What’s right in front of us: Rosh Chodesh Av, grief and resilience

I was walking to shul last Shabbat with my friend Rifka, whose daughter had just returned from a post-high school adventure in Europe with her friends.

“They had a great trip,” she told me, “really memorable.”

“Did you see pictures?” I asked.

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Her face lit up. “Yes! Some really terrific ones. But one photo really struck me — Sarah and her friends on the steps of the Coliseum in Rome.”

“How exciting,” I said. “They really hit all the hotspots.”

“Yes,” Rifka smiled, “but here’s what made it so powerful for me. We had taken the kids to Rome years ago, on a family trip. And I suddenly remembered — when we were at the Coliseum back then, Sarah must have been 7 or 8. While we were all marveling at the ruins and the history, she was completely captivated by a line of black ants inching their way across the ancient stones.”

“Children are such keen observers,” I said.

“Exactly,” she nodded. “She couldn’t have cared less about the grandeur or power of ancient Rome. It was those ants, right there at her feet. That moment has stuck with me for years — it reminds me that what’s right in front of you often matters most.”

I nodded, thinking about how much that resonated. “Maybe we could all use more of that kind of focus — especially in a world as broken as this one.”

And so our conversation continued — about perspective, grief, hope and paying attention.

As I write these words, the Hebrew calendar reads 18 Tammuz. Just yesterday, we entered a sacred period known as Bein HaMetzarim — the Three Weeks, beginning with the fast of 17 Tammuz and culminating in Tisha B’Av. This is a time of collective mourning for the Jewish people, a season when we remember the loss of our sovereignty in the Land of Israel and the destruction of the Beit HaMikdash, which represented our spiritual center.

These are not simply historical losses — they are existential ruptures. The physical and spiritual disconnection these events represent is still present in Jewish consciousness today. Perhaps especially today. We mark this time by refraining from music, haircuts and weddings. We sit low and chant Eicha, imagining the streets of Jerusalem emptied of joy.

But even in the darkest moments of Tisha B’Av, there’s a spark of hope.

In the final hours of the fast, as we begin to rise from the floor and begin the long arc toward healing, we chant:

Return us to You, God, and we shall return; renew our days as of old.

That turning — hashiveinu — isn’t about going backward. It’s about reclaiming the heart of who we are. It is the beginning of transformation: from sacrifice to prayer, from priestly hierarchy to evolving leadership structures, from disconnection to reconnection.

By the time this article appears in print, it will be Rosh Chodesh Av — the beginning of a new month and a new phase in this journey of grief. From the Torah onward (see Bamidbar 10:10), Rosh Chodesh has been a time for celebration: We sing Hallel, we speak of renewal, we mark beginnings with hope.

And yet, Rosh Chodesh Av begins the most intense days of mourning in the Jewish calendar — the Nine Days that lead to Tisha B’Av.

As the Mishnah says:

When the month of Av enters, we diminish [acts of] joy.

How can one day hold both joy and sorrow?

Perhaps this is exactly the point. The Jewish calendar is not a linear path from grief to celebration; it is a dance between brokenness and hope, loss and renewal. Rosh Chodesh Av teaches us how to hold two truths at once. As Jews, we carry inherited trauma alongside profound resilience. We hold both. We must.

Even as science tells us that blood cells regenerate every few weeks, I still say: This paradox runs in our blood.

Maybe the wisdom of this season is not only in its grief, but in the shape of its arc — from the awareness of Rosh Chodesh, through the pain of Tisha B’Av, and eventually toward the hope of Nachamu (Isaiah’s message of comfort that follows). The rhythm forces us to look inward, to feel what we often suppress, to slow down and see clearly.

To pay attention.

Like Sarah, age 7, watching ants cross a sun-warmed stone in Rome while history loomed in the background.

There is so much to grieve this year. From war and hostages in Israel, to increasing antisemitism and painful brokenness here in America — we feel these in our families, communities and within ourselves. But perhaps there is also something to see right in front of us.

Rosh Chodesh Av offers a strange kind of invitation: not to escape our pain, but to observe it with clarity. To bear witness to what’s unfolding. To notice what is small and real and steady, even in the shadows of ruins.

Over the next nine days, through our fasting, prayer and memory, may we find the strength to look clearly at what is right in front of us. And in doing so, may we discover within ourselves the resilient creativity of our ancestors — the ability to rise, to rebuild and to renew our days once more.

Chodesh Tov and may we know comfort soon. PJC

Rabbi Kara Tav is a Pittsburgh-based educator, chaplain and counselor. This column is a service of the Greater Pittsburgh Jewish Clergy Association.