Lighting candles transforms ordinary time into sacred time, marking the official start of the Seder.

The Blessing:

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יְהוָה אֱלֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, אֲשֶׁר קִדְּשָׁנוּ בְּמִצְוֹתָיו, וְצִוָּנוּ לְהַדְלִיק נֵר שֶׁל יוֹם טוֹב.

Baruch Atah Adonai Eloheinu melech ha'olam asher kid'shanu b'mitzvotav, v'tzivanu l'hadlik ner shel Yom Tov.

Blessed are You, Adonai our Divine Presence, Ruler of the Universe, who has sanctified us with laws and commanded us to light the festival lights.

As we light the festival candles, we acknowledge that as they brighten our Passover table, good thoughts, good words, and good deeds brighten our days.

Ma’ariv by Rabbi Rachel Barenblat of Bayit

You mix the watercolors of the evening

like my son, swishing his brush

until the waters are black with paint.

The sky is streaked and dimming.

The sun wheels over the horizon

like a glowing penny falling into its slot.

Day is spent, and in its place: the changing moon,

the spatterdash of stars across the sky’s expanse.

Every evening we tell ourselves the old story:

You cover over our sins,

forgiveness like a fleece blanket tucked around our ears.

When we cry out, You will hear.

Soothe my fear of life without enough light.

Rock me to sleep in the deepening dark.

El chai v’kayam, tamid yimloch aleinu l’olam va’ed.

Baruch atah YHVH, ha’ma’ariv aravim.

Living and enduring God,

you will reign over us always.

Blessed are You YHVH

Who evens the evenings.

In the traditional text of Hashkivenu, we ask that a shelter of peace is spread over ourselves, our loved ones and people around the world. We ask for restful and restorative sleep, and for the gift of waking up to a new day. As you read, imagine a blanket covering your body and take a deep breath as you move closer to ending your day.

Hashkivenu by Rabbi Rachel Barenblat of Bayit 

The exterior's a little shabby,

could use a coat of paint.

A bit worn after a hard year:

not a lot of curb appeal.

Most people walk right by.

Not you: you see

the mezuzah in the doorway,

the light in the living room.

You see my heart, tender

and afraid no one will ever want—

Tell me again that I'm worthy

even when I feel most broken.

Tell me again that my strength

is beautiful, and makes me whole.

בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה יהו''ה, שׁוֹמֵר עַמּוֹ יִשְׂרָאֵל לָעַד:

Baruch atah YHVH, shomer amo Yisrael la’ad.

Blessed are You, YHVH, Who keeps watch over Your people Israel.

Things that have no limit

in this world or any other:

how often I can think of you

and feel my sadness lessen

the comfort that I find in you

from eve to night to morning

how many times I turn to you

to see my best self reflected

the gratitude I feel for you

(how did I get so lucky?)

All of these are infinite --

my love for you is greater.

Hareinu m’kablim aleinu et mitzvat ha-borei

V’ahavta l’re’akha camokha, l’reakha camokha.

Here we take upon ourselves the mitzvah of our Creator

To love my neighbor as myself, my neighbor as myself.

Blessed Yah, Creator, Created, Creating...

We pray for peace,

For ourselves and the world,

Even if only for one day:

Instead of anger, we choose kindness.

Instead of revenge, we choose justice.

Instead of resentment, we choose empathy.

Instead of work, we choose rest.

Instead of ideology, we choose compromise.

Instead of destruction, we choose community.

Instead of fear, we choose endurance.

Instead of invective, we choose prayer.

Instead of violence, we choose peace.

Blessed Yah, Creator, Created, Creating...

We give thanks for this day of peace.

May it change us, may it change the world,

And let us say, Amen.

Amidah literally means standing, and we rise to give thanks for having reached the end of another day. This can be a moment for silent meditation to reflect on moments where you stood up, for yourself or your beliefs. Or, a time to simply breathe and be with yourself.

Amidah by Rabbi Rachel Barenblat of Bayit 

The wash of dawn across the sky

reveals your signature.

Cicadas drone your praise

through the honey-slow afternoon.

The angular windmills on the ridge

recite your name with every turn.

And I, who can barely focus on breath

without drifting into story:

what can I say to you,

author of wisteria and sorrel,

you who shaped these soft hills

with glaciers' slow passage?

You fashioned me as a gong:

your presence reverberates.

Help me to open my lips

that I may sing your praise.

YHVH s’fatai tiftach ufi yagid t’hilatecha.

Eternal God, open my lips that my mouth may declare Your praise.

Dear One, you love me so much

you give me your Torah

for argument and play

waltzing and conversation

from one life to the next.

Your Torah nourishes me,

familiar as the womb.

Wrap me tight in your Torah

like a newborn. Laugh in delight

when I learn to break free.

Your Torah lights up my eyes,

fuses my heart with my choices.

Give me just one letter

to suck like candy, like manna

changing flavor on my tongue.

Tell me a true story again

about who I used to be

or who I might yet be

-- like you, always becoming

who you are becoming.

Beloved, draw me close.

I've been scattered:

melt me until we mingle.

I want to come home in you.

Choose me again. Don't stop.

Baruch atah YHVH, ohev amo Yisrael.

Blessed are You YHVH, Who loves Your people Yisrael.

-by Rabbi Rachel Barenblat of Bayit