We didn’t bury our son Binyamin. We planted him.

On my street, there’s a pomegranate tree that grew in the most unexpected way. A fruit from someone’s tree in their private garden nearby fell onto the public area, decomposed, and sprouted. Over time, it transformed from a seedling into a mature tree, now producing its own fruit. The odds of this happening were slim, yet it flourished. Nothing in life is happenstance. Not for the trees, nor in our own personal lives.

A tree teaches us patience, perseverance, resilience and faith. Its fruits do not appear immediately and its success is not guaranteed. Its growth is slow and steady. Will it bear sweet, juicy fruit, or will it remain barren? Will it survive harsh or extreme temperatures or high winds that sway its branches or break them entirely? Even when its branches are bare or its fruits are missing, the tree does not give up. It stays true to its mission, continuing to grow upward, defying gravity, and reaching towards the heavens.  

A pomegranate tree. (iStock)

A tree’s success is not measured in a single season. It is a process that spans years, sometimes even generations. In the same way, the strength of our nation is found in our ability to think beyond ourselves, to plant seeds for the future, build for the next generation, and to trust that Hashem will guide us through every stage of growth.

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If you want to understand the Jewish people, teaches the prophet Isaiah, first look to the tree (כימי העץ ימי עמי). From its deeply hidden roots up to its tall branches and fruit, the tree symbolizes our heritage and identity, faith, strength and perseverance, connection to our land, and to our Torah.

In Israel, planting fruit trees is not just an act of cultivation. It is an act of commitment and connection to settling the land, part and parcel of mitzvat Yishuv Haaretz, the commandment to settle the land of Israel. Fruit trees remind the Jewish people of our deep bond with the soil, a connection that is both physical and spiritual.

In our own garden, my family has three fruit trees, a deliberate choice on our part, though planting fruit trees never crossed our minds during our years in America, though our garden there had five times the space. But in Israel, planting fruit trees feels like an extension of our identity, a tangible expression of our commitment to the mitzvot and to the land itself. Even moving our once-baby lemon tree within our garden required meticulous attention to the halachot – laws so intricate and interconnected that they highlight the sanctity of the seemingly mundane act. This process was not just about gardening; it was about preserving the life of the tree and the mitzvot involved.

The Jewish people are like a tree. Just as a tree’s stability and strength come from its hidden roots, the deeper and more nourished they are, the stronger the tree becomes, so too our roots. We are nourished by Torah and mitzvot, anchoring us firmly in the soil of our heritage. We grow upward, striving to connect with Hashem, despite the challenges and forces that try to pull us down.

Our history is one of resilience. Like the tree that withstands storms and drought, our nation has endured exile, persecution, massacres, and destruction. And yet, we continue to grow. Even when our branches are broken and fruits are missing, we remain steadfast, loyal to our purpose, and determined to fulfill our mission of continuation and growth.

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From Shavuot, a festival of harvest, to Sukkot, a holiday of gathering of the crops, our festivals revolve around the agricultural calendar. For centuries, Jewish farmers relied on rainfall, looking heavenward for sustenance with complete dependence, placing their trust in God. Today, with technological advances like desalination, it is easy to forget the source of all these blessings. Just like the Iron Dome, all modern technology, and even antibiotics, it is incumbent upon us to look beyond what is right in front of our eyes and to remember that these modern-day miracles are gifts from Hashem.

For trees to thrive, one must tend to them and assure the water, soil and nourishment are in balance. Yet, there’s another significant element. Prayer is the spiritual nourishment for the trees and its fruit producing success. In fact, from the start of the month Nisan we say a special blessing on the blossoming of the trees called Birkat HaIlanot. This is a prayer of praise and thanks to the Creator who makes beautiful trees for human beings to enjoy. 

This all applies to our lives as well. We don’t live in this world as only physical nor only spiritual. While we must tend to the physical needs of our young loved ones, praying for the development and success of our children is the spiritual investment required. 

It is no coincidence that our son Binyamin planted his own vineyard on the eve of Sukkot in Neve Tzuf, right before the war broke out, mere weeks before he was killed fighting in Gaza. While Binyamin loved good wine and reaping benefits of his own hard work, he planted not for the grapes, but the investing and connecting to the land, with an unadulterated love and desire for the land to flourish and produce — in a physical and very spiritual sense.  Binyamin believed in the holiness and sanctity of our Holy Land. 

I often say: We didn’t bury Binyamin. We planted him. Though he is no longer with us physically, his roots continue to deepen and spread, his trunk grows taller, and his sweet fruits keep producing — well beyond the physical capacity he had while in this physical world. 

So, if you want to understand the Jewish people, look to the tree. See its roots, its branches, its fruit — and its unwavering commitment to continue and grow. Like the tree, we are deeply connected to the land, nourished by Torah and our Jewish tenets, growth by prayer, faith and commitment, always reaching upwards toward the heavens- to strengthen and flourish.

This is our story, and it always will be.