A few months following October 7th, one of my close students, Yehuda, decided to visit Tel HaShomer, the rehabilitation center in Israel where soldiers who have suffered the most devastating injuries, often losing arms or legs, receive treatment. I encouraged him to go. “First off,” I told him, “you’ll receive a blessing from a soldier who has literally put his life on the line for the Jewish people. And second, you’ll have the opportunity to uplift them and to strengthen them emotionally and spiritually.”
Yehuda went without hesitation. He wasn’t afraid. He entered hospital rooms with courage and sincerity. He spoke openly to the wounded soldiers, expressing gratitude, asking for their blessings. And there, in that sacred place, he formed a bond with a young man named Eden.
As their friendship grew, Yehuda said to him, “You have to meet my teacher.” And so, one day, he FaceTimed me. When Eden’s face appeared on the screen, my heart filled with joy. There I was, looking at another precious Jewish soul. After a few minutes of conversation, I asked him gently, “Eden, would you be open to learning a little Torah each day—just two minutes?”
Amazingly, he agreed. We began learning Pirkei Avos, one short Mishnah each day. Over time, we expanded to the Talmudic tractates of Berachos and Shabbos. Meanwhile, Eden was also dating a young woman, and slowly but surely, he began observing Shabbos and studying the laws of Family Purity. It all started with just one Mishnah a day.
As we continued learning, and he became more comfortable, Eden surprised me one day by saying, “I want to add something else.” “What would that be?” I asked. “Shemirat Einayim (guarding my eyes),” he replied.
I was nearly in tears. This was a young man with almost no formal Jewish background, and here he was, asking to learn about personal modesty and visual restraint. I quickly found a book on the subject, and we began learning together.
Eventually, I asked him, “Eden, I never asked—why this topic?” He looked at me and said, in Hebrew, “I want to come home and feel moved when I see my wife.” He explained: “If I’m always looking around at everything and everyone, that special moment of seeing her will lose its meaning.”
And I thought to myself, Ribbono Shel Olam, we grow up with Torah, mitzvos, teachings about spiritual discipline and restraint. We have all the sources and all the rules. But here is a Jew, unaffiliated and barely introduced to tradition, and from deep within his neshama, he understands that the truest connection he can have with his future wife will be built through this kind of inner purity. I told him, “Eden, you’ve inspired me.”
One of my favorite things to do in Israel is to take cab rides. You never know who you’ll meet. Sometimes it’s a man with a shaved head who doesn’t look outwardly Jewish at all. But after just a few moments of conversation, you realize he is, and sometimes, he becomes your teacher.
Not long ago, I was in Tel Aviv. I got into a cab, and within seconds, the driver said to me, “Rabbi, would you like to hear a Torah thought?” “Of course,” I answered. “I live with G-d every day,” he told me. “You know why? Because I know that my neshama is a piece of Hashem.”
I was stunned. This man, who didn’t look religious or observant, was reminding me of one of the deepest truths: when you know that your essence is part of something holy, you live differently.
Often, when we face spiritual or moral struggles, we forget who we truly are. But if we could remember, even for a moment, that we carry within us something sacred, temptation would lose its power.
Sometimes, it takes a wounded soldier or a cab driver to remind us of that truth.
