June 26, 2026 Categories: In Print / Headline / Parsha
Lech Lecha: The Walk They Remember
Two years ago, my stepson marked his bar mitzvah with quiet dignity. No spectacle, just a low-key gathering, a gentle step into the covenant, and a parsha that felt like both whisper and summons: Lech Lecha. Go forth. Go inward. Go toward yourself.
We don't always know just how closely our children are watching.
During the celebration, the adults were upstairs, the kids downstairs. One of his aunts came up and told my husband and me, “You won’t believe what they’re playing. Your stepson is interviewing his cousins and friends for jobs.” He’d been watching me, his Human Resources stepparent, conduct interviews, hold space, ask questions. And now he was reenacting it, not as parody, but as practice.
I hope he saw more than the interviews I conducted. I hope he saw the compassion I strive to bring to each conversation, the empathy I thread into every decision, the leadership that listens before it speaks. Because Lech Lecha isn’t just about going forth. It’s about how we walk and who’s watching.
Avraham doesn’t rush. He walks. He waits. He negotiates with Lot, pivots during famine, questions Hashem’s promises with ritual wit. Lech Lecha isn’t a sprint. It’s a staggered walk into ambiguity. And leadership, in this parsha, is not about arrival. It’s about pacing, presence, and being quietly remembered. Avraham’s walk becomes a template for a people learning to lead through exile, not empire.
Yeshayahu picks up the thread in the haftarah, saying: “Why do you say… ‘My way is hidden from the L-rd’?” (Yeshayahu 40:27). That doesn’t offer clarity – it offers endurance. “Those who hope in the L-rd shall renew their strength” (Yesh. 40:31).
My stepson didn’t mimic a ritual. He mirrored a rhythm. And in that watching, he echoed something sacred: leadership as lived cadence, not performed instruction.
In a Place Where There is No One…
Avraham doesn’t lead with titles. He doesn’t build a throne or declare a movement. He walks. He negotiates. He listens. When conflict arises between his shepherds and Lot’s, he doesn’t assert dominance; he offers choice. “Let there be no strife between us… if you go left, I’ll go right” (Bereishis 13:8-9). That’s not a weakness. That’s strategic restraint. The Midrash (Bereishis Rabbah 41:2) reads this moment as a test of Avraham’s character – not whether he could win, but whether he could yield. Leadership here is not about control. It’s about clarity. About knowing when to step back so others can step forward. Similarly, Pirkei Avos doesn’t hand us a job description for leadership. It hands us a mirror. “In a place where there are no men, strive to be a man” (Avos 2:6). Not a hero. Not a savior. Just someone who shows up with integrity when others won’t. Avraham does this again and again. Not with spectacle, but with presence. The Talmud (Berachos 17a) offers a blessing: “May it be Hashem’s will that the fear of Heaven be upon you as the fear of humans.” The Sages explain that people act with care when they know they’re being watched. But what about when they’re not? Avraham leads even when no one’s looking. And my stepson, watching quietly from the sidelines, saw that. He saw the interviews, yes, but also the listening. The pacing. The refusal to flatten people into roles. Rav Soloveitchik, zt”l, taught that Avraham’s greatness wasn’t in his faith alone. It was in his loneliness. In his willingness to walk without applause. To lead without echo. That’s the kind of leadership that doesn’t need to be declared. It just needs to be lived.They Shall Walk and Not Grow Faint
Yeshayahu doesn’t offer answers. He offers stamina. The people are weary. Exiled. Uncertain. And the prophet doesn’t hand them a map. Instead, he hands them a promise: “Do not fear, for I am with you. Do not be dismayed, for I am your G-d. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with My righteous hand” (Yeshayahu 41:10). This isn’t clarity. It’s covenant. A call to endure, not because the path is easy, but because the presence is eternal. This is the echo of Avraham’s journey. A walk into ambiguity. A leadership model that doesn’t promise resolution, only relationship. The haftarah names him directly: “You are the descendants of Avraham, who loved Me” (Yeshayahu 41:8). Not Avraham the warrior. Not Avraham the builder. Avraham the one who walked, who waited, who loved. Martin Buber wrote, “All real living is meeting.” Leadership, then, is not about commanding. It’s about encountering. Yeshayahu’s words are not declarations. They’re invitations. To meet Hashem in the ache. To meet others in the walk. Lord Rabbi Jonathan Sacks, zt”l, taught that “Faith is not certainty. It is the courage to live with uncertainty.” Yeshayahu’s haftarah is a masterclass in that courage. It doesn’t flatten the exile. It dignifies it. It tells a weary people: Your walk is still sacred. And Brené Brown, in her work on vulnerability, reminds us that “Vulnerability is the birthplace of courage.” Avraham’s walk, Yeshayahu’s consolation, our children’s quiet watching – all of it is vulnerable. None of it is declared. And that’s where the courage lives. Leadership, in this haftarah, isn’t about knowing. It’s about enduring. It’s about walking when the map disappears, and being seen. Not for what you declare, but for how you move through the ache.The Cadence of Care
Downstairs, the kids weren’t just playing, they were reenacting. For most people, Human Resources (HR) shows up at the edges: when they’re being hired, sorting out benefits, or navigating a crisis. But there’s so much more to the work. HR is where pacing meets presence. It’s not just policy, it’s ritual care. Strategic witnessing. The kind of leadership that listens before it speaks. Avraham does this. He doesn’t flatten people into roles. He doesn’t reduce Lot to a rival or Hagar to a footnote. He sees complexity and walks with it. When Hashem promises descendants, Avraham doesn’t nod and smile. Instead, he asks, “How shall I know?” (Bereishis 15:8). That’s not doubt. That’s ritual wit. That’s leadership that dignifies the covenant by refusing to perform certainty. In HR, I’ve learned that leadership isn’t about having the answers. It’s about creating space where others can ask. It’s about refusing to rush resolution. About pacing decisions with empathy, not urgency. And about knowing that someone, maybe a child, is watching – not for the outcome, but for the walk. The Talmud (Ta’anis 11a) teaches: “When the community is in distress, a person must not say, ‘I will go to my house and eat and drink…’” Leadership means showing up in the ache. Not fixing it. Not fleeing it. Just being there. My stepson saw the cadence of care, the refusal to flatten, the leadership that listens before it speaks. And in his reenactment, he reminded me: The walk matters. Even when we don’t know we’re being watched.The Walk That’s Remembered
Avraham didn’t lead with certainty. He led with movement. Yeshayahu didn’t promise clarity. He promised renewal. And my stepson didn’t ask for instruction. He watched. There’s no ceremony for this kind of leadership. No title. No script. Just the quiet rhythm of someone showing up with care, asking the right questions, refusing to flatten what’s complex. Leadership isn’t declared in words. It’s walked. When I earned my Girl Scout Gold Award, I asked for “On My Honor” to be sung. It’s a song I’ve held close since I was a Brownie. I catch myself singing it when I need to remember who I am and how I lead. These are the lyrics that still guide me: “On my honor, I will try. There’s a duty to be done and I say aye. There’s a reason here and a reason above. My honor is to try and my duty is to love. People don’t need to know my name. If I’ve done any harm, then I’m to blame. If I’ve helped another, then I’ve helped me. If I’ve opened up my eyes to see.” This is what Avraham models. What Yeshayahu affirms. What parents have done for generations – quietly, steadily, without spectacle. It’s what my parents modeled for me, what I hope I model each day, and what I pray future generations will carry forward. Leadership that seeks no credit, only covenant. That moves through ambiguity with empathy. That opens its eyes to see. We don’t always know what echoes. What gets reenacted. What becomes sacred in the watching. But we walk anyway. Not for recognition. Not for legacy. Just to be present when presence is needed. Not every leader is named. Not every moment is marked. But the ones who pace with care, who thread love into duty, who move without spectacle, they’re the ones who get remembered. Not for what they declared. But for how they walked. May we walk like that. May we merit to be remembered for our walk.
