Empty by Design

The Hebrew month of Cheshvan arrives with no festivals, no commemorations, not even a fast day to mark historical tragedy. The days grow shorter, darkness creeps in earlier each evening, and the skies open with the season’s first rains. Unlike the spiritually charged months that surround it—Tishrei with its Days of Awe and Kislev with Chanukah—Cheshvan appears empty, a void in the rhythm of Jewish time. Some acknowledge this bleakness by calling it Mar-Cheshvan, “Bitter Cheshvan,” a name that captures the month’s seemingly barren character.

Others associate the “bitterness” of this month with the death of the matriarch Rachel that occurred on the eleventh day of Cheshvan as she gave birth to Benjamin on the road to Efrat.

Rachel’s death introduces a question that strikes at the heart of Jewish survival through exile. Why did Rachel die on the roadside, buried hastily in the dirt rather than carried to the family tomb in Hebron, where the other matriarchs rest in honor?

The prophet Jeremiah transmits this haunting image centuries after Rachel’s death, and his language echoes the very name sometimes given to the month in which she died. Mar-Cheshvan—Bitter Cheshvan. Bekhi tamrurim—bitter weeping. The month and the mother share the same word, the same wound, the same refusal to accept consolation.

What is the meaning of this verse?

Rashi explains that when the Babylonians drove the Jews from their land into exile, they walked past Rachel’s tomb, and she emerged from her resting place to cry out and petition Heaven on their behalf. Unlike the other patriarchs and matriarchs who rest together in Hebron, Rachel stands alone on the road to intercede for her children in their moment of supreme anguish.

The Sages reveal the depth of Rachel’s power to petition for her children in a remarkable teaching. When the patriarchs and matriarchs came before God to plead for mercy after the wicked king Manasseh placed an idol in the Holy Temple, God remained unmoved by their appeals. Then Rachel entered and spoke: “Master of the Universe, whose mercy is greater—Yours or that of flesh and blood? Surely Yours. I brought my rival into my house. All the labor Jacob performed for my father was done for my sake alone. When the time came for me to enter the bridal chamber, my sister was brought in my place. I not only remained silent, but I gave her the secret signs Jacob and I had arranged. You too—though Your children have brought Your enemy into Your House—be silent toward them in mercy!” God responded: “You have defended them well. There is reward for your labor, for your righteousness in giving your signs to your sister.”

Rachel’s sacrifice was total. She surrendered her wedding night, her rightful place as Jacob’s first wife, and endured years watching her sister bear children while she remained barren. She lived her entire life as a co-wife. She had to share, she had to wait, she had to swallow bitterness. She gave up what was hers by right and by love because she could not bear to see her sister shamed. This act of self-sacrifice became the merit that would echo through all generations of Jewish exile.

Her burial on the roadside was not an accident or a tragedy of circumstance. It was divine providence. Jacob buried Rachel precisely where her voice would meet the Jewish people at their lowest point. The Cave of the Patriarchs in Hebron was prestigious, permanent—but it was not on the road to exile. Rachel needed to be positioned where her children would pass by in their moment of greatest despair. Her grave became a house of prayer, not despite its roadside location but because of it.

Perhaps this is why she died in Cheshvan, the month with no festivals. When the Jewish calendar overflows with celebration—Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Sukkot, Simchat Torah in Tishrei; Chanukah in Kislev; Purim and Pesach later in the year—we focus on redemption already achieved, on miracles already witnessed, on joy already experienced. But Cheshvan strips away celebration and forces us to sit with what we lack. The month’s emptiness mirrors exile itself. No festivals means no distraction from the darkness, no spiritual highs to numb us to the reality of displacement and longing.

In this space of absence, Rachel’s voice becomes audible. Mar-Cheshvan—the bitter month—holds the bekhi tamrurim, the bitter weeping, of a mother who will not stop crying for her children. The month’s bitterness is not incidental to Rachel’s story; it is the very condition that makes her advocacy possible. Just as her roadside grave positioned her geographically to intercede for the exiles, Cheshvan‘s calendar emptiness positions us spiritually to hear her tears—and to hear God’s response to them. For Rachel’s weeping is not met with silence. It is met with promise.

The rains that begin in Cheshvan embody this promise. In Cheshvan, as rain falls on the land where Rachel lies buried on the roadside, we witness a profound parallel: both rain and tears carry hidden generative power. Rain in Jewish tradition is blessing, the divine gift that awakens dormant seeds and brings forth life from seemingly barren earth. The first rains of Cheshvan soak into dark soil, triggering transformation we cannot yet see. Rachel’s tears work the same way. What sounds like lamentation is actually intercession. What looks like inconsolable grief is actually tireless advocacy that moves Heaven itself. God’s response to her weeping—”Yeish sachar lifu’alatekh—there is reward for your labor”—reveals that her tears are not barren but generative, not an ending but the beginning of redemption. Just as rain falls in apparent emptiness yet produces the harvest months later, Rachel’s bitter weeping in the bitter month waters seeds of return that will surely bloom.

This is the paradox of the bitter month. Cheshvan appears empty, but it holds the fullest truth: that emptiness can be generative, that darkness contains hidden growth, that a mother’s tears carry the power to move Heaven. The month’s lack of festivals is not absence but presence of a different kind—the presence of promise taking root. When we sit with Cheshvan‘s emptiness rather than rushing past it toward the next celebration, we learn what Rachel knew: that the deepest transformations happen not in moments of visible triumph but in the hidden work of tears that refuse to stop, of love that will not abandon, of seeds germinating in darkness.

The promise God speaks to Rachel echoes through every Cheshvan: “There is reward for your labor… and your children will return to their borders.” This is not distant hope but certainty rooted in Rachel’s merit. Her tears already accomplished what the other patriarchs and matriarchs could not—they moved God to mercy when He seemed unmovable. The rains of Cheshvan prepare the earth for harvests that will come. Rachel’s bitter weeping prepares Heaven for redemptions that will surely arrive. The month’s emptiness is not a void but a womb, dark and hidden, where the future is being formed.