Broken Hearts, Whole Souls: A Torah of Love in a Time of War
From the hills of Efrat, with tears, faith, and unshakable hope
Today, we buried three soldiers.
One of the holy souls, lived just up the hill.
His younger brother is in my son’s class.
They pray under the same sky, learn in the same school, are growing up with the same purity of childhood in a land soaked in holiness and sacrifice.
And now…
We sing El Malei Rachamim while a mother presses her lips to a flag.
We say HaMakom yenachem while a father buries his future.
And we try to explain to our children what it means when a friend’s brother dies al Kiddush Hashem — sanctifying the Name, in the holiest possible way.
There are no words.
Only tears.
Only emunah.
Only love so deep it makes your bones ache.
And still, through the heartbreak, I know this truth:
I am not full of hate.
I am full of love.
Burning, aching, thunderous love.
For Am Yisrael.
For this Land.
For Hashem’s promise.
Yes, I’m angry.
How could I not be?
I am angry at the silence of the nations.
Angry at those who call for “restraint” while we bury our children.
Angry at the mockery of justice when murderers are called “martyrs” and soldiers are called “aggressors.”
But I will not let this anger stain my soul.
Because our Torah does not teach us vengeance.
Our Torah teaches us life.
“ובחרת בחיים” – And you shall choose life (Devarim 30:19)
And in this land, in this People, we choose life with holy stubbornness.
Even when it’s hard.
Even when it hurts.
Even when all we want is to scream.
Do you know what it means to be a Jew in Eretz Yisrael right now?
It means standing by a grave and saying, “Baruch Dayan HaEmet” — Blessed is the True Judge — and meaning it.
It means preparing a Shabbat table while your neighbor sits shiva.
It means waking up in a home touched by grief, and still putting on tefillin, still saying Modeh Ani, still believing that Hashem runs the world with infinite wisdom, even when we don’t understand.
It means knowing that even in this pain, Hashem is here.
Right here.
In the tears.
In the silence.
In the embrace between mothers.
In the song of a soldier whispering Shema Yisrael before he walks into battle.
“עולם חסד יבנה” – The world is built on kindness (Tehillim 89:3)
And our world — our nation — is still building.
Still rising.
Still loving.
I am full of emotion.
I feel broken and whole, empty and overflowing, devastated and alive.
I sit at my table and look at my son — the friend of the grieving brother — and I feel this ache in my heart that won’t go away.
And yet I also feel pride.
Holy pride.
Because we are raising children who know what it means to live for something greater.
To give.
To believe.
To stand with Hashem even when the sky is dark.
This is not the story of victimhood.
This is the story of Geulah — of redemption.
We are a generation soaked in Yissurin shel Ahavah — suffering born of love.
And with that pain comes a calling:
To love louder.
To believe deeper.
To never give up on the Jewish dream.
Hashem, we are hurting.
But we are not lost.
We are not broken.
We are rising.
We are marching forward — not with rage, but with ratzon.
With desire. With mission. With heart.
With Torah in our mouths and soldiers at our gates, and faith beating like a drum in our chest.
We are not afraid.
Because this land is not built only by tanks and tractors.
It is built by tehillim at 2 a.m.
By mothers who light Shabbat candles with shaking hands but steady hearts.
By fathers who whisper Tehillim while they drive their sons to war.
By communities who sing Vehi She’amda with tears in their eyes, knowing that we have stood before Amalek in every generation—and we are still standing.
To the family up the hill —
Your son is now woven into the soul of this nation.
He did not die in vain.
He rose up into the arms of Heaven, leaving behind a legacy of courage, of holiness, of achdut.
And we — your neighbors, your brothers and sisters — will not forget.
We will carry his name.
We will honor his sacrifice by living lives of kedusha, of strength, of Ahavat Yisrael.
Let the world watch.
Let them count our dead with cold numbers and blind hearts.
We count with love.
With names.
With Kaddish.
With a promise.
We will not stop until there is peace in Zion.
Not a false peace, born of surrender.
But a true peace, forged in righteousness.
A peace where children play safely, soldiers come home, and the gates of Jerusalem echo with song.
“עוד ישמע בערי יהודה ובחוצות ירושלים, קול ששון וקול שמחה, קול חתן וקול כלה.”
Once again will be heard in the cities of Judah and the streets of Jerusalem, the voice of joy and gladness, the voice of the groom and the bride. – (Yirmiyahu 33:11)
So yes.
I am full of sorrow.
But I am also overflowing with hope.
With faith.
With Ahavat Hashem and Ahavat Yisrael.
Because our enemies do not fear our weapons.
They fear our light.
And that light will never go out.
Am Yisrael Chai.
Because Hashem is with us.
And our story — even when written in tears — is a story of forever.