“I caused the Children of Israel to dwell in booths” (Vayikra 23:43)—they were Clouds of Glory (Sukkah 11b)
According to R’ Eliezer, we are commanded to build a Sukkah in memory of the Ananei HaKavod, the Clouds of Glory, which enveloped Klal Yisrael in the wilderness (Sukkah 11b).
The Tzemach Tzaddik, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Hager, posed a profound question. Why do we commemorate the Ananei HaKavod and not the other miracles? What about the manna, the miraculous bread from Heaven that provided perfect sustenance, or the Be’er Miriam, the ever-flowing wellspring that gave us fresh water in the desert?
The Tzemach Tzaddik explains that food and water are essential to life. Hashem had to provide them to the Jewish nation. But the protective clouds are something we could have survived without. We’ve all seen people living without roofs over their heads, tragically, but they still survive.
The Ananei HaKavod represent lovingkindness that goes beyond necessity. Hashem gave us more than we needed. He didn’t just sustain us; He surrounded us with love. That’s why we build Sukkos. Not to remember our survival, but to remember His love.
Years ago, I traveled to the former Soviet Union to give a clandestine shiur (Torah class). Torah learning was illegal, and we had to move cautiously. I was passed from contact to contact, each one unaware of the final destination. Eventually, we descended into a basement, its surroundings damp and dingy, but holy.
The shiur was unforgettable. The fire in their eyes and the hunger for Torah was unlike anything I had seen.
At precisely 10:00 p.m., I stood to leave, knowing there was a curfew. If I wasn’t back at my hotel soon, the authorities would notice. But as I approached the door, the host blocked my path. “Od chamesh dakot? Just five more minutes?” he pleaded. How could I say no? These Jews were thirsting for Hashem’s word.
I sat down again. Five minutes turned into fifteen. When I finally stood up once more, he smiled again. “Od chamesh dakot...” Eventually, he said, “Tomorrow, I want to host a seudat peredah for you, a farewell meal. Please come to my apartment.” I agreed.
That night, I wanted to bring him a gift. Something meaningful. I had brought along various Judaica items, so I began to think what I could give him. I considered a siddur, knowing that surely, he would treasure it. I also of a becher, a beautiful kiddush cup. But neither felt quite right. And then I saw it. It was a white challah cover, trimmed with blue thread, embroidered with a Magen David and the words “Shabbat Shalom.” That was it. I tucked it deep into my bag and went.
The next day, the seudah was something from another world. Holy, humble and filled with neshamos glowing in a tiny Soviet kitchen. At one point, the host—his name was Sasha—stepped out briefly. I approached him. “Sasha,” I said, “I have a matana (gift) for you.”
He didn’t respond. I repeated myself. “Sasha, here, this is for you.” Still unsure, I gently placed the bag in his hands.
He opened it slowly. And when he saw the white cloth, the blue embroidery, the words Shabbat Shalom, he broke down in tears. Tears of memory. Tears of longing. Then he motioned for me to follow him into the foyer. He reached up to a crumbling shelf, pulled out a folded paper napkin, and opened it carefully.
On it, drawn by hand in blue marker, was a Magen David. And written beneath it, in shaky but loving letters, were the words: Shabbat Shalom. Every week, for who knows how many years, this paper napkin had been Sasha’s challah cover. He took my cloth cover, kissed it, and placed it reverently on the shelf. Then he handed me the napkin.
As I stepped out of that apartment, I was overcome with emotion. Hashem hadn’t just sent him a gift; He had matched the design, the color, the sentiment to perfection. From cloth to paper, from blue thread to blue ink, it was Hashgachah Pratis in its purest form.
Sukkos reminds us that Hashem doesn’t just give us what we need. He gives us more. He gives us the Ananei HaKavod. He gives us the extra comfort, the extra love, the quiet embrace of Divine presence that whispers, “You are seen. You are remembered. You are Mine.”
May we sit in our Sukkah this year not just as a remembrance of the miracles, but as a testimony to Hashem’s infinite kindness; as a testimony to His love that shelters us, even when we don’t deserve it, even when we didn’t ask for it.
And may we, in return, offer our own matana to someone else, as an act of kindness that’s not required, but deeply remembered.
Rabbi Ephraim Wachsman
