A Home in the Good Land
V’etchanan
Devarim 3:23–7:11
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I remember it like it was yesterday—landing at Ben Gurion Airport at the crack of dawn and taking the first bus out into the still-sleeping country. Alone at the back, wrapped in silence. The sky was dark, but the first hints of morning had begun to stretch across the horizon.
As the bus rolled on, it started picking up passengers—one here, two there. Some nodded or smiled, greeting me with a soft “Boker Tov” as they found their seats. I watched the changing scenery as the rising sun cast golden light over the land—waves of color flowing past the window like a living painting.
By halfway through the journey, the bus was full. People were praying, arguing, laughing, chatting, singing… and there I was, quietly watching it all unfold. I felt completely at home—surrounded by my extended family, in a place where my heart had always belonged.
From the morning light that welcomed me,
to the quiet belonging I found by night—
the land was already teaching me what it means to come home.
A few months into my time on the kibbutz, I took a late-night bus from Ma’agan Michael in the north, heading south to visit my cousin in Ramat Gan. Most of us were half-asleep, the bus hushed and dim—until a sudden shout jolted everyone awake, bringing the bus to a halt.
An elderly woman near the middle door had begun to wail, clutching her head in distress. She’d missed her stop and was telling off the driver—accusing him of not waking her, her voice rising with each word. The driver, clearly unsure what to do, gave a helpless shrug, his hands raised in that universal Israeli gesture: Nu, what can I say?
Then, in a calm, almost apologetic tone, he turned to the rest of us and said:
“If it’s okay, raise your hand—I want to take her back to the stop she missed.”
A few hands shot up right away. Others followed more slowly.
There were groans. Sleepy protests. Someone muttered, “Zeh lo tachana pratit”—“This isn’t a private taxi.”
But in the end, nearly everyone agreed.
Except for one person.
Across the aisle from the elderly woman, a young IDF soldier sat slouched in his seat, head tilted back, mouth slightly open, a faint snore rising and falling—deep in sleep, completely oblivious to the scene unfolding around him.
The old lady, clearly unimpressed, leaned over and gave him a solid whack on the arm with her oversized handbag.
The soldier bolted upright, startled, and instinctively snapped to attention.
“Levi, five-seven-zero-five-seven-six-eight, reporting for duty!”
A chuckle spread through the bus—even the driver couldn’t help but smile. The woman simply nodded in satisfaction.
The engine rumbled back to life—this time on a detour paved not by route numbers, but by kindness and shared responsibility.
As we neared the stop she had missed, the driver glanced at her in the mirror and asked gently,
“How far is your home from here?”
She replied,
“Just a block ahead—up the road, first right.”
Without hesitation, he nodded and kept driving—right to her doorstep.
Just before stepping off the bus, the old lady turned to all of us, thanked us profusely, and said:
“Please wait just one minute.”
Before the driver could respond, she hurried inside.
Moments later, she returned carrying a large box. With a warm smile, she handed it to the front passenger and said:
“Please, everyone—enjoy some biscuits. Say a blessing—Borei Minei Mezonot.”
We passed the box around the bus, each of us taking one.
A chorus of “Mmm!”, “Yofi!”, “Tov Meod!” rippled through the rows. Of all the biscuits I’ve ever tasted, hers were the best—sweet, crumbly, and rich with something no one has come close to since.
They weren’t just homemade.
They were shared in the spirit of home—flavored with kindness, memory, and the quiet understanding that here, even a delay on the road can become sacred.
Parashat V’etchanan — Stopping for the Future
In this week’s parasha, we witness a different kind of stop.
After forty years of leading, carrying, and interceding for the people, Moshe reaches the edge of the Promised Land. He turns to G-d with one last, heartfelt plea to cross over:
“אֶעְבְּרָה־נָּא וְאֶרְאֶה אֶת־הָאָרֶץ הַטּוֹבָה…”
“Let me go over and see the good land beyond the Jordan…”
(Devarim 3:25)
But it was not to be.
Moshe’s journey began with a destination—but it became something deeper:
a calling to prepare others to enter, even if he could not.
And so, Moshe offers no protest.
He accepts.
He blesses.
He teaches.
His final words are not of regret, but of guidance:
to remember,
to hold fast to Torah,
to live with compassion,
and to choose life—together.
He didn’t cross the Jordan—
but he gave us the way forward.
Our journey is not just about reaching a place,
but about how we travel together—
how we stop for one another,
carry each other forward,
and build a home worthy of all who come.
This is the promise Moshe left us:
not a final destination,
but a path of responsibility, faith, and love.
Today, as we stand in the land he saw only from afar,
our task is clear:
to gather the scattered,
to heal the wilderness within us,
and to create, here and now,
a home in the good land.
שבת שלום,
שמואל
