Pride, Priveleged and Petrified
Proud, Privileged and Petrified
In just two short weeks, my son begins his service with the Tzanchanim, and I’m caught in a whirlwind of emotions. Pride surges through me, knowing he’s taking a stand for our homeland and our people. Yet, a deep-seated fear about the dangers he’ll face lingers in the pit of my stomach.
When the war erupted on October 7th, I was initially washed over with selfish relief that my son was safe in Yeshiva. It was a difficult realization, understanding I had wished for another’s child to shoulder the weight of our safety. This jarring insight propelled me to consider, “What can I do to contribute?”
Mid-October turned into a frenzy of action as we rallied to support our chayalim—collecting essentials, aiding army families, and providing therapy for those impacted by the Nova festival. The thought of being a soldier’s parent haunted me. How does it feel to know your child is courageously facing such formidable challenges? Despite my fears, I was compelled to navigate these emotions by facilitating support groups for parents of frontline soldiers.
In quieter moments, my thoughts drift to my son’s childhood—the terror he felt at a small merry-go-round, the tantrum over not getting every toy animal, and strangers attempting to soothe him with candy. It’s astonishing to reflect on how that fearful boy has grown into a selfless young man, determined to confront evil and protect us all.
Our recent discussions have ventured into difficult territories, contemplating worst-case scenarios. He’s shared with me his willingness to sacrifice for Am Yisrael, even if it means facing the gravest outcomes. His faith in the future of Israeli technology, to overcome potential injuries, is unwavering. These were conversations I never anticipated having.
Leading these support groups has been an immensely rewarding experience. Initially reticent, we’ve gradually opened up, sharing our deepest fears and finding comfort in our collective resilience. It’s been a profound honor to share in this journey.
Through these groups, I’ve gained invaluable insights into the lives of soldiers and their parents, preparing me for the realities of wartime. The sense of community and the tools to manage our emotions have been a tremendous support.
As we continue to navigate these challenging times together, I’m heartened by the strength and solidarity of parents like me. I am deeply thankful to Kav L’Noar for their instrumental role in establishing these support groups nationwide.
For those interested in joining a support group, please contact [email protected].
The Artichoke
The other week, while sorting through the artichokes at Mishmor Ayalon farm, I started thinking about how peeling an artichoke is a bit therapeutic.
You start with the outer leaves, which are pretty hard and not really edible. With each leaf, you get a little closer to the heart, and the leaves get softer, more tender.
It is kind of how, with people, getting past the surface level stuff takes time and effort. You go through the motions, the small talk, until you start hitting the good stuff—those soft, inner leaves where things get more interesting.
Getting to the heart, though, that’s where the real challenge is. You have to carefully remove the choke, this fuzzy part that’s not pleasant to eat. It’s a delicate operation, almost like navigating through someone’s fears or insecurities. And then, there it is—the heart. It’s tender, delicious, and worth all the effort, a moment that softly declares, “This is what it’s all been for.”
All the peeling, the effort to get to the core of something, it’s a lot like building connections with people. It’s messy, it takes work, but the heart of it all? Totally worth it. Never thought I’d learn so much from an artichoke, but there you go.