In the aftermath of the recent kidnapping of the three boys in Eretz Yisrael, I went to speak to their grief-stricken mothers. Sitting on edge, waiting for any bit of news, I sat and cried with them until our tears were spent. When I asked Rachel Fraenkel, the mother of Naftali, if she had a message I could convey to her sisters, she said, “Tell them that I now understand that a mother’s essential role is to wait for her child.” All our lives we wait for our children— first for the child to be born, then for him to grow and develop, to learn to read and write, to forge friendships and to mature. When the time is ripe, we wait for our son to find his shidduch, for our daughter to become pregnant, then for her child to be born. It’s a waiting game we mothers play. Unfortunately, many Jewish children have been “kidnapped”—not in the literal sense, but by the yetzer hara, by the negative influences of the street, by a lack of emunah. Even then, it is our lot in life to sit and wait and pray for their return. The question is, what type of reception will they receive? Will we greet them by asking, “Why are you wearing those clothes? What kind of a haircut is that?” Or will we simply embrace them, as these three mothers yearn to be able to do?The brachah bestowed upon us in Parshat Balak is “Mah tovu ohalecha Yaakov, how goodly are the tents of the Jewish people.” When a child returns to his mother’s tent, he must be made to feel welcome and loved. He needs to hear her say, “You are good just as you are.” The outside world may be tempestuous and stormy, but inside the cocoon of his home a child must feel secure. And even when he leaves the nest, he should still be able to hear his mother’s whispering of “Mah tovu, how good you are, my child,” reverberating in his ears. During this difficult time in our history, everyone is amazed at the unity of the Jewish people.
Would that we should remember this feeling always, even when it is not brought about by something unfortunate. Why wait for tragedy to strike, G-d forbid? From the brachot of Bilam we also learn a wonderful secret for a happy home. When Bilam said, “Hen am kelavi yakum, the Jewish people are a nation that rises up like a lion,” his intention was to curse us and cause us to wake up late, just like the lion, a nocturnal animal that spends most of the day sleeping. Bilam understood the secret: A happy home is one where the parents and children wake up early. Who saved us from his evil intention? Our Patriarch Avraham Avinu, who awoke even earlier than Bilam did, as the Torah states, “Vayashkeim Avraham baboker.” Hashem said to him, “Rasha! (evil one). Someone who woke up even earlier than you will save them.” The Peleh Yoeitz writes that waking up late affects a person’s entire day negatively. The later you get up, he explains, the more lethargic you will feel. Let’s understand why this is so. On the words in Tehillim (7:12) “VeKeil zo’eim bechol yom,” the Gemara in Brachot explains that Hashem is angry at His world for a fraction of a second every day. Bilam had the power to discern when that second was, and he planned on cursing the Jewish people exactly at that time. This short bout of anger, says the Gemara, occurs sometime during the first three hours after dawn. When we wake up early, before this moment of wrath, and say Modeh Ani, this positive act has the power to prevent negative kochot. The second assignment for Jewish women is not only to wake up early, but to awaken with love.
Rabbeinu Yonah advises us to “tear out the hatred from your heart every morning.” How do we accomplish this arduous task? Our Sages tell us that “ahavah mekalkelet et hashurah.” The phenomenon of love is so powerful that it has the capacity to transcend the boundaries and limitations of our behavior. When we wake up in the morning and expect everything to go our way, according to the shurah—the line we draw for ourselves—the reality will always surprise us. Even Bilam’s donkey was smart enough to halt on its usual path when it recognized that something unusual was occurring. Love is all about being flexible. Step out of the line, and you will learn to love. From the time we’re in first grade, we’re taught to write only within the lines. The only exception to the rule is the letter lamed, which represents limud, learning. The Ben Ish Chai gives us a beautiful reason. The lamed is composed of three lines. The top line represents the ability to cope with those who are “above” you, like your parents and teachers. The horizontal line symbolizes those who live “beside” you, such as a spouse, sibling or business partner.
The bottom line refers to those who are under your care, such as your children and students. For all of these relationships, going out of the lines is necessary in order to cultivate a loving relationship. When we love, there is no line. Ahavah mekalelet et hashurah—it simply destroys the line. In the story of Kamtza and Bar Kamtza, no one was willing to be flexible. Your servant didn’t invite the right person to your party—so what? You weren’t invited to the big bash? Big deal! Step out of the line! That’s the type of genuine love we need to exhibit in order for the walls of Yerushalayim to be rebuilt so we won’t have to fast even one more Tishah B’Av. If your child has stepped out of the line, if, Rachmana litzlan, he was kidnapped by the yetzer hara, step out of the line as well. Remember that genuine love, true peace and shalom bayit come about when you love the person. Be flexible in your expectations. That’s how you, as an individual, can rebuild the walls of Yerushalayim.