the most sacred pillars of Jewish life, protected by layers upon layers of laws designed to preserve its sanctity. And yet, in a situation of danger to life, all of those laws fall away. One may call an ambulance. One may drive to a hospital. One may violate Shabbat without hesitation.

Why? Because preserving life comes first.

The Talmud explains it with remarkable clarity: it is better to break one Shabbat so that many more Shabbatot can be kept in the future. This is not a weakening of values—it is their fulfillment. It is knowing when firmness serves holiness, and when flexibility does.

Life constantly presents us with storms. Some demand that we plant our feet and refuse to move. Others demand that we bend just enough to make it through intact. The challenge is not choosing one approach, but knowing which moment calls for which response.

Va’eira reminds us that true strength is not found only in hardness. Sometimes, the ability to yield—to adapt, to compromise strategically, to preserve what truly matters—is what allows us to live another day, grow further, and ultimately become stronger than before.

The wisdom is not just to stand firm. The wisdom is to know when.

Leadership Chosen, Not Chased

When we think about the greatest leaders of the Jewish people, none loom larger than Moses. And yet, one of the most striking things about Moshe is that he didn’t want the role. He resisted it—repeatedly.

Jonathan Sacks speaks about three kinds of leaders: those who are born to lead, those who learn to lead, and those upon whom leadership is thrust. Moshe belongs squarely in the third category. The Midrash tells us that for several days he argued with the Almighty at the burning bush: Send someone else. I am not fit. I don’t want this responsibility. Send my brother Aaron. And yet, it was precisely Moshe who was chosen.

Why?

The Midrash offers a powerful answer. While shepherding his father-in-law’s flock, a small lamb ran away. Moshe chased after it until he found it drinking desperately from a stream. Exhausted, the lamb collapsed. Moshe lifted the lamb onto his shoulders and carried it back to the flock. At that moment, G-d said: One who shows compassion to a single lamb is fit to lead My people.

Leadership, in Torah, is not about authority—it is about responsibility.

True leaders carry burdens that are not their own. They feel the weight of others’ needs.

Parents are a living example: they must make difficult decisions, absorb stress silently, and place the wellbeing of their children above personal comfort. That, too, is leadership.

This is the model we see throughout Tanach. King David was chosen not for ambition but for humility. Moshe was chosen not for confidence, but for compassion. Leadership is not self-promotion—it is self-giving.

If we want to understand how to lead in our families, workplaces, and communities, we don’t look to those who chased power. We look to those who ran after a tired lamb, lifted it gently, and carried it home.

Seeing the Bigger Picture: Yosef’s Masterclass in Perspective

One of the most striking moments in the Yosef story comes years after his brothers betrayed him. When he finally reveals himself to them in Egypt, after testing their loyalty to Binyamin, he says something remarkable: “You sent me here… but Hashem sent me ahead to sustain life.” With those few words, Yosef reframes everything. The same event — his being sold into slavery — contains two entirely different stories depending on the perspective from which it is viewed. His brothers saw cruelty, guilt, and regret. Yosef saw purpose, necessity, and ultimately salvation.

When we look at the events of his life, it’s hard to overstate how much suffering Yosef endured. He went from being his father’s beloved son to being thrown into a pit, sold to strangers, dragged to a foreign land, falsely accused, and left to rot in an Egyptian prison. From the outside, his story appears to spiral downward with no hope of recovery. Yet Yosef somehow managed not only to survive, but to rise — first in Potiphar’s home, then in the prison, and then to become viceroy of Egypt.

Where does that resilience come from? The Torah doesn’t explicitly tell us whether Yosef had this big-picture perspective from the beginning or only understood it later when everything finally made sense. But perhaps this very perspective — that there must be a purpose to where he was being led — is what sustained him during those long years of uncertainty. He had no prophecy, no angel reassuring him. All he had were his youthful dreams: images of his brothers and parents bowing to him, symbols of a future he couldn’t yet understand. Those dreams may have been the small spark that kept him believing that his life had meaning beyond the moment he was in.

In our own lives, we often find ourselves stuck inside a moment that feels overwhelming. Something doesn’t work out as planned — a deal falls through, a relationship disappoints, a dream takes longer than expected — and we immediately assume the worst. We convince ourselves the setback is permanent or catastrophic. But Yosef teaches us that perspective is everything. If we can pause, even briefly, and step outside the intensity of the moment, we may begin to see possibilities instead of dead ends. If everything in our life is guided by divine intention, then there must be a silver lining even when it’s hidden from us. The challenge is training ourselves to look for it.

Yosef didn’t pretend his hardships weren’t painful. He simply chose to believe that the story wasn’t over yet. And he was right. The very path that seemed to destroy him ultimately positioned him to save nations — including the very brothers who harmed him. What they intended for harm became the instrument of blessing. What seemed like an end became the foundation of an entirely new beginning.

This may be one of the Torah’s deepest personal development lessons: that reframing our experiences is not about denying reality, but about expanding it. It’s about acknowledging that the moment we are in might make sense only in the context of a much larger picture that we cannot yet see. It’s about allowing our dreams — our hopes, our visions of who we can become — to guide us through the darker chapters.

Perhaps that is why Yosef’s story resonates so deeply. We all face pits, prisons, and disappointments. But if we can cultivate Yosef’s perspective — the courage to believe that where we are is not where we will remain — we open ourselves to discovering purpose in places we would never have chosen. And who knows? Maybe the very challenge that feels like a setback today is quietly preparing us for a future far greater than we imagined.