Every year, all frum writers put out a Nine Days piece, and every year I tell myself I won’t add to the pile unless I actually have something meaningful to share. This year, I heard something that touched me deeply.
This Shabbos is called Shabbos Chazon. Chazon means a vision. The simple reason for the name is the haftorah, but Rav Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev taught that the name describes an event. On this Shabbos, every Neshama is shown an image of the third Beis Hamikdash, in all its glory. It’s the saddest week of the year, and that is when Hashem shows us the Beis Hamikdash that already stands complete in shamayim, waiting to come down. That seeing is what the Shabbos is named for.
The Berditchever did not say we should imagine it, or learn about it, or concentrate until we can picture it. He said we are shown it. You won’t see it with your eyes. The vision goes into the Neshama, deeper than anything you will notice or remember, but it leaves a mark. Something in you sees it and feels it.
Hashem shows us what we are waiting for.
To the single reading this. Nobody knows how tired you are. You have davened the same words for so many years that they feel worn thin, and some nights you are scared to keep wanting it, because wanting it has cost you so much. And still, when you close your eyes, you can see it. Your own home, your own Shabbos table, someone who chose you. That vision has survived every disappointment, and that alone should tell you something.
To the couple waiting for a child. Every month, hope rises, and every month it breaks, and you carry it quietly, because what would you even say, and to whom? Some days, the despair just sits on your chest, so heavy. And still, both of you can see it. You can see yourselves as parents. You can hear a baby’s cry in your home, even though there isn’t one there yet. The vision doesn’t leave, no matter how many months have passed.
To the parents whose child is far away, in every way that matters. You have cried tefillos you didn’t have words for. You swing between guilt and a love so heavy it hurts to carry, and some days you are afraid to hope, because hope has burned you before. And still you can see it. You can see him walking back in. You can see her at your table again. The vision refuses to die, and you have wondered whether that makes you a fool. It does not.
To the one davening for health, yours or someone you cannot imagine this world without. The fear lives in your body now. You know what it is to be terrified of a ringing phone, to make deals with Hashem at three in the morning, to be jealous of people who are boringly fine. And still you can see it. A regular day, a healthy body, life the way it used to be.
And to the one drowning in debt. You know the arithmetic that doesn’t work no matter how many times you run it, the tuition letters, the fear in your spouse’s eyes that you both pretend isn’t there. And still you can see it. Bills paid without heart palpitations. Giving tzedakah instead of needing it. Breathing. That vision is alive in you even now, and it got there somehow.
Every one of you is carrying a vision of something you don’t have yet. Those visions came from Hashem.
We try to have faith. To live with Emunah. But sometimes we can’t help the anger, and with the anger comes a picture of Hashem we would never say out loud.
We see Him as the One who could but won’t.
As a judge who has read our file one too many times and closed it.
As a Father busy with His other children.
As Someone who has simply forgotten us, our name lost somewhere in a world full of louder requests.
Whatever the version, it is rarely a Father who aches to give and, for reasons we cannot see from here, is not giving yet.
The Gemara teaches that Hashem has a hidden chamber called Mistarim, and there He weeps for His children. The tears stay inside, the way parents hide theirs so the children won’t be frightened. I won’t pretend to know what it means for Hashem to cry. I only know Chazal wanted us to know the room exists. The answer can be slow in coming, and behind the door, He is crying over the same thing we are.
In the week we are most aware of everything broken, He is showing us everything whole, because He cannot bear for us to think that this stage, this version of our lives, is all there will ever be.
And why does He show us the Beis Hamikdash davka in the saddest week? To tell us it is real. It is not a hope that may or may not work out. It is built, standing, and waiting for its moment. Your visions work the same way because they come from the same place.
That vision of your home, your baby, your child coming back, your health restored, a life finally debt-free, did not just enter you. The same Hashem who shows your Neshama the Beis Hamikdash this Shabbos has been showing you your yeshuah all along. It exists. It is already prepared. It is waiting for the right moment, and He will not let you wait without seeing it.
Every Neshama means every Neshama. Not just the hopeful ones, not just the ones having a good year. You will be shown the vision even if you are numb, even if you are exhausted, even if you just came home from another simcha that wasn’t yours and had nothing left to feel. There is no way to be disqualified from this. You just need to believe.
You’ve been trying not to look at your vision because it hurts too much to hope. This Shabbos, look. Open the door you’ve been keeping shut and look. Hashem is looking at the same picture, and He is aching to give it to you.
The vision you have been seeing is real, and its moment is coming. I can’t tell you when. Nobody can. You have been handed enough timelines by people who meant well. I can only tell you what is on the schedule this Shabbos.
You will be shown.
May this be the last Shabbos Chazon any of us spends missing what we’ve already seen.
