The Morning After

Two weeks before Passover I started the intense (read, very intense) process of transforming my kitchen from a bread-filled haven to one that contained no traces of leaven—one that was fit for Passover.

One week before Passover, I began kashering—the technical process of transforming my stove, my sink, my oven through boiling water, blowtorches, and other methods that convert everyday appliances into vessels ready for Passover use.

A few days before Passover, we only ate meals on our porch, lest traces of bread would sneak their way into the now bread-sterile environment.

On Passover itself, we did not open cabinets that contained our plates and cutlery used for the year, we sectioned off part of the pantry, only ate Kosher for Passover food, and didn’t buy bread products… the whole nine yards.

Then—after sunset on the final day of Passover, the holiday, now complete, We began the process of turning our kitchen back to it’s “regular” bread-filled status. And just like that, within one hour, the work of the last few weeks was immediately undone, erased, reset. The barred-up cabinets, untaped. The Passover seder plate, filed away until next year. We even got lucky and ordered a pizza (something we had not eaten for over a week).

But the next morning—as I was getting my kids ready for school, kind of in this surreal moment of “can I use these dishes—ah yes, Passover is over, I can”—my son asked me if he could have matzah for breakfast.

I almost laughed—we just spent the last week eating only matzah. If you’ve done that before and come out unscathed, please let me know.

And now he wants more? No cereal? No toast?

Matzah??

Yes. Matzah.

Because some things from yesterday cannot be erased just because tomorrow has come. There’s an ancient Temple ritual that shows us exactly why this matters, and what my son’s unusual breakfast request can teach us about life’s transitions…

In the Torah portion of Tzav (in the Book of Leviticus), there’s a ritual called Trumat HaDeshen—the removal of ashes—that speaks directly to this moment of transition. You’d think that once a sacrifice was completely burned on the altar in the Temple, the priests would immediately then sweep away the ashes to make room for the next offering.

But that’s not how it worked.

Instead, the Bible instructs that the ashes remain on the altar overnight. In the morning, a priest would put on special linen garments specifically for this task, carefully take a portion of these ashes, and place them beside the altar. Only later would these ashes be carried “outside the camp to a pure place” (Leviticus 6:4).

It’s such a peculiar detail that it makes you wonder—why keep yesterday’s ashes around? Why not just start fresh each day?

The Torah emphasizes that even as new sacrifices are brought, the fire on the altar “shall be kept burning, not to go out”.

There’s continuity here—between what was offered yesterday, what is being offered today, and what will be offered tomorrow.

When my son asked for matzah the morning after Passover ended, it wasn’t just about his unusual breakfast preferences. It was a reminder for both of us that the experience of Passover doesn’t just disappear when we put away the seder plates and bring the bread back into our homes.

The Trumat HaDeshen teaches us that transitions aren’t about erasing what came before—they’re about carefully acknowledging it, honoring it, and letting its essence inform what comes next. This isn’t trivial cleanup; it’s sacred work. The ashes aren’t discarded in just any place but carried to “a pure place.” These remnants of yesterday’s offerings matter.

In our own lives, we often rush to move from one thing to the next, eager to leave behind what has ended and embrace what’s coming. But there’s wisdom in this Priestly practice of pausing to acknowledge the residue of our experiences—the “ashes” of yesterday—before fully transitioning to today.

So what does Trumat HaDeshen look like in our everyday lives?

It looks like my son eating matzah the day after Passover ends.

It looks like keeping a photo from a beautiful vacation on your desk, even as you dive back into work.

It looks like holding onto the lessons of a difficult experience, even as you move forward from the pain.

It looks like remembering the words of loved ones no longer with us, carrying their wisdom into new situations they never witnessed.

It looks like telling the story of Passover over and over again, from year to year not just on Passover – but in the daily prayers.

We don’t need to erase yesterday to embrace today. In fact, there’s something deeply nourishing about allowing them to exist together—letting yesterday’s ashes rest beside today’s fresh offerings.

Yes, we needed to dismantle much of our Passover setup—the kitchen had to become functional again, the regular dishes had to return to circulation, the bread-free zones had to welcome bread back. There’s a practical reality to these transitions that can’t be ignored. We can’t live perpetually in Passover mode any more than the priests could allow the altar to become completely covered in ashes.

But there’s grace in not rushing every aspect of the transition. Leaving the matzah out for a few more days. Keeping the children’s Passover artwork on the fridge a little longer. Maybe even leaving that seder plate displayed on a shelf rather than immediately boxing it away.

Where else in our lives might we benefit from this wisdom?

These aren’t failures to “move on”—they’re intentional acts of honoring, of allowing experiences to linger long enough to truly absorb their lessons before they’re placed “beside the altar” of our lives.

As I handed my son his requested piece of matzah the morning after Passover ended, I realized I was participating in my own version of Trumat HaDeshen. We had meticulously transformed our kitchen back to its regular state, but we weren’t pretending Passover hadn’t happened. Its “ashes” remained with us—in stories shared at the seder, in family moments created, in insights gained, and yes, even in leftover matzah.

Some of these remnants will eventually be carried “outside the camp”—packed away with the Passover dishes until next year. But others would remain beside our altar, informing our daily lives in subtle ways.

My son happily crunched on his matzah quote oblivious to his mother’s morning Bible contemplations. So, I simply smiled at him and at the ancient wisdom playing out at my kitchen table. Some transformations, it turns out, are meant to be gradual, letting the ashes of yesterday bless the offerings of today.

As for me, I had a big breakfast filled with leavened toast.

You can learn more about the Priestly duties outlined in the Book of Leviticus as well as other Biblical insights from the Five Books of Moses, the Prophets, and more at Bible Plus. Our one of a kind online Bible Study platform.
Learn more, here.