Thank God, we have seven children and we live in one of the religious communities in a settlement in the Shomrom. A completely normal family, my husband is self-employed and I work as an English teacher.
Two years ago, our eldest son, after his military service decided to fly to the Metta Forest Monastery located in San Diego, leaving his yarmulke and all other religious symbols behind.
From being an outstanding student at one of the most famous religious yeshiva high schools in Jerusalem, he returned to Israel with a bald head and the attire of monks, and we thought we were going crazy.
On the one hand, we couldn't help but appreciate him for his personal search, but on the other hand, we have six more children coming after him in line, and the last thing we wanted was for him to put all sorts of ideas into their heads.
We spoke to him and told him that we love and embrace him, but we demand that he not talk to our children about religious matters and that he not turn his brothers against us.
Although we saw how passionate he was about the subject, he felt he had found the light and was also happy for his brothers to find the light. He agreed and respected our request, until at the end of the summer vacation a year ago, our second child, who also attends the same high school, announced to us triumphantly that he too intended to cut ties with religion, remove and discard all other religious symbols, and embark on his own journey of discovery, of course inspired by his older brother who didn't need to say much, just continue to be the great and admired brother he is.
We understood that if we didn't stop it here, it would spread to our other children, who also considered our eldest child a role model. But every educator we consulted with told us that this wouldn't work by force, and we had exactly two options:
Either to kick him out of the house and distance him, risking losing contact with him, or to contain the situation with patience and love and hope that things will work out, even though we have no idea how.
We decided to contain and embrace, but we felt like we were living in a nightmare:
I remember whole nights when my husband couldn't sleep from grief and pain. It was a very difficult time for us. My husband would cry silently for hours at night, not wanting to wake me up, but I heard everything. When he finally agreed to open up, he told me how his heart burned inside every time he came to shul and saw the empty seats of his children, whom he loved so much to sit next to on Friday nights.
Two months ago, our eldest son, the 'hermit,' returned to visit Israel and decided to take a trip to India with his younger brother, the one who decided to follow him and find himself.
After two weeks in Dharamsala, they were robbed in the middle of the road and found themselves in the middle of their trip with nothing. With no other choice, they entered one of the homes operated by religious Jews [not Chabad - another organization] and were met with a warm and welcoming reception, warm hospitality, and people who helped them contact the embassy.
When my eldest child, the 'hermit', finished, he was moved by the Israeli who ran the house and asked him:
How can I thank you?
The Israeli replied, "Nothing, let's just sit and learn a little bit together."
And then my second child asked him if he knew the story of Rabbi Nachman:
Once upon a time, there was a prince who went mad. The young man replied that yes, he knew, and then the three of them sat and studied that story together.
At the end of the session, as our eldest child told me, the Israeli who ran the house said that this lesson would be in memory of his father, who had passed away this year and left him with immense heartbreak because he wanted to visit him in India. However, every time the Israeli, the emissary, postponed his father's visit and told him he was very busy and wouldn't have time, so it was best to wait until the end of his mission. No one prepared him for the fact that one night his father would have a heart attack and he would never be able to see him again.
"You understand," he said to my children sadly, "I won't be able to see and make my father happy anymore, and that thought eats me up every time."
And then the older brother continued and told me that at that moment, he and his younger brother began to tear up and realize that even if they were doing their search, they couldn't cause so much distress to my husband, to us as parents... So after they returned to the country, they decided that in parallel with their search, the eldest would take a break from his monastery to be a little closer to us, and our little boy would try at least on Shabbos to honor us by davening and eating the Shabbos meal. Afterward, he would take off his kippah and continue with his life.
Right now, I don't know how this will end, only that the smile and color have returned to my husband's face once again.
He told me he had no longer believed he would get to go into shul with my oldest child and his younger brother and eat at the Shabbos table next to them. And ever since they abandoned religion, food has lost its flavor for him... And now he feels like he's been resurrected.
At the end of the meals, the little one goes into his room and continues to live his new life, while my older son informed the monastery that he was extending his stay in the country to find himself.
Last nite, the younger child asked my husband and older brother to go to the Kotel. So they drove at two in the morning to the Kotel, and my husband told me that all three of them went into the 'Aish HaTorah' yeshiva located there (our oldest son has friends there), sat on the balcony, and it was there that our oldest son, the 'monk' began humming the tune of יה אכסוף which was composed by Rabbi Aharon of Karlin.
I couldn't close my eyes until they returned to our house, and then my husband said to me:
Tell me, did you believe our oldest child would still be singing יה אכסוף in front of the Kotel on Thursday night?
I don't have a bottom line or a definitive educational conclusion. Perhaps only through our story can we learn that there is no despair in the world at all.
Never!
