In the Sea  

In between sips, Rina nodded to me and said, “We’re supposed to daven for anything we need tonight. It’s the night of miracles.”

“Can I also do it tomorrow?” I asked.

I was tired. And I was tired of asking for miracles.

Rina shrugged. “Not sure. I davened when I lit candles.” Her eyes held mine for a moment, and I saw the ache there.

I’d davened when I lit, too, said my children’s and husband’s names, asked for the general requests I always do next to the licht — health, good middos, love of Torah and mitzvos, for my children to find their zivugim easily in the right time — but I’d been rushed. I still had to set the table, heat the soup, finish the salad. And though it had been a nice Erev Yom Tov — the whole family had even gotten out for a game of tennis — it was still Pesach. I’d been in the kitchen most of the day before. My legs hurt; my feet hurt. My hands were sore from a week and a half of peeling and chopping. My entire middle-aged body was still feeling the effects of Sedarim that ended at 2 a.m. and the following day of washing dishes, serving, and clearing all over again.

I couldn’t wait to fall into bed after walking Rina and Surie to where they were staying.

But I did need a miracle. In fact, I needed two.