For 13 days, I wrote to you from Israel, each day offering a glimpse into the layered emotions and complicated realities unfolding there. We traveled from Jerusalem to the north, from mourning tents to military briefings, from youth villages to bomb shelters. Each day was full of stories, struggles, memories, and purpose.
And now I am back.
And I need to take a breath.
There’s something that happens when we are so immersed in emotion and urgency, when every conversation is weighty, every face carries a story, and the air feels heavy with past and present pain. The heart can only stretch so far before it needs to return to its center. For me, that center is Torah.
Last week, we read Parashat Eikev. Its opening words are:
“And it shall come to pass, eikev tishme’un…”
(“Because you will listen…” – Deut. 7:12)
The word eikev, literally “heel,” invites us to think about the small mitzvot we might trample underfoot, the quiet acts of kindness, humility, and care that no one applauds but that hold the world together.
That’s what I saw in Israel. Not only the large gestures or the national narratives, but the nearly invisible acts of courage: volunteers cooking meals for displaced families, teenagers pausing their own dreams to help others, parents, having buried a child, telling the living to live fully and with purpose. These are the mitzvot of the heel.
Eikev also warns of the fragility of blessing, how, in comfort, we can forget the struggles we have endured. And pain still lingers in Israel. The tragedy of October 7 casts a long shadow. Gaza’s devastation and complexity weigh heavily. I met Israelis whose lives will never return to “before.” But I also left with the awareness that no story is simple, that grief and resilience live side by side. In moments like these, I turn to Torah not for easy answers but for grounding.
And this week, Torah gives us Parashat Re’eh:
“See, I set before you today blessing and curse.” (Deut. 11:26)
If Eikev calls us to listen, Re’eh calls us to see. Seeing is not passive; it means facing reality as it is, with its pain, its complexity, and its humanity, and still choosing a way forward.
In Israel, I saw soldiers gathered at the Nova site to honor a fallen member of their brigade. I saw adults still serving in miluim, reserves, month after month, leaving behind jobs and families to protect their communities. I saw people standing in the streets week after week, protesting for the future they believe in.
These moments were not easy to witness. They were raw, layered, and at times heartbreaking. But they were also filled with clarity, people refusing to look away from what matters most. Re’eh reminds us that blessing is not something that happens to us; it is something we choose, especially when it is hard.
So, this week, I am holding Eikev and Re’eh together: the listening and the seeing, the small mitzvot that sustains us and the courageous choices that shape us, the ache of grief and the defiance of hope.
Because when the air is too heavy and the headlines too loud, we need something deeper to breathe in. We need the ancient rhythm of our texts. We need the long view, the reminder that our story did not begin with the Nova Festival or with October 7 or even with the founding of the state. Our story began before we could walk. And it will continue, if we keep listening.
And listening is the heart of Eikev.
Seeing is the heart of Re’eh.
Together, they call us to engage with our whole being, to the stories of others, to the voices of our ancestors, to the wisdom that calls us back to purpose.
Our story is long. And yes, it is complicated. But it is ours. And we are not alone in it.
So, take a breath with me this Shabbat. Step back. Let Torah remind us that while the world may be unstable, our foundation is ancient, rooted, and deep. That we are part of a people who knows how to walk through wilderness. And that blessing, real blessing, begins when we listen, and when we see.
Rabbi Jodie
