After each Yom Tov, I hand out a reflection sheet to my sixth-grade class at Yeshiva K’tana of Waterbury. It’s a simple exercise, a way for the boys to stop, think, and capture something real from their Yom Tov before it slips away.
The questions are light. “What inspired you?” “What was your favorite moment?”
After Sukkos this year, I gave out the usual list and collected the papers a few minutes later.
The answers were exactly what you’d expect from eleven-year-old boys.
“Playing with my cousins.”
“Eating in the sukkah.”
“Going to Six Flags.”
And then I saw it.
Under “What was your favorite memory from Sukkos?” one boy, Yehuda, had written:
“Seeing the hostages come home.”
I stopped reading.
I must have looked at that line five times.
I called Yehuda over during recess.
“Yehuda,” I said gently, “you really mean that?”
He looked at me and said with quiet conviction.
“Yes.”
I hesitated, then asked, “Is this something you talk about a lot at home?”
He paused. Then turned to me and said words that sent a chill straight through me:
“My mother hasn’t worn one of her rings in two years.”
I froze.
Later that day, I called his mother.
She confirmed every word.
She told me that ever since the hostages were taken, one of her rings has remained in the drawer, a small, silent reminder that part of our nation is missing. A reminder to feel the pain of another.
On their refrigerator, there’s a handwritten sign that reads:
“What did you do today to bring them home?”
And beneath it, a careful count of the days since the hostages were taken.
There’s also a picture of one particular hostage, someone their family feels connected to, someone they’ve been davening for by name.
When the videos began to circulate of the hostages being freed, Yehuda’s mother gathered her children and said softly,
“Watch. These are your tefillos.”
Not words, not speeches.
It’s a home that breathes tefillah.
It’s a mother who turns pain into prayer.
It’s a child whose favorite Yom Tov memory is seeing another Yid return home.
Because in the end, the most powerful lessons aren’t taught.
They’re caught.
After each Yom Tov, I hand out a reflection sheet to my sixth-grade class at Yeshiva K’tana of Waterbury. It’s a simple exercise, a way for the boys to stop, think, and capture something real from their Yom Tov before it slips away.
The questions are light. “What inspired you?” “What was your favorite moment?”
After Sukkos this year, I gave out the usual list and collected the papers a few minutes later.
The answers were exactly what you’d expect from eleven-year-old boys.
“Playing with my cousins.”
“Eating in the sukkah.”
“Going to Six Flags.”
And then I saw it.
Under “What was your favorite memory from Sukkos?” one boy, Yehuda, had written:
“Seeing the hostages come home.”
I stopped reading.
I must have looked at that line five times.
I called Yehuda over during recess.
“Yehuda,” I said gently, “you really mean that?”
He looked at me and said with quiet conviction.
“Yes.”
I hesitated, then asked, “Is this something you talk about a lot at home?”
He paused. Then turned to me and said words that sent a chill straight through me:
“My mother hasn’t worn one of her rings in two years.”
I froze.
Later that day, I called his mother.
She confirmed every word.
She told me that ever since the hostages were taken, one of her rings has remained in the drawer, a small, silent reminder that part of our nation is missing. A reminder to feel the pain of another.
On their refrigerator, there’s a handwritten sign that reads:
“What did you do today to bring them home?”
And beneath it, a careful count of the days since the hostages were taken.
There’s also a picture of one particular hostage, someone their family feels connected to, someone they’ve been davening for by name.
When the videos began to circulate of the hostages being freed, Yehuda’s mother gathered her children and said softly,
“Watch. These are your tefillos.”
Not words, not speeches.
It’s a home that breathes tefillah.
It’s a mother who turns pain into prayer.
It’s a child whose favorite Yom Tov memory is seeing another Yid return home.
Because in the end, the most powerful lessons aren’t taught.
They’re caught.
