Putting on tefillin came toward the end of my high school years, and therefore it was hard for me to see my own beloved son stop putting them on. I remember the last time he put on his tefillin. It was Purim and I had already heard the megillah, but he wanted to hear it as well. I was surprised to see him putting on his tefillin as he had not put them on for a long time. Thank God, I said to myself; maybe all is not lost. What I couldn’t know was that he would not put on his tefillin again for another eight years.
Eventually Zviki severed any connection to formal religion, and Shabbat and chagim were very difficult. I believe Shabbat is sacred, but when you lose the connection and emotional attachment, there is nothing to hold on to. What was crucial to us as parents was that Zviki remain close to the family and be present at meals as much as possible.
We shed many tears and had endless discussions as to what had gone wrong. What did we do or fail to do that caused our son to distance himself from what we viewed as so beautiful and meaningful? Slowly I began to realize the root of the problem was not what we failed to do but rather that our religion demands a personal investment. While tradition is important (as Tevye sings in “Fiddler on the Roof”), each individual must search for meaning.
At the beginning of every tefillah we turn to the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. Why do we not turn directly to God alone? The answer might be that our forefathers each discovered God in his own way, and each had personal struggles with brothers, sons, and raising families. If prayer can be personalized, it becomes meaningful. Furthermore, tefillah can and should be a beautiful experience, even if difficult. Three times a day we repeat the exact same words. Often our tefillot are said with such speed and alacrity that most can’t even keep up. So what can we expect from our children?
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Following high school, Zviki was drafted into the army for three years. Our other two sons had been in the Hesder program, combining yeshiva study with a year and a half of army service. At every army ceremony we attended during those three years, we heard more and more about Zviki and how wonderful he was. We already knew that, but somehow he had “found himself” in the army. It was an opportunity not only to serve his country but to lead others as well.
In America you move from high school to college, and quite often to higher degrees. Here in Israel, our children grow up very quickly and experience much more than we did at their age. At one ceremony we met Zviki’s commanding officer, Ziv Shilon, who spoke about how wonderful our son was and how proud we should be. (Only a few months later Ziv, who had been in the army for six years, was checking a security fence near Gaza when a bomb exploded, seriously injuring his hands. Ziv became well- known through the media as the whole country followed his recovery and his amazing dedication to the army and Israel.)
When the three years ended, Zviki made plans with friends to embark on a post-army trip to Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia, and, finally India. Our main concern was that Zviki stay in touch, but despite our protests he informed us he was not taking a cell phone with him. In fact, throughout his travels he made contact with us at least once a week, showing us he still loved us but that we needed to trust him. After all, he was older, had gone through the army, and had even served as a commander. Despite being our youngest child, he was mature, intelligent, and seeking independence.
