The “I Am” in Hineni (Vayera)
Divorce has taught me how to count. I count days with my sons and days without them. I count flights, school breaks, costs, and the hours spent in conversations about where they will live and who will bring them home. Now, as our family prepares for an entirely different custody arrangement that will take the boys across an ocean, I find myself doing what fathers are supposed to do: making plans, anticipating problems, and trying to protect them from what I can.
And I am tired. Not tired of my children. Tired in the way that comes from loving two people fiercely and discovering how much of that love can get consumed by paperwork, negotiations, and worry. There are days when the work of being their father has taken so much out of me that I worry I have less to give when I am simply with them. I want them to remember a father who listened, laughed, and made room for their feelings, not a man whose mind was forever working on the next departure.
This week’s Torah portion, Vayera, has made me reconsider one word I thought I understood: Hineni. Here I am. In the binding of Isaac, Abraham says it three times. God calls; he answers, Hineni. Isaac calls, “My father”; he answers, Hineni, beni—here I am, my son. Then an angel calls from heaven; once again Abraham answers, Hineni.
I used to hear the word as a promise of reliability. Call me, and I will come. Need me, and I will show up. I still believe in that promise. Presence begins with being there, and our children have every right to expect it. But the English translation contains a tension I had overlooked. There is the “here,” the place I occupy, the appointment I keep, the responsibility I fulfill. And there is the “I am”: the person who arrives. What version of me are my sons getting?
It is possible to be dutiful and unavailable at the same time. I can sit across from a child while mentally drafting an email. I can ask how his day went and listen only long enough to decide what needs fixing. I can spend hours trying to secure a better future for him while missing the worry in his voice today. Sometimes that is what frightens me most—not that I won’t be there, but that I will be there with so little of myself left.
On Mount Moriah, Isaac looks at the fire and the wood and asks, “Where is the lamb?” Abraham answers, “God will provide.” Perhaps it is an act of faith; perhaps it is all he can bear to say. I wonder if Isaac’s question contains another question: Father, do you see what I see? Do you know how afraid I am? Children do not always know how to tell us what is hurting them. Especially during family upheaval, a question about the schedule might also be a question about safety, belonging, or whether love can survive separation.
Pediatricians Kenneth Ginsburg and Sara Kinsman offer a deceptively difficult rule for parents of teenagers: it is “less important what you say, and more important that you listen.” They urge parents to quiet their own alarm and become a steady presence rather than making a child’s distress bigger. That asks something of me beyond arranging travel and finding solutions. It asks me not to make my boys carry my anxiety on top of their own. It asks me to hear what they are feeling before explaining what will happen next.
Twice the Torah says Abraham and Isaac walked together, vayelchu shneihem yachdav. But walking beside someone is not the same as knowing what the journey feels like to them. I can’t promise my sons that the coming transitions won’t hurt. I can’t make every distance smaller. I can, however, show them all the positives and benefits to the upcoming changes in their lives. And I can try to give them something that travel schedules and custody agreements cannot: a father who is not merely accountable for their lives, but open to them.
I don’t want my sons to know my love only by how hard I fought for them. I want them to feel it in the ordinary moments when there is nothing to fight, fix, or arrange. I want them to know that beneath all the worry and exhaustion, the father they need is still here.
Perhaps that is the sacred invitation, and the deepest challenge, of Hineni. Not simply to announce our arrival, but to offer ourselves. Not merely to say, “I’m here,” but to ask whether the “I” in those words is truly present. When my sons call, I want to answer with more than my location or my obligations. I want to answer with all the love, humility, and attention I can summon: “I am here.” Hineni.
