Thank You, Hashem, for the Cancer

Re’eh: Blessing and Curse

The opening pausk of the parsha says:

רְאֵה אָנֹכִי נֹתֵן לִפְנֵיכֶם הַיּוֹם בְּרָכָה וּקְלָלָה“

See, I place before you today blessing and curse.”

Notice it does not say ברכה או קללה (“blessing or curse”), but rather ברכה וקללה — with a vav, “blessing and curse.”

Blessing and Curse Are Intertwined

The Sfat Emet and others explain: life isn’t just a fork in the road — blessing on one side, curse on the other. Rather, every moment, every circumstance, contains both elements bound together. The task of a Jew is to extract the blessing from within the curse, to see the good hidden inside difficulty.

This aligns with what you notice in Parshat Re’eh itself: it doesn’t say ברכה או קללה, but ברכה וקללה. Every curse carries a seed of blessing, and every blessing carries the potential to become a curse if misused.

Free Will Is About the “And”

The Netziv (Ha’amek Davar) points out: if the Torah had said או (“or”), it would imply that we can only ever encounter one path — blessing or curse. But the Torah’s language of ו reflects reality: people often experience blessing and curse together — health in one area, hardship in another; success in one relationship, pain in another.

Bechirah (choice) means deciding which element we give primacy to — do we focus on the bracha and elevate it, or get dragged down by the klalah?

The Vav of Connection

Kabbalistically, the vav (ו) is a letter of connection. It links heaven and earth (like the shape of the letter — a vertical line, drawing down). So “ברכה וקללה” hints that even the klalah is not separate from Hashem’s plan — both blessing and curse flow from the same Divine source, intended to guide us back toward Him.

The Baal Shem Tov on Hidden Good

The Baal Shem Tov taught a profound principle: there is no such thing as pure evil or pure curse. Everything — even what appears dark or bitter — contains a spark of divine good. The curse is like a shell (klipah) that hides the blessing within. Our task is not to despair at the darkness but to uncover the light inside it.

That’s why the Torah doesn’t say ברכה או קללה — as if you could choose one and avoid the other. Instead, it says ברכה וקללה — blessing and curse — because they come together. What we call a “curse” is really blessing in disguise.

The Baal Shem Tov would say: when something painful happens, ask not only “why?” but “where is the blessing hidden here?” Sometimes it’s in the humility it teaches, sometimes in the growth it demands, sometimes in the faith it awakens.

Seeing with Spiritual Eyes

The opening word of the parsha is רְאֵה — “See.” The Baal Shem Tov emphasized that the Torah is commanding us to change how we see. Most people only see surface-level reality: a blessing looks good, a curse looks bad. But the Torah is telling us: train your eyes to see deeper. See that the curse itself is carrying a hidden blessing.

The Puncture on the M1

I’ll bring a simple, even “stupid,” example.

You are on your way to work in Sandton, rushing down the M1 in your best suit for an important business meeting, when you get a puncture. Now, there is never a good time for a puncture, but this is a particularly bad one — probably the worst timing of all. You have a meeting, and now you’re kneeling on grimy tar, sweat dripping, shirt cuffs smeared with grease, traffic roaring past as the highway clogs and drivers blare their horns. Each tick of the clock mocks your chances of making it on time. In that moment, it feels like nothing less than a curse.

Instead of cursing our bad luck and raging that this had to happen today of all days, we could pause and see the forest instead of the tree. Maybe the puncture itself came from Hashem as a reminder that we have a car at all — a gift of mobility. Thousands of people around us commute by crowded taxis, buses, bicycles, or on foot; some wake at 4 a.m. to begin a three-hour walk to a job that would take 15 minutes by car.

And maybe the puncture also whispers a second reminder: we have a job worth rushing to. Across the M1, away from Sandton’s skyline, are thousands without steady work, without food security, without shelter or even warm clothes. To have a car and a job, clothing, a house to go home to, with food on the table - those are blessings we need to stop and acknowledge.

Following this line of thought transforms his “curse” into gratitude: instead of fuming over a flat tire, let us bless Hashem for the blessings we have, and see that behind what looks like a klalah is really a hidden bracha.

The Soldiers at Ben Gurion

And I will bring another example, but this one is a true story, and it shook me when I heard it on a podcast.

A rabbi was speaking about something he personally experienced a few months ago at Ben Gurion Airport. He was standing in the arrival hall waiting for a family member, when he noticed a group of young men nearby. They couldn’t have been older than 19, 20, maybe 21. All of them were in uniform, members of the same platoon. From their insignia it was clear they had fought in Gaza — and the rabbi knew their unit was one that had suffered terrible, devastating losses in the north.

But what struck him most was that each one of them bore the mark of war. One soldier stood on two prosthetic legs, both amputated above the knee. Another was missing an arm, his empty sleeve pinned neatly at the shoulder. A third had lost an eye, his face covered in scars that told of severe burns, probably beyond what the eye could see. The rabbi’s heart whispered, Hashem yerachem — G-d have mercy, these boys, barely out of their teens, carrying wounds that would follow them forever.

And then he saw why they were there. They were holding a sign: “Welcome back Shlomo.”  After some time, their friend Shlomo came through the arrival doors. He too was a soldier from their unit. He wasn’t in fatigues for the occasion. Instead, he was in a wheelchair. His legs were there, but they no longer worked.

The rabbi watched as the reunion unfolded. Smiles lit up scarred faces. There were fist bumps, bear hugs, laughter, inside jokes flying back and forth. It was not the atmosphere of tragedy. It was the atmosphere of life.

The rabbi, overwhelmed, looked from one to the other and thought to himself: What’s worse? To walk on prosthetics? To sit in a wheelchair? To live with one arm? To have lost an eye and carry burns? Each reality seemed unbearably heavy. Finally, he could not hold back.

He asked them: “How can you be so happy when you’ve been through so much? Just look at yourselves.”

And one of the soldiers, without hesitation, answered:

“Rabbi, we fought together in Gaza for three months. We were a big unit. And yes, we have friends who still have two legs, two arms, two eyes. But they don’t have a neshama. (In other words — they’re gone. They’re dead.) And we — baruch Hashem — are alive.”

That is getting to the level of seeing the bracha beneath the klala.

I have previously quoted the pasuk מַה־יִּתְאוֹנֵן אָדָם חָי (Eichah 3:39): “Why should a living man complain?” So long as a person is alive, even barely, the greatest blessing still beats quietly within us: the breath of life, the potential to earn eternity, the neshama.

Avraham’s Tests — Klalah That Became Bracha

This is not a new idea. The Midrash (Pirkei D’Rabbi Eliezer 26) tells us that Avraham Avinu faced ten tests — and each one appeared to be a klalah.

• He was forced into famine, driven from his land.

• He was promised countless descendants, yet remained barren for decades.

• He was commanded to sacrifice Yitzchak, the very child through whom the promise was meant to continue.

  
  

Each test looked like disaster. Yet from each “curse” flowed the greatest bracha — fame among the nations, miraculous birth, eternal merit for his children. From famine came greatness, from barrenness came miracle, from the Akeidah came eternal covenant.

Hashem never gives us “or.” He always gives us “and.”

A Shift in Gratitude

Wherever I go in Johannesburg, people stop me and ask: “How is your wife?”

In the beginning, my answers were the expected ones: “She’s staying strong,” “She’s taking it day by day,” “She’s sore, but she’s a fighter.” All of that was true, but it was heavy. It kept the focus only on the pain.

Then I listened to a shiur about gratitude. (It was few months ago. Around the time I blogged about finding myself outside "paediatric oncology" and how grateful I was that my wife, BH, was 38 at diagnosis). Since then I decided to change my answer. I began saying something different:

“Before I tell you about Michal, Baruch Hashem, I am well and healthy. Baruch Hashem, my children are all healthy and managing. Baruch Hashem, my parents and Michal’s parents are still alive, and we have my sister and her sisters, all actively in our lives and helping us in ways big and small. And the entire community has been nothing short of incredible. And Michal, Baruch Hashem, is taking it day by day.”

At first, I’ll admit, it felt like lip service. The words came out, and rationally I knew they were true, but it was hard to feel them in my bones. Gratitude sounded like a script I was forcing myself to read. But now, after weeks of repeating it, I can honestly say I feel it.

I look at my life and I don’t only see the curse — I see the blessings that are woven through it. And I feel blessed.

EVEN CANCER IS A BLESSING

I know this will sound bizarre — but I can honestly say that I thank Hashem that my wife got cancer. Let me try articulate this point. I would ever minimize her pain or the suffering she endures daily. That pain is real, unrelenting, and it breaks my heart every single time I see it.

But beneath what looks like a curse, we have seen how profoundly blessed we are. The outpouring of love, the strength of our family, the way friends and strangers alike have carried us with prayer, kindness, and care. The small mercies of a good day, the laughter of our children, the simple gift of another morning together. These are blessings I might have taken for granted — but through this journey, they shine with a light I can no longer ignore.

People look at me and think I am having a terrible year. Hashem yerachem, who could have imagined last Rosh Hashanah how life would turn upside down so quickly? And yes, I hear it often: “I’m so sorry you’re going through this.”

But here’s the thing — I’m not sorry. Why should I be? On what level is this a bad year? Physically — yes, undeniably. Financially — perhaps. But spiritually? Spiritually, this may be the best year of our lives.

I can say with absolute sincerity: I have probably said more Tehillim this year than in the combined thirty-seven years of my life until now. And I say this not with pride, but with embarrassment. I have davened with more kavana, more urgency, more broken-hearted sincerity than ever before. And what is that if not a blessing?

Because the neshama is eternal. Mitzvot are eternal. The spiritual growth that Mikki’s illness has catalyzed - in so many people — that is eternal. Bodies are fragile, circumstances change in an instant, but the work of the neshama endures forever.

So yes, people see the surface and say, “What a cursed year.” I see beneath the surface and say, “What a blessed year.” Hashem has given us the circumstances to grow, to dig deeper, to pray harder, to come closer to him, to put our trust in him, to become better people. In 4 months since diagnosis, how much eternity has been created and earned.

That is not a curse. That is a blessing.

There is another layer here, one that helps make sense of why a year that looks like a klalah on the outside can in fact be the greatest bracha on the inside. I have written before how the body and the soul are two conflicting forces inside a person.

They rarely rise and fall together. Imagine them on a seesaw: when one is up, the other is often down.

What most people call “a good year” — health, comfort, financial success — is really the body sitting high. The body feels satisfied, comfortable, at ease. But ask yourself: what sort of year did the soul have? Was it fed with tefillah, with mitzvot, with connection to Hashem? Or was it starved and neglected while the body enjoyed its comforts?

And the opposite is also true. When the body is down — weary, sick, worn out, stretched thin — the soul may be soaring. The soul thrives in moments of broken-heartedness, in the cracks where emunah, tefillah, and real growth push through. What looks like “the worst year” to the body may be the year the soul has its deepest aliyah.

Dovid HaMelech says in Tehillim (90:3):

תָּשֵׁב אֱנוֹשׁ עַד־דַּכָּא וַתֹּאמֶר שׁוּבוּ בְנֵי אָדָם“

You bring man down to the point of being crushed, and then You say: return, children of man.”

When the body is brought low — עד דכא, worn out, broken, humbled — that itself is the invitation: shuvu bnei adam, return to Hashem. The very moment that feels like curse becomes the opening for the greatest blessing — the soul’s return, the neshama’s ascent.

This is exactly the paradox of ברכה וקללה. On the surface, one side of the seesaw sinks — but at the same moment, the other rises. And if the soul is eternal while the body is only temporary, then perhaps we need to ask ourselves: which side of the seesaw really matters most?

And this, perhaps, is the ultimate test of life. The body and the soul will always ride that seesaw, blessing and curse will always appear side by side — that is the human condition. The Netziv taught that bechirah, free will, is not about choosing a life of only blessing or only curse, because that choice does not exist. It is about deciding which element we give primacy to. Do we fix our gaze only on the body’s pain and weariness, on the klalah? Or do we lift our eyes to the soul’s ascent, to the bracha hidden within, and elevate it?

That is the power Hashem places “before you today” — the power to choose what we see.