Parshas Matos-Maasei 5786
- Torah Tavlin
- Jul 10
- 3 min read
Updated: Jul 16
לא נשוב אל בתינו עד התנחל בני ישראל איש נחלתו ... (לב-יח)
In Parshas Matos, the tribes of Reuven and Gad famously pledge to forego their immediate comfort and settlement, vowing to cross the Yarden river and fight on the front lines alongside their brethren until the entire nation is secure in Eretz Yisroel, a testament to an unbreakable national bond. This spirit carries directly into Parshas Masei, which charts the grueling journeys of Bnei Yisroel through the wilderness, reminding us that the ultimate destination is only reached when we look out for one another through every hardship. This timeless devotion - putting the sanctuary of a brother’s peace ahead of one’s own hard-earned rest is not just ancient history; it lives dynamically in the hills outside Jerusalem today.
A woman by the name of Devorah lives in a quiet, outlying community nestled in the hills just outside Jerusalem. It is most definitely not the safe, bustling middle of the city; out there, she must frequently drive through vulnerable, tense areas surrounded by “others” just to reach her front door. Yet, her home remains a sanctuary of faith. Baruch Hashem, she has been blessed with a house full of tall, grown sons - no daughters - and every single one of them is currently serving in the IDF. They are all married and have built beautiful families of their own, yet they remain a fiercely cohesive, tightly knit unit.
After October 7, with the sudden eruption of the current war, every one of Devorah’s sons was immediately called up for emergency reserve duty. Because they are all deployed in elite combat units, a blanket of operational security has fallen over their existence. They are strictly forbidden from disclosing where they are stationed or what missions they are executing. To prevent tracking by the enemy, they cannot use their cell phones at all. It is a profoundly nerve-wracking reality for a mother, and she can always be found pouring out her heart in tefillah, davening for their safety alongside the rest of Klal Yisroel.
One motzei Shabbos, Devorah called a close friend. Despite the exhaustion in her voice, there was a distinct spark of maternal pride when she asked, “You want to hear a story about my boys?” Naturally, the friend eagerly told her she wanted to hear it. Devorah explained that one of her sons had been stuck on the front lines without a single break for over three consecutive weeks, enduring sleepless nights and the relentless pressure of active combat. The prolonged separation had taken an immense emotional toll on him, his wife, and his young children, who were crying for their father at home.
By a rare twist of military bureaucracy, this son happened to be operating in a larger tactical sector that temporarily overlapped with the area of another one of Devorah’s boys. This was highly unusual, as the brothers serve in completely different units and rarely cross paths in active zones. The second brother, who carries his own deep scars from being severely injured in a terrorist attack when he was just a teenager and knows intimately what it means to suffer and sacrifice, had just been granted a coveted leave to return home. As Devorah initially recounted the tale, this second son looked at the deep exhaustion etched into his brother’s face, recognized the acute ache of a young family separated for nearly a month, and made a radical decision. He quietly approached his commanding officer, bypassed his own burning desire to see his own family, and requested that his hard-earned leave be transferred entirely to his brother instead.
After hearing the story, her friend was left in absolute awe, her eyes tearing up at the sheer magnitude of the gesture. Getting to go home to sleep in a real bed, and hug one’s children is worth more than gold to a soldier living in the dirt under constant threat. To willingly hand that gift over to someone else is extraordinary. She went to sleep that night marveling at the spiritual stamina of these brothers, feeling a profound sense of gratitude that such people exist. But the story didn’t end there.
Mid-morning on Sunday, her phone rang again, shattering the quiet routine of my day. It was Devorah, sounding breathless, emotional, and urgent. “I was wrong, I was wrong!” she told her, eager to correct the record and ensure the truth was known. “Here’s what really happened! I talked to them again, and my other son was not given just a meager 24 hours to go home. He had actually been granted THREE full days and nights of leave. It was seventy-two hours of civilian comfort, hot food, safety, and family warmth that he looked at, bundled up, and gave away so his brother could have it instead!”