“Rabbi,” she said, “I don’t believe in coincidences.” 

I was strapping my daughter into her stroller for a walk when I received the call. Her name was Dr. Daniela Hermelin, and she was the Chief Medical Officer for ImpactLife Blood Center, an organization that coordinates blood donations. I had reached out to the local chapter in July to schedule a blood drive at Illini Hillel for today, October 12. I figured it would be an easy service program for students after the start of the Jewish new year. At the time, I couldn’t have known that my community would be reeling from the impact of a war and terrorist attacks that began in Israel on October 7th. 

Even with the war tearing us apart, I believe the blood inside us unites us more than we are divided by blood spilled on the ground. Dr. Hermelin asked if Hillel was hosting the drive as a response to the war. I told her that I’d planned it months ago and that even though my students were deeply impacted by the war, we had decided to move forward with the blood drive. We could still make a positive impact by giving with our bodies, even with our hearts and minds on Israel and Palestine.

“It’s never the wrong time to do a mitzvah,” I said, and then explained, “a good deed.” 

“Yes,” she responded. “I’m Jewish. And I’ve been in contact with Magen David Adom. If they need more blood, we offered to send some from our donors.” 

I took a deep breath. Magen David Adom is the Israeli version of the American Red Cross. The organization is responsible for emergency medical care and blood services, and they treat any individual who needs help – regardless of ethnicity, race, or political or religious affiliation. 

“I don’t want to make any promises,” Dr. Hermelin continued. “So far Magen David Adom doesn’t need more blood because they have so many donors in Israel. But you can tell your students there’s a chance that their donations today will save the lives of people impacted by this war.” My heart leapt into my throat. 

“Rabbi, I don’t believe in coincidences. You didn’t know this would happen, but this is the day you chose to host a drive. If there’s anything I can do to support you and your students, let me know. I’m a Jewish mother. We are in this together.” Together – united by our shared humanity.

I felt tears on my cheeks, my first since the crisis began. All week I’d been in action mode, but my tears and words had been frozen inside me. I’d been texting students late into the night and meeting with students to help them process. I helped students advocate for academic support. As someone who tends toward action and care for others, until this moment, I hadn’t cried yet myself. 

I thanked Dr. Hermelin for reaching out and told her I’d pass the message along to students. She promised she would update me on the partnership with Magen David Adom moving forward. “From one Jewish mother to another,” I said, walking my daughter down the street, “thank you.”

This week we read Parashat Bereishit, the very first chapters in the Torah. In Genesis 2:7, we learn that God formed the first human, adam from adamah, earth – “the dust of the ground.” God “breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the human became a living being.” The Hebrew word for human, adam, includes the word “dam,” which means blood, and adom, which means red. 

The terror attacks and the war in Israel broke in the US on Sunday as we celebrated Simchat Torah, preparing again to read the creation story. All week, blood flooded my newsfeed as I watched, horrified from afar. All week, blood – dam – splattered on the earth – adamah. Blood of b’nei adam, children of the first human. All of them formed – as we learn in this week’s parsha – b’tzelem Elohim – in the image of God. Later in the same Torah portion, after Cain has murdered Abel, God cries out, “Your brother’s blood, dam, cries out to Me from the ground,” adamah. 

These words from the parsha have been inside of me all week as I grieved for my student’s brother, an IDF soldier taken hostage, for an acquaintance of mine from Seattle, kidnapped and murdered, for the peace activists and concert-goers. I grieved for the babies, and for the mothers who would never be able to take their daughters on a walk again on a beautiful fall morning. The blood cries out from the earth. The blood cries out from inside of us. The blood that unites us all, b’nei adam, children of Adam, part of God’s marvelous creation.

In the book of Leviticus, Aaron, the High Priest, watches as his sons, Nadav and Avihu, die when they bring a sacrifice to God. A fire erupts and envelops them. There are no reasons cited for their deaths in the Torah, though many scholars have offered suggestions. After Nadav and Avihu die, the Torah says “Vayidom Aharon,” Aaron was silent. Sometimes there are no words for tragic loss. Vayidom comes from the word damam, a word for silence that appears only one other time in the Torah, referring to a stone-like silence – a paralysis. 

As a mother who turned away but could not turn away from my newsfeed this week, I understand Aaron’s frozenness, his lack of voice – even though he was the leader who spoke for his brother Moses, when Moses could not speak himself. My own words and tears were frozen inside me all week – damam – a silent stillness – while I watched the dam of b’nei adam spill on the adamah. It was the call from Dr. Hermelin, the Chief Medical Officer of ImpactLife Blood Center, a call that came as I played with my own baby girl, that finally caused my thaw, allowing my tears and words to flow in response. “Rabbi,” she said, “I don’t believe in coincidences.” 

I don’t know if I believe in coincidences. But I believe in humans, b’nei adam. I believe in the medical officer mother who reached out to say “thank you” and “you’re not alone.” I believe there is never a wrong time to do a mitzvah, and that we should always give blood when we can.  Whether it supports victims of distant war that is close to our hearts, or patients in the hospital down the street, it makes a difference. I believe that we are each designed b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God, and that our diversity reflects the different ways the Divine manifests on earth. And I believe that even as blood cries out from the land, the blood inside of us unites us. In time, when we are able to break through the damam, the silence and shock, I pray that we remember our shared humanity. May we use our voices to remind others – and ourselves – that we are in this together.