Once upon a time, there was a king whose daughter had reached marriageable age. Naturally, the king thought it would be a splendid idea to invite princes and noblemen from all corners of the kingdom—and beyond. They came, one after another, each more princely than the last. But to the king’s dismay, his daughter rejected them all. “Not my type,” she’d say. “Too tall. Too short. Too much hair. Not enough hair.” The list went on.
Years passed. The king, growing more desperate with each passing season, finally made a vow. “I will marry her off to the next man who comes along, even if he’s a beggar!”
One day, as if the heavens had heard his plea, a simple villager wandered into the palace. He was, of course, thrilled at the prospect of marrying a princess. He had no idea what he was getting into, but that didn’t matter. The king married off his daughter to him immediately.
The king, upon receiving the letter, was moved to action. “I will come to visit in forty days,” he promised. And so he did.
Word of the king’s visit spread like wildfire through the village. A frenzy of activity began: the house was cleaned, the garden was weeded, the cows were groomed, and the princess was fitted for new clothes. The villagers worked tirelessly, each hoping to impress their royal guest.
Finally, a small delegation of royal advisers arrived to inspect the preparations. The villagers greeted them with respect, reverence, and maybe a bit too much enthusiasm. Then, word came that the king himself had arrived. The whole village turned out to meet him.
The king took in the scene: his daughter was clearly well-cared for, with a great deal of respect from the villagers, and he was pleased. He toured the home briefly, admiring the cleanliness, the newly painted walls, and the fresh-smelling hay. After a short visit, he made his preparations to leave.
That’s when his daughter, without warning, collapsed onto his shoulders and began to weep.
“My daughter, why are you crying?”
“Father!” she sobbed, “How could you leave me here? How could you leave your beloved daughter in this miserable place?”
The king, somewhat taken aback, raised an eyebrow. “What’s the problem? I see respect. I see honor. What could be so terrible?”
“Father,” she cried, “You see what they’ve done for your visit. The house is clean, the cows are happy, and I’m dressed like a queen. But as soon as you walk out that door, my mother-in-law will be after me, forcing me to do all the hard work again—milking cows, feeding chickens, weeding the garden. This is no life for a princess!”
The king turned to his son-in-law, his face turning red with indignation. “Is this how you treat my daughter? Do you not know how to properly honor a princess?”
The villager wiped his brow and sighed. “Your Highness, I know she should be treated like royalty. But when you married her to me, I thought, surely the king knows I’m just a poor villager. I figured you’d send your blessing and help provide for her in the manner she deserves. I have a meager income, Your Majesty. I’m doing the best I can with what I’ve got!”
The Conclusion of Yom Kippur
God wanted to give the Torah to Adam, and then to Noah - but the Torah refused. Finally, He gave the Torah to the Jewish people.
At first, God sought to give the Torah to Adam, then to Noah, but each time, the Torah refused. Finally, God gave it to the Jewish people. And yet, every day, the Torah calls out to her Father. "Every day a Divine Voice issues from Mount Horeb, saying: Woe to mortals for neglecting the Torah" (Avot 6:2).
But then comes Elul. The month begins, and we feel the shift. The King is coming soon. Awe fills the air. A sense of anticipation stirs in our hearts. We begin to study more Torah, perform more mitzvot, and give more tzedakah. And when Rosh Hashanah arrives, we greet the King’s delegation with prayers that rise from the depths of our souls.
On Yom Kippur, the King Himself arrives, and we, His people, stand before Him like angels. We are dressed in white, our hearts pure, our prayers sincere. For one day, we are elevated—holy, righteous, whole.
But at the Ne’ilah prayer, as the Shechinah prepares to depart, a cry pierces the air: "My dear Father! How can You leave me? Don’t You know that when You go, they will return to their old ways? They will cast off their garments of purity, their love for You, their desire to study Torah and do mitzvot, and go back to their former lives."
Lest the Holy One be angry at the body for treating the soul in this fashion, the body responds: "But You know we are but flesh and blood. You know the world we live in, its demands and distractions. You placed the soul in us, knowing we would stumble. Please give us Your blessing, so that we will be free from the struggles of this mundane world, so that we will be free to study Your Torah and perform Your mitzvot!"
(Adapted from Mishlei Yaakov, pp. 275-277)
