In 2008 in Ashkelon, an outreach rabbi was driving his car when a sudden rocket siren went off. Startled, he swerved sharply to the side of the road—just as a non-religious couple was walking their dog. The couple managed to get out of the way. Their dog did not. The rabbi’s car struck and killed the dog. 
The couple was understandably devastated. But once the immediate emergency passed, they were deeply moved by the rabbi’s extraordinary empathy, responsibility, and genuine desire to make amends. A relationship slowly developed. The rabbi began visiting them, learning with them, teaching Torah. One thing led to another, until eventually the couple began hosting Torah classes in their home—classes that inspired others as well. In time, they even dedicated a room in their home as a space for learning and services, placing a plaque on the wall bearing the name “Beis Igor”, after their deceased dog. 
At one point they asked the rabbi whether it would be appropriate to add the words “who died in a car accident” to the plaque. But the rabbi himself was unsure of a more basic question: was it even appropriate to name a shul or beis midrash after a dog? 
He posed the she’eilah to Rav Yitzchak Zilberstein, who cited several sources addressing the legitimacy of memorializing even animals—and concluded that it was appropriate to name the shul Beis Igor. 
One source Rav Zilberstein cited is the Gemara in Yoma 9a. A non-Jew once purchased a cow from a Jew. Because of the Jew’s devotion to shemiras Shabbos, the cow itself had become so accustomed to resting on Shabbos that when the non-Jew tried to work it on Saturday, it refused. Frustrated, the non-Jew returned the cow. The Jew leaned over and whispered into the cow’s ear that since it now belonged to a non-Jew, it was permitted to work on Shabbos. The cow immediately complied. 
The non-Jew was so impressed that he exclaimed: “If this senseless creature recognizes its Creator and fulfills His will, then I—who was created in His image—all the more so.” He converted, became a great Torah scholar, and eventually one of the Talmudic sages. And yet, he chose a striking name for himself: Yochanan ben Torsa—Torsa being the Aramaic word for cow. 
But perhaps the most powerful source comes from this week’s parashah. The Gemara teaches that “Hakadosh Baruch Hu does not withhold reward from any creature.” Because the dogs did not bark during makas bechoros, contributing to the tranquil experience enjoyed by the Jewish People at the moment of grief and death of their oppressors, they were rewarded with the “merit” of receiving treif meat—meat that was discovered to be forbidden after shechitah (Shemos 22:30). The Midrash adds that dog dung was used in the curing process of animal hides that would become tefillin, mezuzos, and sifrei Torah. Dogs are even included in Perek Shirah. 
From these sources, Rav Zilberstein concluded that naming the shul Beis Igor was indeed appropriate. 
But beyond the halachic conclusion lies a much deeper lesson: the Torah demands appreciation and gratitude—even toward creatures and objects that possess no free will of their own. 
This idea is beautifully illustrated by the well-known story of Rav Yisrael Gustman, rosh yeshivah of Netzach Yisrael, who was meticulous about watering the small garden outside his office. When asked why, he explained that plants had once saved his life. Before the war, his rebbe, Rav Chaim Ozer Grodzinski, had taught him which plants were edible and which were poisonous. That knowledge sustained him while fleeing through forests during the Holocaust. The plants had saved him—and he never forgot it. 
No matter what we receive—large or small, from human beings or not—gratitude and appreciation are essential. 
This is also why Aharon, rather than Moshe, was instructed to strike the water and the earth during the plagues of blood, frogs, and lice. The water had protected Moshe as a baby, and the earth had concealed the Egyptian he killed. It would have been inappropriate for Moshe to strike that which once saved him. 
Returning to Hashem’s own “expression” of gratitude—rewarding even animals—we find two additional examples in these parashiyos: 

1. The Midrash teaches that the frogs who were moser nefesh and jumped into the ovens were spared. 
2. The donkeys that carried the wealth of Bnei Yisrael out of Mitzrayim were elevated through the mitzvah of pidyon peter chamor, the redemption of the firstborn donkey (despite the donkey being a non-kosher animal) 

An interesting distinction emerges: 

• Frogs: only those individual frogs that sacrificed themselves were rewarded. 

• Dogs: the entire species was rewarded, but they remained dogs. 

• Donkeys: the entire species was elevated with a form of sanctity requiring redemption. 

Why the difference? 
One commentary (I believe, the Vilna Gaon) suggests that the frogs’ heroism was individual—it affected only themselves. In contrast, the actions of the dogs and donkeys affected others, and therefore their reward was collective. 
But why were the donkeys elevated more than the dogs? 
Rav Yosef Chaim Sonnenfeld explained: we certainly learn an extraordinary lesson from the dogs—the power of silence, of knowing when not to speak, disturb, or argue. But the donkeys taught us something even greater: shlepping. Carrying. Bearing burdens for others. 
Shlepping for others—helping when it is heavy, inconvenient, and exhausting—is what earns an elevation of kedushah. Both silence and restraint are noble. But stepping up to carry another person’s load is a higher form of chesed. That is why the donkeys received the greatest reward. 
On a personal note: I was once listening to a recording of this very shiur that I had given years earlier to my Friday morning class. I was driving to Lakewood for a chasunah in terrible weather, debating whether I should go at all. I decided to go anyway—to shlep—for the sake of the kallah’s father, knowing how much it would mean to him. 
In that shiur, I had shared that earlier that same snowy morning, as I rushed out of shul, I saw my son-in-law (also named Yosef Chaim) holding my granddaughter while trying to clear snow off his car in his driveway next to the shul. I initially walked past—until I stopped myself. How could I teach about shlepping and not stop to help? I turned around and helped. 
That was then. Today, on this drive to Lakewood, Baruch Hashem, it wasn’t even an afterthought—it was a forethought. 
One final observation: the word shlepping sounds sluggish, heavy, even lazy. But true shlepping must be done with zerizus. 
The Torah also says in this week’s parashah, “u’shemartem es hamatzos”—“guard the matzos,” referring to the halachah to supervise the preparation of matzah so that the flour does not come into contact with moisture and thereby become chametz. Chazal say that this phrase can also be read as “u’shemartem es hamitzvos”—“guard the mitzvos,” meaning not to allow them to become chametz either. Rather, if a mitzvah comes into your hand, do it right away. 
The lesson here is not to delay the performance of mitzvos—to act with alacrity. As Chazal say, “zerizim makdimin l’mitzvos”—those who are zealous perform mitzvos expeditiously. But the precise phrasing of this teaching needs a bit of clarification. Chazal say that we must guard mitzvos from becoming chametz. How does a mitzvah become chametz? It almost sounds like saying that a mitzvah becomes treif! What does that mean? 
The simplest explanation is that one should not approach mitzvos the way one approaches the production of chametz, which can take as long as one wants—there is no urgency. A mitzvah, by contrast, demands immediacy. When it presents itself, do it. 
Another approach is offered by the Pachad Yitzchak (Pesach, ma’amar 1), based on the fundamental idea that time itself is part of the physical, created universe. Not only did Einstein demonstrate this through his theory of relativity, but Chazal understood it centuries earlier. As the Vilna Gaon explains, the phrase “Baruch oseh bereishis” in the opening paragraph of Baruch She’amar means “Blessed is the One who created a beginning”—that is, time itself. Time was created along with matter. 
If time belongs to the physical realm, then it follows that the sublime neshamah—which instinctively recoils from physicality as an end in itself—also has an aversion to time. Deep down, the neshamah seeks to eliminate the dominance of time in whatever we engage in, and instead hungers for the pure spirituality embedded in everything. The result of that inner pull is speed—a desire to reach the essence of the mitzvah and to resent the barriers of time that stand in its way. 
(This applies specifically to the stage before the mitzvah is performed. Once a person is already engaged in the mitzvah—once he has entered the “world” of the mitzvah—the longer it lasts, the deeper the connection to its spirituality. But beforehand, before it has begun, a person who is attuned to his neshamah will be eager to perform it quickly, to capture the true spiritual energy of the mitzvah.) 
When sluggishness is present, when delay sets in, it reflects an attitude that the mitzvah exists on a physical plane and is therefore subject to the physical constraints of time. But that is precisely what it is not. 
Returning to the comparison to chametz: 
What is chametz? Chametz symbolizes the yetzer hara and physicality, and therefore chametz is exactly what a mitzvah is not. Consequently, when a person performs a mitzvah with sluggishness and without alacrity, he has, in effect, rendered it chametz—reducing it to the physical plane of existence, and this is why Chazal say not to make one’s mitzvos into chametz, for that is precisely what happens when they are performed with delay. 
So, we learn from this parshah the importance of gratitude and appreciation—even toward the most inanimate of objects. We learn the importance of shlepping for others and going beyond our comfort zone, perhaps for an extended period of an hour or even a day. But we also learn that this shlepping should not be done shleppingly. It must be done with vigor, enthusiasm, and alacrity. 
​
Have a good Shabbos. ​

Sometimes, from the most inconspicuous places, great things emerge. An example is found in this week’s parsha.
The parsha begins the miraculous story of the Ten Plagues, which leads to the redemption of the Jewish People from Mitzrayim, their arrival at Mount Sinai to receive the Torah, and their embarking upon their mission for the world. In this parsha, seven makkos are related, and in next week’s parsha, the remaining three.
Zeroing in on the makka called arov—wild beasts (according to R’ Yehudah in the Midrash, the most quoted opinion; R’ Nechemiah holds it was hornets and gnats)—we find something intriguing in verses 8:18 and 8:19. As Moshe warns Paro about the impending makka, the Torah describes how the Jewish People will be immune to it. In verse 18 it uses the expression “hifleisi” with respect to Goshen, where the Jewish People lived, and in verse 19 it says that Hashem will make a “pedus,” a distinction, between the Jewish People and the Mitzrayim. Both verses convey the general idea of Jewish immunity to the makka, but the repetition of different terms for what appears to be the same idea requires explanation.
The Ramban explains that the difference is as follows: hifleisi, an expression of pele—wonder—refers to the miraculous phenomenon that the wild beasts did not enter Goshen at all. Pedus, meaning redemption or removal, refers to a perhaps less obvious miracle: that any Jews who happened to be elsewhere in Mitzrayim were protected and escaped being attacked by the wild beasts.
Another understanding of pedus may be based on Rosh Hashanah 11a, which states that the slavery in Mitzrayim ended at the beginning of the month of Tishrei. The Mishnah in Eduyos teaches that the makkos lasted twelve months, and although there is dispute as to how the spread of the makkos unfolded throughout the year, some commentaries place the makka of arov in Tishrei (see Haggadah Shaarei Rachamim by Hacham Rahamim Churba-Cohen). Accordingly, the emphasis on pedus—redemption—may allude to the fact that with this makka, the actual enslavement of the Jewish People came to an end.
The Baal HaTurim, however, opens the door to a more spiritual, life-lesson-oriented understanding. He notes that the word pedus here is missing a vav, in contrast to the only two other places in Tanach where the word pedus is spelled with a vav: Tehillim 111:9 and 130:7. He explains that the distinction is that since this makka did not mark the final redemption of the Jewish People, it is missing a vav—hinting to something still lacking. Tehillim 111:9 refers to the completed redemption from Mitzrayim, which was now whole and therefore written in its full form, while Tehillim 130:7 refers to the ultimate future redemption, which certainly deserves a vav in its fullness.
The vav, we see, carries a message of hope, for it is always present when ultimate redemption is contemplated. The Sefer Ateres Paz notes that this is hinted at in the continuation of the pasuk itself, which says, “Tomorrow will be the sign.” On a pshat level, this refers to the makka, but the word used is “os,” which also means letter. Tomorrow—in the future—this letter will appear in its fullness.
In addition, we find that the vav is the very letter that Yaakov Avinu requested from Eliyahu as collateral to guarantee Eliyahu’s commitment to usher in the redemption.
What do we mean?
In Vayikra 26:42, the Torah says, “I will remember My covenant with Yaakov.” Yaakov is written there with an extra vav, and Rashi notes that this occurs in five places. Conversely, there are five places where Eliyahu’s name is missing a vav. Rashi explains that Yaakov took five vavs from Eliyahu as collateral, ensuring that he would fulfill his mission of ushering in the Geulah. Of course, these are esoteric ideas, since Eliyahu lived after Yaakov—although perhaps, given that Yaakov is said never to have died and to have become manifest in Eliyahu, it is in some sense a reference to himself. (As an aside, why did Yaakov request specifically five vavs? The Maharal explains that this alludes to the five fingers of the hand used in a handshake to seal a deal.) But once again, we see the central role the letter vav plays in redemption.
What is it about the vav that gives it such significance?
To understand the meaning of anything, we are taught to return to the very first place in the Torah where it appears. Where does the vav first appear? In the very first verse: “And Hashem created heaven “vav” earth.” Beyond simply meaning “and,” the vav reveals its deeper identity—to connect heaven and earth. The vav symbolizes the entire raison d’être of our lives: to bridge the gap between heaven and earth, to bring kedusha into the mundane, to sublimate the physical.
Accordingly, it is no coincidence that the vav is also the connecting letter between the upper heh and the lower heh of Hashem’s Name. Structurally, the vav is composed of a yud—representing absolute unity with Hashem—and a long downward line that draws that unity into the earthly realm.
Moreover, we are taught that the Messianic epoch first began to shine its light at the beginning of the sixth millennium. Many commentaries place this specifically around its dawn, which intriguingly corresponds to the year 1740, when the Baal Shem Tov appeared on the stage of Jewish history. Man, the bearer of the mission to bring holiness into the mundane, was created on the sixth day—the day that connects the mundane to the holiness of Shabbos.
What emerges is that from a small, inconspicuous omission of the letter vav in the word pedus, referring to redemption, a massive and powerful lesson unfolds: in order to experience redemption, we must embody the meaning of the vav—to connect ourselves to Shamayim and draw kedusha down into our physical lives. To elevate our food through brachos, to speak with refinement, to wear tallis and tefillin, to keep Shabbos, and to live as shomrei Torah and mitzvos.
Let us conclude with an inspiring story that captures this message as well:
The part of the river used as a mikveh for ritual immersion was situated high atop a steep hill on the outskirts of Premishlan. When the road leading up to it was slippery, people had to take the long way around the hill, as walking straight uphill was dangerous. Reb Meir, the Rebbe of Premishlan, always took the direct route, regardless of the state of the road, and was never known to stumble or slip.
One snowy day, when the icy mountain paths were especially hazardous, Reb Meir walked uphill to the river as usual. Two guests were staying in the area—sons of wealthy families—who had come under the influence of the Haskalah, or “Enlightenment,” movement. They did not believe in supernatural attainments, and when they saw Reb Meir striding uphill with sure steps as always, they convinced themselves that the road must not be dangerous at all.
To prove their theory, they waited until Reb Meir had begun immersing in the river, and then confidently set out up the icy hillside. After only a few steps on the treacherous path, they slipped and tumbled down, requiring medical attention. Once one of them had healed, he gathered the courage to approach the tzaddik and ask, “Why is it that no one else can negotiate the slippery road, while the Rebbe walks with sure steps and never stumbles?”
Reb Meir replied:
“If a man is connected above, he does not fall below. Meir is tied up on high, and that is why he can walk even a slippery hill with confidence.”
May we all be bound on High, and by living the meaning of the letter vav, draw kedusha and strength into our lives below.
Good Shabbos