“Do you think Hezbollah has a parents’ visiting day?”

My husband’s response to the invitation was only half a joke.

A month ago, we sent our second son off to the army.

There is something particularly difficult about sending a child like him. He is gentle, sensitive, dignified, thoughtful. Now he is out there running, carrying a gun, covered in dirt, exhausted, pushing his body and mind in ways he has never done before.

You hope he is okay. Eating enough. Sleeping. You hope his commanders are good people, able to push him when necessary while still seeing the human being beneath the uniform.

And then, a month into his training, we received an invitation to Yom Horim – a visiting day for parents.

So today, we drove down early.

We picked up food, discovered a flat tire, dealt with it quickly, and somehow still managed to arrive on time.

At the base, we were greeted by a huge blow-up welcome gate. Parents were arriving from all over the country. Some had taken off work; others had driven for hours. It was the eve of Rosh Hashana, and still, hundreds had come to see their sons.

For a moment, it felt almost like camp visiting day.

Music blaring from loudspeakers. Parents unloading bags of food. Soldiers excited to see their families. Everyone wanting to hug their sons, feed them, hear how they were doing, and see where they have spent the last five weeks.

Except we weren’t at camp. We were in the middle........

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)