A few weeks ago, my family and I spent some unforgettable time in Kruger National Park in South Africa. Like everyone else who visits, we were hoping to spot the Big Five. We certainly didn’t expect the safari to come to us.
One morning we opened the curtains, and for a few magical hours it felt as though the opening chapter of the Bible had come alive. A herd of zebras grazed peacefully off our pool deck while a baby zebra stood beneath its mother, nursing with complete trust. Right beside them wandered a herd of wildebeest. Warthogs marched through with their unmistakable swagger, curious mongooses darted between the bushes, and towering over them all stood several majestic kudus, their spiral horns reaching toward the heavens. It was as if Hashem had gathered an audience without anyone sending an invitation.
Over the following days we were privileged to see elephants, buffalo, hippos, rhinoceros, crocodiles, springbok, and even the elusive leopard kill. Our 11 children stood glued to the windows. Nobody reached for a phone. Nobody asked what was next. Every pair of eyes was fixed on the masterpiece unfolding outside.
As I stood there watching, I couldn’t help but notice how every animal was completely at peace with its identity. The zebra wasn’t trying to become a leopard. The wildebeest wasn’t comparing itself to the kudu. The warthog wasn’t having an identity crisis. Every creature simply lived the life its Creator had designed for it.
Only one creation has the freedom to forget why it was created. Only one creation can wake up one morning and lose sight of who it really is.
Us.
The Torah instructs: Shoftim veshotrim titein lecha — Appoint judges and officers for yourself. The Torah doesn’t begin by asking us to fix the world. It begins by asking us to examine ourselves, because the greatest courtroom isn’t out there — it’s in here.
Then something happened that made the entire experience come together. One of the kudus stood within arm’s reach of our patio. I found myself staring at its magnificent spiraling horns. Instantly, they reminded me of a shofar. Not just because they looked alike — because they were asking the same question.
At the beginning of the month of Elul, the month of introspection as we prepare spiritually for the New Year, Jews begin hearing the daily blasts of the shofar. The shofar is not a performance. It is not even a prayer. It’s a wake-up call. Its cry echoes the very first question Hashem ever asked a human being after Adam hid in the Garden of Eden: Ayeka? Where are you?
The question wasn’t about geography. G-d certainly knew Adam’s location. It was a question about identity. Adam had lost himself, and G-d was helping him find his way back. Every year during the month of Elul, the shofar asks us whether we have lost ourselves too.
Standing there in the African bush, another beautiful teaching suddenly came flooding into my mind. Our Sages describe the final month of repentance with one unforgettable image. The King is in the field — because during this special month G-d is reachable to each and every one of us, as long as we are willing to find Him.
During the rest of the year, entering the King’s palace requires preparation. During Elul, the King leaves His palace and comes into the field to greet His people with warmth, love, and a smiling face.
I looked around and smiled. I wasn’t just visiting a game reserve. I was standing in the field.
Perhaps that is why the message felt so personal. We spend so much of life waiting for Hashem to speak through extraordinary moments that we often overlook the extraordinary messages hidden inside ordinary ones.
We assume G-d lives in holy places. Elul reminds us that holiness finds us in ordinary places. Around the Shabbos table. In the office. On vacation. Even in a backyard in Kruger National Park. If only we’re paying attention.
Then another thought occurred to me. The Torah doesn’t compare us to the animals surrounding us. It compares us to a tree: Ki ha’adam etz hasadeh — For a human is like a tree of the field. Why would the Torah compare us to a tree?
A tree never forgets where its life comes from. It reaches for the sky because it never loses contact with the earth. The higher it grows, the deeper its roots must become. Great lives are built the same way. Maybe that’s the answer to Ayeka. The question isn’t only: Where are you? It’s: What are you rooted in?
The animals reminded me to be authentic. The tree reminded me where authenticity comes from. A meaningful life isn’t measured by how high we climb. It’s measured by how deeply we’re rooted.
Maybe that’s why Elul happens in the field. Before we reach higher, we are invited to grow deeper. Before we change our behavior, we reconnect to our Source.
I went to Kruger hoping to find the Big Five. Instead, I found the King. Not because He was hiding in the wilderness. He had been there all along. The King is in the field. He always was. Elul is simply the month we finally notice.
The only question is whether we’re still hiding behind the trees.
Rabbi Dovid Vigler is the spiritual leader at Chabad of Palm Beach Gardens, with over 85,000 subscribers to his YouTube channel, youtube.com/jewishgardens. Email him at [email protected].
