I try to write at the end of each day. It helps me organize my thoughts. Today, I chose to share a three moments that deeply moved me.

In recent weeks, I’ve had the privilege of joining missions alongside regular army soldier. I wish I could capture the sweetness of these guys. Nineteen, maybe twenty years old, with an infectious joy for life. This past Saturday night, I was waiting at the border with a platoon from a sergeants’ course. I don’t know why we call people “the salt of the earth.” These guys should be called “the honey of the earth.” Right before heading into combat, they broke into Havdalah songs—dancing, singing, full of life. Religious yeshiva students alongside completely secular guys. The platoon commander had a baby face, from Ma’ale Adumim. His sergeant, a Jerusalemite, was wearing a large knitted kippah. “Are you religious too?” I asked him. “Me?! Not at all,” he said with a smile. “The big kippah just helps keep my head warm.”

Josh was my participant 13 years ago, in a program for Australians who came to Israel for a gap year before college. During that year, I grew very close to him and his family. He spent Shabbat with us, and I later stayed with his family in Melbourne. After the program, Josh chose to stay in Israel. He enlisted in an elite unit and later went on to officers’ training. Just before one of the entries into Lebanon this week, I suddenly saw him, now a reserve company commander, leading his soldiers into another mission beyond the border. There’s something so beautiful about these people. Josh, handsome, married to Abby and a father of three, chose to leave behind the Australian dream, and is now leading a company in an assault on Hezbollah positions in Lebanon.

We needed to escort a special team for a short mission and return. The rain didn’t stop for a moment, and the area we were heading into was under constant fire. The team arrived in a Hummer. And who steps out? A petite beautiful young woman with a braid. “You’re the one we’re taking in?” I asked. “Yes,” she said, smiling, dimples lighting up her face. After the briefing, I asked where she was from. “Misgav,” she said. “No way—me too.” Turns out we live in neighboring communities, and her mother is a teacher at my daughters’ elementary school. A gentle young woman, surrounded by men, on her way into Lebanon. How much strength can there be in such softness? If you’re looking for hope, it’s out there. Mud on its boots, and a smile that refuses to fade.

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)