Parshas Va’eschanan: Left Behind, Still Loved
My whole family remembers that summer trip many years ago to cousin Bentzion’s Bar Mitzvah in Toledo as fun.
Family. Road trip. Laughter. Good times.
I remember all that. But I also remember another part.
I remember sitting at the dining room table one morning, head down, arms crossed. I didn’t want to Daven.
I don’t remember why. Maybe I was tired. Maybe I was hungry. Maybe I just didn’t want to perform that day.
But I didn’t Daven.
And so my father told me I couldn’t go.
The whole family went to the Toledo Zoo.
That day, I didn’t get to go along. I stayed home. With him.
No animals. No cousins.
Just me, my father, and the silence between us.
⸻
Looking back, it’s not the punishment that stayed with me. I’d been to zoos before that, I’ve been to zoos since then.
It’s the shape of the moment. The ache of being left behind.
And how one story can hold so many truths.
Everyone else remembers the fun.
I remember not being allowed to go.
And I think of “little” Moshe Rabeinu this week.
Standing at the edge of the Land.
Asking Hashem, begging really, “Please, can I come too?”
And Hashem says: stop kvetching. Enough already.
⸻
I think about what he does next.
Even after the no, even after God tells him he can’t go on the trip, Moshe keeps speaking.
He keeps teaching.
He keeps giving.
And when he gets to the Ten Commandments two chapters later, you know what’s still in there?
כבד את אביך ואת אמך
Honor your father and your mother.
Still.
After all that.
Who would have noticed if he left out just one line?
⸻
Moshe, who sings in Ha'Azinu, “Is He not your Father who made you?”
Moshe, who was refused entry.
Moshe, who became a child again in that moment of asking, still turns to us and says,
Honor your parents.
Even when they say no.
Even when it hurts.
Even if they remember it differently, or not at all.
⸻
We all carry different pieces of the same trips.
Some remember the laughter.
Some remember the ache.
Some never made it to the zoo.
Some never made it into the Land.
But the Torah we were given, the one Moshe still passed on, still says,
Honor. Love. Listen.
Even when it’s hard.
Even when it’s unfinished.
Even when the answer is no.
⸻
And we should all remember, especially for those of us in the thick of it as younger parents, when it comes to loving and disciplining our kids:
Don’t get stuck in the facts of the story or in your own ego.
Being the parent doesn’t always mean you know what’s best or right.
You might be responding based on what you’ve seen or experienced.
But your child is living through something real now.
Try to connect to the need underneath.
Maybe something in them isn’t being met.
Maybe it’s bringing up something in you that wasn’t either.
And there’s no shame in learning how to do that better.
Moshe didn’t get what he wanted, but he didn’t shut down.
He kept growing. He kept giving.
That’s what therapy can be.
That’s what a good class or workshop can be.
Another way to keep showing up.
Not because you’re broken.
But because you’re still growing.
Because you want to model presence, not just preach it.
And that might be the holiest thing your kids remember.
Use the Torah Moshe still passed down at the end of the Parsha, even through heartbreak, as a way back.
Shema.
Hear. Really listen.
Not just to their words, but to their experience.
To the way they carry the story.
That’s where love begins.
VeAhavta.
You shall love.
Not by being perfect. Not by always getting it right.
But by showing up now.
By making space.
By being willing to go first.
Talk to the need, not the outburst.
Speak heart to heart.
Because that’s the Torah we were given.
Not just stone tablets.
But love that outlasts the no.
⸻
And if you’re an older parent, whether your kids are grown or still growing, and you’re holding on to old stories, it’s not too late to reach out.
To ask.
To listen.
To forgive.
Or even say, “I’m sorry.”
Don’t assume, “It was so long ago, it couldn’t have mattered.”
It mattered then.
It still does now.
There are always lots of stories.
And lots of things that matter.
Even the ones you forgot.
Especially the ones they didn’t.
And maybe now’s the time to get curious about your own story.
Not for them. For you.
Therapy isn’t just for crisis.
It’s for anyone ready to revisit their own story with new eyes.
Because healing doesn’t expire.
And understanding your own story more deeply might help you finally feel seen in it.
You might still be getting the Kavod because it’s a Mitzvah.
But it will feel better if you know you earned it.
If you know you modeled it.
And who knows… maybe all of that had to happen, just so I could understand this week’s Parsha a little more deeply.
⸻
Here’s to imperfect parents,
unfinished stories,
and the kind of listening that heals.
You’re not too late. You’re not too far.
The Shabbos Queen always welcomes you home.
Good Shabbos,
🩵 Berke
P.S. Happy early birthday to my cousin Bentzion Shemtov (next week). Your Bar Mitzvah weekend became part of my own Torah this week.
Wishing you a year filled with joy, health, and the kind of moments that get remembered with a smile decades later.
And if your house ever feels like a zoo, you don't need to follow "The Rabbi's Advice" and fill it with animals, just take the kids out and go look at some.
Family. Road trip. Laughter. Good times.
I remember all that. But I also remember another part.
I remember sitting at the dining room table one morning, head down, arms crossed. I didn’t want to Daven.
I don’t remember why. Maybe I was tired. Maybe I was hungry. Maybe I just didn’t want to perform that day.
But I didn’t Daven.
And so my father told me I couldn’t go.
The whole family went to the Toledo Zoo.
That day, I didn’t get to go along. I stayed home. With him.
No animals. No cousins.
Just me, my father, and the silence between us.
⸻
Looking back, it’s not the punishment that stayed with me. I’d been to zoos before that, I’ve been to zoos since then.
It’s the shape of the moment. The ache of being left behind.
And how one story can hold so many truths.
Everyone else remembers the fun.
I remember not being allowed to go.
And I think of “little” Moshe Rabeinu this week.
Standing at the edge of the Land.
Asking Hashem, begging really, “Please, can I come too?”
And Hashem says: stop kvetching. Enough already.
⸻
I think about what he does next.
Even after the no, even after God tells him he can’t go on the trip, Moshe keeps speaking.
He keeps teaching.
He keeps giving.
And when he gets to the Ten Commandments two chapters later, you know what’s still in there?
כבד את אביך ואת אמך
Honor your father and your mother.
Still.
After all that.
Who would have noticed if he left out just one line?
⸻
Moshe, who sings in Ha'Azinu, “Is He not your Father who made you?”
Moshe, who was refused entry.
Moshe, who became a child again in that moment of asking, still turns to us and says,
Honor your parents.
Even when they say no.
Even when it hurts.
Even if they remember it differently, or not at all.
⸻
We all carry different pieces of the same trips.
Some remember the laughter.
Some remember the ache.
Some never made it to the zoo.
Some never made it into the Land.
But the Torah we were given, the one Moshe still passed on, still says,
Honor. Love. Listen.
Even when it’s hard.
Even when it’s unfinished.
Even when the answer is no.
⸻
And we should all remember, especially for those of us in the thick of it as younger parents, when it comes to loving and disciplining our kids:
Don’t get stuck in the facts of the story or in your own ego.
Being the parent doesn’t always mean you know what’s best or right.
You might be responding based on what you’ve seen or experienced.
But your child is living through something real now.
Try to connect to the need underneath.
Maybe something in them isn’t being met.
Maybe it’s bringing up something in you that wasn’t either.
And there’s no shame in learning how to do that better.
Moshe didn’t get what he wanted, but he didn’t shut down.
He kept growing. He kept giving.
That’s what therapy can be.
That’s what a good class or workshop can be.
Another way to keep showing up.
Not because you’re broken.
But because you’re still growing.
Because you want to model presence, not just preach it.
And that might be the holiest thing your kids remember.
Use the Torah Moshe still passed down at the end of the Parsha, even through heartbreak, as a way back.
Shema.
Hear. Really listen.
Not just to their words, but to their experience.
To the way they carry the story.
That’s where love begins.
VeAhavta.
You shall love.
Not by being perfect. Not by always getting it right.
But by showing up now.
By making space.
By being willing to go first.
Talk to the need, not the outburst.
Speak heart to heart.
Because that’s the Torah we were given.
Not just stone tablets.
But love that outlasts the no.
⸻
And if you’re an older parent, whether your kids are grown or still growing, and you’re holding on to old stories, it’s not too late to reach out.
To ask.
To listen.
To forgive.
Or even say, “I’m sorry.”
Don’t assume, “It was so long ago, it couldn’t have mattered.”
It mattered then.
It still does now.
There are always lots of stories.
And lots of things that matter.
Even the ones you forgot.
Especially the ones they didn’t.
And maybe now’s the time to get curious about your own story.
Not for them. For you.
Therapy isn’t just for crisis.
It’s for anyone ready to revisit their own story with new eyes.
Because healing doesn’t expire.
And understanding your own story more deeply might help you finally feel seen in it.
You might still be getting the Kavod because it’s a Mitzvah.
But it will feel better if you know you earned it.
If you know you modeled it.
And who knows… maybe all of that had to happen, just so I could understand this week’s Parsha a little more deeply.
⸻
Here’s to imperfect parents,
unfinished stories,
and the kind of listening that heals.
You’re not too late. You’re not too far.
The Shabbos Queen always welcomes you home.
Good Shabbos,
🩵 Berke
P.S. Happy early birthday to my cousin Bentzion Shemtov (next week). Your Bar Mitzvah weekend became part of my own Torah this week.
Wishing you a year filled with joy, health, and the kind of moments that get remembered with a smile decades later.
And if your house ever feels like a zoo, you don't need to follow "The Rabbi's Advice" and fill it with animals, just take the kids out and go look at some.
Lechaim!