By Marsha Smagley

I have trouble leaving the Jewish holidays. It is especially hard for me to leave the sukkah; this year was no exception. This past Sukkos, as Hoshana Rabbah was approaching, I felt a sadness that soon I would have to leave the sukkah, aware that the darkness of winter was near with many days remaining before the lights of Chanukah would shine.

Not having been raised with Torah, I was most familiar with the holidays of Rosh HaShanah, Yom Kippur, and Pesach. I had no idea that as Jews we were given so many beautiful holidays, each bringing its own unique opportunity for growth and closeness to G-d. But it is in the sukkah, when we are asked to leave the comfort and physical security of our permanent home for the impermanent dwelling of the sukkah, that I have experienced the true security of dwelling with G-d.

WE LIVE in a predominantly secular Jewish community and are one of the few families to have a sukkah on our street. Each year a man named Tzachi comes from Israel to Chicago, where I live, and puts up our sukkah. I like to think of him as Tzachi the Sukkah Man. My family and I look forward to his call each year just before Yom Kippur, announcing he has arrived from Israel and is ready to take our sukkah parts out of storage and bring it back to life.

Tzachi has many sukkahs in many neighborhoods to put up. He works as a construction engineer in Israel, but I believe his seasonal job of putting up sukkahs is his “holiest” of constructions. I recall a touching memory of Tzachi davening minchah just before putting up our sukkah. He stood on our front lawn facing east reciting the prayers by heart, tzitzis flowing as he bowed in supplication to Hashem. Seeing a person praying on the front lawn is an unusual sight on our street. I felt that our sukkah was being assembled with blessing.

I do not like when Tzachi calls after Simchas Torah to arrange a time to put away our sukkah for the year. I know that he has to go home to Israel and that the sukkah at that point is but an empty shell; still, I do not like to see it go.

This year, when Tzachi came to take it apart, something unusual happened.Tzachi dismantled the sukkah but could not put its parts away because the sechach and sukkah fabric walls were soaked. Its many parts needed to be spread out in our backyard to dry.

As I peered out the window into our yard, I no longer saw the familiar sight of our beautiful sukkah. Instead I saw its remnants, some covered in fallen autumn leaves, draped on many chairs in our backyard to dry. It was a strange and disconcerting sight.

I could not help but see Hashem’s hand in this experience. Although it is hard to know all His messages, I wondered if G-d was delaying the return of our sukkah to help me to reflect on what I had learned from these preceding awesome days, to help me to reassemble, piece by piece, each last precious memory of dwelling in His sukkah.

OUR FIRST sukkah was made of wood, built by my husband and two yeshivah boys. We could barely squeeze our family into it, but I loved it. The following year, my husband bought a shul-sized sukkah from The Sukkah Depot. Each year I try to fill our huge sukkah with many guests. I love to invite my children’s friends and families, especially those who would not otherwise have an opportunity to be in a sukkah or wave the four species.

As I usher guests into our sukkah, I think of Sarah Imeinu when she and Avraham Avinu welcomed guests in their tent. I, of course, cannot compare myself to Sarah, but I like to think of her anyway. It gives me chizuk, inspiration. In addition to our invited guests, my daughter and I knock on many of our neighbors’ doors, inviting them to eat in our sukkah and, if they wish, to wave the four species.

THIS PAST Sukkos began with beautiful warm autumn weather. Then it snowed. This was a record even for Chicago; it had never snowed in October before. I remember getting up and looking out our upstairs window as I did each morning during the holiday to gaze at the sukkah below, only to see its roof blanketed in snow. I was shocked. I never saw snow on a sukkah before. I felt like Tzachi the Sukkah Man had been replaced with Frosty the Snowman.

My nine-year-old daughter’s friend was coming over along with her mother, who was expecting, and two younger siblings to eat lunch in our sukkah on that snowy day. I ran out to the yard and slowly unzipped the sukkah door to check the weather conditions inside. I hoped that the snow had just stayed on the roof and that if we dressed warmly we could still have lunch in the sukkah. I hoped the expectant mother would not mind.

The snow had melted and dripped down through the sechach, creating fresh puddles of water on the tables and chairs. As I assessed the feasibility of eating in the sukkah and with optimism began to wipe the water from the tables and chairs, more water dripped down on my head. Later in the afternoon we did bravely manage to recite a berachah in the sukkah over dessert. But we immediately went inside afterward for cover.

Although it did not snow again the rest of the week, it was wet and cold. I began to feel robbed of my precious time in the sukkah. As Shemini Atzeres approached, which this year fell on Shabbos, I hoped that it would warm up and stay dry enough to enjoy this very last day in our sukkah. It was difficult for me to say farewell to the sukkah under any circumstance — it was especially hard after having lost those last few days.

ON THAT Shabbos morning of Shemini Atzeres, wrapped in warm clothing, I was the first one to enter our sukkah. It was cold, but the rain had stopped and the sun shown brilliantly in the morning sky, warming the inside of our sukkah. Although I sat alone in the sukkah, I knew I was not alone. I felt His Presence; I felt the true security which comes from being enveloped in the loving embrace of HaKadosh Baruch Hu.

I gazed in awe at the inner beauty of this most precious of dwellings. There were other sukkahs that were far more elaborately decorated, but to me our sukkah reflected the beauty which comes from a family desiring to make a warm and loving home for Hashem to dwell.

Our sukkah was illuminated with beautiful white shimmering lights from above; my family’s favorite lights were the grape light ornaments, with each cluster of red and green grapes taking turns lighting up. There were many pictures hanging on each wall. My nine-year-old daughter had drawn them over the past few years. There was a picture of the Kosel and another of a boy waving the four species in front of the holy ark in shul. My favorite picture was of a family eating in the sukkah, but instead of sitting on chairs they were happily flying up to the ceiling.

On our sukkah’s eastern wall hung a poster of a sea of men davening at the Kosel while waving the four species. The blessings for ushering in the ushpizin, the honored guests, too, hung on this wall. My fifteen-year-old son recited this prayer for us each night. Plastic cutouts of each of the seven species of Eretz Yisrael were hung throughout the sukkah, along with the Star of David hanging down from the ceiling in its center, held by a sparkling blue pipe cleaner.

My daughter has described our sukkah as lively and colorful. She said it was a holy place which gave her the chills and a good feeling inside. I had to agree.

Although it was a bit cold, I asked my family to please eat this last meal in our sukkah, and with spirit and determination we spent a good part of Shabbos afternoon dwelling in the sukkah. My parents, too, joined us. I warmly recall the image of my fifteen-year-old son holding on to my mother, who needed to use a walker, to escort her through our yard into the sukkah. My mother had commented that the food was good, and that although it was a bit cold outside, it was cozy inside and she enjoyed the warmth of everyone there. Since I was the first Torah-observant person my mother really knew, I especially appreciated her efforts to sit with us in a cold sukkah.

As the time came to say farewell to the sukkah, I thanked Hashem for giving us this last beautiful day to dwell in it. I still was not ready to leave. After my family said their goodbyes and went inside, I remained alone in the sukkah, this last time, and cried out to HaKadosh Baruch Hu from the depths of my heart that I did not want to leave His home; I did not want to leave Him. Tears filled my eyes, the tears of a soul that wanted to keep dwelling in the loving embrace of the Shechinah forever.

IT IS NOW more than two weeks after Sukkos ended, and the rain has finally slowed down. My husband and son were able to put the sukkah parts back in their boxes — that is, all the parts except the bamboo sechach which still needed more drying time. When my husband and I returned from a chasunah the other night, and as I was about to go inside through the back door, I saw the sechach still leaning on chairs in our yard. I checked to see if it was finally dry and it was.

I suddenly heard a loud crackling of thunder in the dark night sky, and with the threat of more rain, I could not bear that the sechach would have to be left out even more days to dry. At that moment, I realized that what I truly could not bear was to see any of Hashem’s holy abode continuing to be left in fragments in our yard; it was time to put the sukkah away. It was time to say goodbye.

Still dressed in my wedding clothes, I tried to lift the bundle of sechach, but it was too heavy. Determined that it would not get rained on again, I prayed to Hashem to give me the strength to put this last remnant of our sukkah away. He answered my prayers. I held tightly on to the sechach to avoid dropping it and managed to get it into the garage.

As I held on to the sechach, I was comforted by the thought that although the last remnant of our sukkah was finally gone, it did not mean that Hashem was leaving me. At that moment, I was given the true clarity that my challenge was to bring the lesson of the sukkah “inside” — into my home and into my life. I needed to strive to bring down Hashem’s light into every aspect of my life and to build a permanent place within my home and within my soul for Him to dwell.

I recalled a favorite verse in Tehillim which I recite each day: “One thing I request of Hashem that shall I seek: that I may dwell in the House of Hashem all the days of my life, to behold the pleasantness of Hashem, and to meditate in His Sanctuary. For He will hide me in His sukkah on the day of distress, and he will conceal in the shelter of His tent; upon a rock He will lift me” (Tehillim 27:4–5).

I thank HaKadosh Baruch Hu for giving us a chance to create new beginnings, to bring inside all that we have learned from dwelling in His sukkah. I pray that Hashem will continue to envelop me in His sukkah, to take my hand and lead me through the darkness of winter and this long and bitter galus, until the lights of Chanukah shine forth.

This article originally appeared in Horizon’s magazine and is dedicated for a refuah shleimah of Shayna bas Madelyn.

As I’ve become more observant and more familiar with mitzvot and halacha and various minhagim, I’ve been struck by the almost absurdity of the Yom Kippur-Sukkot transition. It seems odd to me that, hours after experiencing the most Awesome day of the Jewish calendar, after going through a grueling and soul-wrenching fast accompanied by walks to shul, much standing, and seemingly endless praying, one would immediately go out and begin building the sukkah in anticipation of Sukkot. Sukkot – zman simchatenu – the holiday of happiness – seems to be in stark contrast to Yom Kippur with all of its solemnity.

On top of the huge spectrum of emotions that seems to occur in hours, there are only 4 days to prepare. 4 days to build a hut, acquire a lulav and etrog (and one can spend hours selecting the best), and plan and cook meals. FOUR DAYS! Isn’t that a bit of a time crunch? Why did Hashem give us no lead time? There are 40 days from Rosh Hodesh Elul to Yom Kippur…many start preparing for Pesach weeks in advance…why this huge rush for Sukkot? Essentially, why is Hashem practically punishing us with this crazy schedule?? And why is this sukkah – this little hut – of such importance if, lets face it, not everyone is gifted with carpentry skills? Why all these challenges?

And then it hit me as my husband gleefully put together our first sukkah this week.

On Yom Kippur, vidduy lists all of our sins. We are faced with everything that we could have possibly done wrong over the last year. In our prayers we say that we are dust, that we are barely worthy, that we have failed – and that we hope to improve and do better next year. We pray for life so that we can be granted the opportunity to do better. During davening or during quiet introspection on Yom Kippur we mentally think of how we can do better: this year I will take on this new mitzvah; this year I will put into practice this halacha that I learned; this year I resolve to speak less lashon hara…we become creative and hopeful. Perhaps it is possible to change; I think I can! I want to do better! And by the time ne’ilah rolls around, we daven so hard saying, “Yes – I can do it – just give me the chance – I know I can!”

And then the shofar is blown, we wolf down food – and what do we do next? Run – don’t walk – to do the first mitzvah that we can. And run we have to because we only have 4 days. And the 4 days is significant because it is not a lot of time! There is no time to waste! If there were more time, such as more than 10 days, then there is greater opportunity for a person to waver in their convictions or for the schedule to become too busy to build a sukkah. It is the time crunch that drives a person to fulfill the mitzva, and if we were given more time, how many of us would opt out for the sake of convenience?

The look on my husband’s face is priceless as he shows off our sukkah. Knowing that he accomplished this huge mitzva, despite the many trips to Home Depot, despite the errors that delayed construction, I can read several emotions in his face: pride in what he built with his hands, satisfaction in fulfilling the mitzva for the first time, giddiness in all of the decorations and lights. But perhaps the most significant emotion is the feeling of “I did it!” – and it’s despite the odds, despite having no time between work and nightfall, despite the construction snafus, despite the bugs (it is Houston, after all). This mitzva is done! And possibly, if I can do this mitzva, then I can do others…

And isn’t that a great feeling to start off a new year?

First published on Oct 1, 2007

Rav Nachman Breslover coined the phrase “It is a great Mitzvah to be joyous constantly”. We know that, in particular, there is a Mitzvah of Simchas HaChag (being cheerful during a Holiday). Still Sukkos is known as THE Time of Our Joy. I’d like to share two thoughts that lend insight into why Sukkos is identified with joy and that also speak to Ba’alei T’shuva in particular.

#1

The S’fas Emes explains that the Sukkah, as a Diras Arai (an insubstantial non-permanent dwelling place) is a home that is not a home, a place that is not a place. A sincere Ba’al T’shuva often feels so devastated by his sin that he feel as though he have no place in the world. The more homeless and misfit-ed a Ba’al T’shuva feels the more Divine Compassion is aroused and the more G-d creates an abode for the emotionally/spiritually homeless. Immediately after Yom Kippur the entire Jewish People are Ba’alei T’shuva. The Sukkah is G-d’s “homeless shelter” for all of K’lal Yisrael. The holy ambience of the Sukkah is that of a place that is in this world but not of it, an abode and a welcoming sanctuary for those who despaired of ever finding a place in their world again. If it had a sense of permanence about it then the Sukkah could never be a comfortable place – a natural habitat for the relentlessly ill at ease Ba’al T’shuva. But, insubstantial as a cloud, it restores to the Ba’al T’shuva his lost glory. Having “come home” after despairing of ever finding a home again we are ecstatic.

#2

It’s been said that the opposite of love is not hate but apathy. Most of us have had emotional “absolute value” moments when our feelings turned on a dime from one extreme to another. e.g. (to borrow a sports clich) going from the agony of defeat to the ecstasy of victory or, G-d forbid, vice versa.

If we find a hole in our pockets and discover that we’ve lost a five dollar bill most of us will be upset for a few moments and then move on. But if we discover that a 20 million dollar winning lottery ticket slipped out through the same pocket hole we will be devastated. If, miraculously, a serendipitous win blows our lost ticket back into our hands then our joy will be indescribable.

Rabenu Yonah says that our festive feasting on Yom Kippur Eve prior to the actual Yom Kippur fast is a litmus test for the sincerity and depth of our T’shuva. Much like the hole-in-the-pocket lotto winner perceiving that the scrap of paper flying back towards him is his lost and deeply lamented ticket, the Ba’al T’shuva is elated to see his/her winning ticket i.e. recovering their ruptured relationship with G-d, about to be restored. The truest testimony to a Ba’alei T’shuva’s remorse and sense of loss of a relationship with the Divine is the joy with which he anticipates its imminent restoration.

Rav Hutner z”l concludes that the unique joy of Sukkos is the realization of the dream of Erev Yom Kippur. After all… as happy as the lotto winner is as he sees the winning ticket floating back to within his grasp, he is even happier when he, once again, grasps it in his hand.

Originally Posted on Oct 5, 2006

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Every Shabbos Chol Hamoed Succos we read the Haftorah (Yechezkel, Chapter 38) about the final confrontation at the end of days between Gog and the nation of Israel. How does Succos connect with Gog, Magog and the end of days? It is ironic to note that after the exodus from Egypt, while travelling in the desert, a place that offers absolutely no natural security or protection, the Jewish people experienced their greatest sense of true security, protected from their enemies and entirely provided for by G-d. Every year, when theJew leaves his home for a week to eat, sleep and live in a succah; an often flimsy structure with a roof made of bits of wood, reed, bamboo, etc., he actualizes this idea that ultimate care and protection come only from G-d. By virtue of the closeness to G-d he has achieved during Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, he can now experience a sense of true security. The word “Gog” in Hebrew means roof. Modern man, divorced from a belief in G-d, deeply believes that a good job, a big bank account, a solid economy, a high tech army, in short, a strong solid “roof over his head,” is the source of true security. These two world views cannot co-exist forever. We are told by the prophets that armageddon is inevitable, a final confrontation that will witness the destruction of mankind’s false faith. Succos teaches us that our apparently flimsy roofs will ultimately be triumphant over modern man’s misguided sense of security.

Rabbi Chaim Salenger from Ohr Somayach

Hidden and Revealed

The essence of Rosh Hashanah is our crowning of G-d as our “king.” A coronation, explain the Chassidic masters, is effected by two things — unity and joy: a people joyously unite to select, accept and submit to an exalted figure who embodies their collective identity and innermost strivings (if the coronation lacks either joy or unity, chassidic teaching explains, it results not in a true king, but merely in a “ruler”). But there is also a third element without which the coronation could not happen — awe. And the nature of awe is that it eclipses and mutes the joy. Sukkot, then, is simply the revelation of Rosh Hashanah. The joy and unity that are the essence of our commitment to G-d, and which were “concealed” by the awe that characterizes the first days of Tishrei, erupt on the 15th of the month in the form of the festival of Sukkot.

In the words of the Psalmist, “Sound the shofar on the new moon, in concealment to the day of our festival.” Our crowning G-d king with the sounding of the shofar on the 1st of Tishrei (“the new moon”) remains in concealment until “the day of our festival,” the full moon of Sukkot, when it manifests itself in a seven-day feast of joy.

Yanki Tauber of Chabad.org

Reality Therapy

The holiday of Sukkot is an exercise in faith. True faith is not the belief that because God runs the world, everything will turn out the way we would like it to. True faith is the belief that because God runs the world, however things turn out is an expression of His love for us and is for our ultimate good.

When we leave our houses to dwell in the sukkah, we leave behind the illusion of security fostered by our cozy homes. After all, our houses may be invulnerable to rain, but they are vulnerable to the bank’s foreclosure. All physical security is an illusion. In this sense, Sukkot is a week of reality therapy.

Instead, the sukkah offers the comfort (and joy) of dwelling within the Divine Presence. The mystical Clouds of Glory surround the sukkah, creating a place of Divine immanence. The nature of spiritual reality is that it is eternal, imperishable, and invincible.

Sara Yoheved Rigler at Aish.com