It was a mystery to me—from one day being ready to blow shofar to the next day being unable to produce a reasonable sound—and this was two days before Rosh Hashanah. This was not my first rodeo. I have blown shofar for over 45 consecutive years. This has never happened to me before. Never. I had bought two new shofars in Yerushalayim this past February and decided, with the advent of Elul, I should practice. And practice I did. Perhaps too much. I was blowing shofar for two minyanim in the mornings without a problem and then going home and blowing 40 kolos (sounds) daily. It is true, this was way beyond my normal practice routine of past years but I figured it could only help. Strengthen my lip I thought. I was wrong. Too much “kochi v’otzem yadi”(pride). It seems I lost my lip, as they say. When I blew, I could not provide adequate support to prevent air from escaping. I was getting mostly air. Tuesday to Wednesday I shut it down for a day, hoping for my lip to stiffen up. It seemed like maybe it did, somewhat, when I blew 30 kolos at 4 o’clock Wednesday afternoon. I was not going to beg off blowing shofar.
Rosh Hashanah arrived Wednesday night. I own seven kosher shofars that I’ve acquired over the years but decided to retrieve my original shofar out of retirement, one which had lain dormant for many years. It was reliable and automatic—back in 1993. Thursday morning arrived, and it was time to blow. The first 60 kolos were perfect. I was hopeful but not convinced. True to (feared) form, suddenly the last 40 became a battle, a battle I had not fought before. A bad year for me is repeating one or two kolos. Somehow I got through it with my old shofar but the quality of these last 15 kolos was very shaky, not tried and true. At that point, I was not feeling good. This was a different result than that to which I was accustomed. I looked to the morrow with trepidation. I was not wrong. I had been davening for a lot of siyata d’shmaya and have to admit I felt let down. I needed help which could only come from one Source. I still was not sure what the problem was since this had never happened before. Maybe it was my breathing, caused by a temporary bronchial condition I’d been having.
Friday began almost the same as Thursday. This time the first 50 kolos were perfect, but then it started. Suddenly the 10 kolos for Shofros were hard fought. I brought out a second shofar and switched off but to no avail. Somehow I got through these 10. Forty more to go. It was not happening. I davened. I kept trying: I moved my thumb around for support, and then my top finger for support but nothing worked. Four hundred and fifty people, formerly focused on the shofar, were now focused on me and my struggle. It was not happening. Have you ever gotten lost in a forest, a real forest? It’s practically impossible to find a way out without assistance. Tried to navigate a corn maze? When you’re stuck, you’re really stuck. I was stuck. After all those years, no one was expecting or prepared to take over; it’s never happened or needed to happen. No one can remember who blew shofar before me. I couldn’t imagine stepping aside. It’s never been a consideration in all these years. But it’s true—I was at a loss and we had 30 kolos to go. One thing was clear to me: The kolos were not coming. I was davening while I paused and paced trying to figure out what to do.
And just like that it came into my head: Try to blow from the left side of your mouth! I had never done it or tried it, or even thought of it before, and now I was going to try it in public for the first time ever. Everyone knows the minhag is on the right. But I’m happy to say this was my yeshua (salvation). All the kolos flowed like a river, even though I was half expecting the next one, or the next one, or the next one to stutter and stop. They didn’t. They kept going. We breezed through— it was exhilarating. I don’t know if people realized it, but for me it was a public expression of siyata d’shmaya asked for and answered—in the moment! Rather than have a feeling of abandonment as I did yesterday—today I felt a different feeling, which also made me reflect on yesterday. This is what I heard from Hashem: “Figure it out, you can do it, I don’t have to do it for you.” And I did it.
I proceeded to blow 100 more kolos over the course of the day out of my left side, without a hitch. It made me think: It would have been possible to daven for a miracle (that my lip would suddenly harden up) but that was not necessary; save the miracles for when you need them, or when there is no other way, or when you deserve them. I had to struggle (shades of Elul/Tishrei) and do my hishtadlus (effort), and daven, and believe in myself, and keep at it. Why am I writing all this? I felt it’s worth telling: I’ve never struggled so hard and then felt so good. This was not my best day in pure fulfillment of mitzvahs shofar, but as a friend said to me on Shabbos, “Those were the best kolos I have ever heard from you—to struggle, to keep composed and then to figure it out.” It’s true, in life it’s often about the outcome, but as Jews it’s also about the struggle. Hashem is “the eye that sees all”—above that tall corn maze. Hashem said: “It would be good for me to find my own way out,” yet I could feel His eye on me— knowing He’s there, and also feeling He’s there. Now I know He was there on Wednesday too. Big yeshuas, little yeshuas—they all count.
And now I know, going forward, if ever I have any difficulty, it can work on the other side!
Rabbi David Berkovitz, PhD, lives in Passaic.
