Last month, I had one of those moments that begins as routine and ends up staying with you far longer than expected.
I was on my way to the office, sitting in fairly heavy traffic. You know the rhythm: inch forward, stop, inch forward again, as trucks slowly made their way through the intersection ahead. On both sides of the street, life was already in motion. People were stepping out of homes and businesses, starting their day, moving with purpose.
As traffic began to open up, I moved forward again, and then wham.
The woman to my left tried to cut across traffic to make a turn. Not exactly the most legal move, but that's not really the point of the story.
Immediately, I saw her face. She was shaken. I motioned for her to pull over onto the side street so we could both assess what had happened. When I got out of the car, she was crying, really crying. Not frustration. Not annoyance. Something deeper.
I tried to calm her and encouraged her to take a few breaths. We exchanged information. The police arrived and filed their report. As I was leaving, the officer quietly said to me, "She seems very distraught. You may want to file with insurance just in case she doesn't."
And practically speaking, everything worked out. The claim process was easy. The car was repaired.
But I haven't been able to stop thinking about her.
Was this her first accident? Was it someone else's car? Did she feel like she had just let someone down? What else was she carrying into that moment before our paths crossed?
This week, we read Parsha Naso, the longest portion in the Torah. Within its length, it teaches something deceptively simple but profoundly important: details matter. Naso spends time on what can feel repetitive, counting, responsibilities, offerings, laying out each person's role with care and specificity. It reminds us that every individual carries something unique, even if it all looks the same from the outside. And in the midst of all that structure, we are given the Priestly Blessing: "May God bless you and protect you." It is a reminder that beyond what we can see, there is always more beneath the surface, more vulnerability, more need for care, more humanity.
That moment on the side of the road brought this into sharp focus for me. What looked like a minor accident on the surface may have felt like something much heavier to her. Naso invites us to see beyond the immediate moment, to recognize that each person we encounter is carrying responsibilities, fears, and stories we may never fully know. It challenges us to lead with compassion before judgment, to slow down enough to truly see one another, and to respond not just to what happened, but to who is standing in front of us. Even small gestures, a calming word, a moment of patience, a willingness to extend grace, can become a form of blessing in someone else's life.
We often think holiness lives in grand moments, in the sanctuary, in ritual, in celebration.
But this week, I was reminded that holiness can also live on the side of the road, in how we respond, in how we see one another, in whether we choose frustration or compassion.
May we carry the spirit of Naso with us, to recognize the unseen burdens others carry, to move through the world with patience and care, and to offer blessing, especially when it's needed most.
Shabbat Shalom,
Danny Glassman