‘Do you think Hezbollah has a parents’ visiting day?’
“Do you think Hezbollah has a parents’ visiting day?”
My husband’s response to the invitation was only half a joke.
A month ago, we sent our second son off to the army.
There is something particularly difficult about sending a child like him. He is gentle, sensitive, dignified, thoughtful. Now he is out there running, carrying a gun, covered in dirt, exhausted, pushing his body and mind in ways he has never done before.
You hope he is okay. Eating enough. Sleeping. You hope his commanders are good people, able to push him when necessary while still seeing the human being beneath the uniform.
And then, a month into his training, we received an invitation to Yom Horim – a visiting day for parents.
So today, we drove down early.
We picked up food, discovered a flat tire, dealt with it quickly, and somehow still managed to arrive on time.
At the base, we were greeted by a huge blow-up welcome gate. Parents were arriving from all over the country. Some had taken off work; others had driven for hours. It was the eve of Rosh Hashana, and still, hundreds had come to see their sons.
For a moment, it felt almost like camp visiting day.
Music blaring from loudspeakers. Parents unloading bags of food. Soldiers excited to see their families. Everyone wanting to hug their sons, feed them, hear how they were doing, and see where they have spent the last five weeks.
Except we weren’t at camp. We were in the middle of the desert, surrounded by young men in uniform, carrying guns.
And then something struck me.
The army had not simply allowed the parents to visit. It had deliberately brought us in, and the message was powerful. The officers spoke directly to the parents. They thanked us for entrusting them with our sons and acknowledged what it means for a parent to place a child in someone else’s hands.
Then they turned to the soldiers.
The company commander told them that we are living in complicated times and that they are the strength and hope of the nation of Israel. He asked them to look at their parents, recognize where so much of their strength comes from, and to thank them.
Because a soldier does not arrive at the army alone.
He comes from a home. From parents and siblings, teachers and communities, an upbringing and experiences that have shaped the person now standing in uniform.
The army was reminding both sides of that connection: We know where these soldiers come from. We know what their families have given them. And that is part of the strength they bring here.
There are 29 lone soldiers in my son’s company. Eleven come from his yeshiva alone. As the day unfolded, parents instinctively did what parents do. We spread out the food we had brought, made sure the lone soldiers had plenty to eat, and looked after one another’s children.
Meanwhile, I found myself looking around at the parents.
They came from every corner of Israeli society, with different religious backgrounds and political perspectives and from different regions and countries of origin. Yet here we all were, together, because our children are in this together.
Perhaps that is one of the great strengths of the IDF. It understands that its soldiers are not just soldiers. They are people formed by families, communities, and values. The army draws on all of that when it asks them to serve.
Our unique power as a people is not only our weapons or training, or even our soldiers’ willingness to fight. It is also the homes that raised them. The parents who taught them responsibility, resilience, compassion, courage and purpose – and who, despite all their fears, send them.
There was something particularly poignant about experiencing this so close to Rosh Hashana.
Again and again, during these days, we return in our prayers to Avraham Avinu, Abraham, the first of our forefathers. On the second day of Rosh Hashana, we will read the Akedah, the binding of Isaac. It is a story about a father who loved his son deeply and yet was willing to answer a calling greater than his own immediate desires. “Hineini,” says Abraham, “Here I am.”
Of course, the Akedah is not the army. Our sons are not Isaac and we are not Abraham. But being a parent in Israel makes the story land differently.
We spend our lives trying to protect our children. We raise them, comfort them, worry about them, teach them, and try to make the world a little safer for them. And then, at some point, we have to let them step into a world larger than our homes and larger than our ability to protect them.
Standing in that hot desert today, I looked at all those parents, and all those boys, and thought. “Here we are.” This is what makes the people of our country unique.
Not that we love our children less. Quite the opposite. We love them enough to send them. We love this country enough to entrust our children to its defense. And our children love this country enough to stand ready to defend it. Without hesitation, they courageously answer the call. “Here I am.”
Our sons stood before us in uniform. Young men, strong, tired, and proud. And we looked at them, still seeing the little boys they once were. The army tries to see both: the soldier standing in front of it, and the home that helped make him who he is.
As we head into Rosh Hashana, I find myself carrying that image with me. Hundreds of soldiers, sweaty and exhausted, standing before their beaming, emotional parents. Some biological, some who have “adopted” them during their service and some across the ocean watching their sons online from their homes.
May God see these parents. May He see these boys. May He see this extraordinary country. And may He bless us all with protection, strength, courage—and, above all, life.
Ketivah v’chatimah tovah. May we all be written and sealed in the Book of Life.
