Byram Roundup

We just had the wonderful joy of hosting the Israeli Soldier Music Ensemble at the Temple as part of our Israel initiative for education and advocacy.

Now, preparing to leave on our congregational mission to Israel, and thinking about these incredible brave young Jews who defend the Jewish State, I was mindful of a story about Dvir Aminolav.

The Gaza War was a three-week military conflict that took place in the Gaza Strip during the winter of 2008-2009 and was dubbed Operation Cast Lead.

Dvir Aminolav was the first Israeli soldier killed in that short, but terrible war, and his father had died two years earlier after a long illness. The loss of Dvir was particularly traumatic. He was the only son among daughters, and had taken on many of the paternal responsibilities for his family.

On Dvir's birthday, his family and friends gathered around his grave. His mother, Dayla, shared there a very powerful story.

I was missing my son, terribly. One night before I went to bed, I said in a loud voice: "God, give me a sign, give me a hug from Dvir so that I will know that his death had some meaning."

It was quite some time before I fell asleep. That week my daughter asked me to accompany her to a musical performance at The International Crafts Festival in Jerusalem. I was feeling quite depressed and didn't want to go to the concert, but, I also didn't want to disappoint my daughter either, so I agreed to go halfheartedly.

The concert was a bit delayed. As the musicians were warming up, tuning their instruments, and testing the speaker system, a two-year-old boy, with beautiful blond curls, looking like a little angel, began wandering through the stands.

Without the slightest bit of self-consciousness, he walked right up to my seat and touched me on the shoulder.

My preschool teacher instincts were well in place, and as I saw the boy I was moved to smile warmly. I asked him with my softest and kindest voice: "What's your name?" "Eshel," the boy replied.

"That's a nice name. Do you want to be my friend, Eshel?"

The boy nodded in reply and sat down next to me. Eshel's parents were sitting two rows above, and thinking their little boy was bothering me, they asked him to come back up.

But, happy for the first time in a long time, I insisted that everything was fine. Then, the two-year-old Eshel chimed in, as only little children can: "I have a brother named Dvir."

I was shocked to hear the unusual name of my beloved son, and I walked up with Eshel the two rows to where his parents were sitting.

I saw a baby in his carriage, and apologizing, I said: "If you don't mind me asking, how old is your baby and when was he born?"

The baby's mother replied, "He was born right after the war in Gaza. Six months ago to be precise."

I swallowed hard. "Do you mind if I ask one more question?"

The mother said not at all, and Dalya asked: "Please tell me,

why did you choose to name him Dvir?"

Baby Dvir's mother began to explain. "I am an officer dealing with wounded soldiers in the army. When I was at the end of my pregnancy, the doctors suspected the fetus may have a very serious birth defect. Since it was the end of the pregnancy, there was little the doctors could do for me and my baby and I just had to wait and see how things would turn out. When I went home that night, the news reported that the first casualty in the war was a soldier named Dvir.

I was so saddened by this news that I decided to make a deal with God. 'If you give me a healthy son,' I said in my prayer, 'I promise to name him Dvir, in memory of the soldier that was killed.'"

I stood before this young mother with my mouth open, and finally managed to say: "I am Dvir's mother."

The young parents didn't believe me, and I repeated: "Yes, it's true. I am Dvir's mother. My name is Dalya Aminalov, from Pisgat Zeev."

The young mother had a sudden inspiration, and she handed me her baby and said: "Dvir wants to give you a hug."

I held the little baby boy in my arms and looked into his angelic face. The emotion I felt at that moment was overwhelming. I had asked for a hug from Dvir; and now I could truly feel his warm and loving embrace from the World to Come.

Miracles sometimes come from the combination of faith and fate. The first prime minister of Israel, David Ben Gurion, had it right when he proclaimed: "In order to be a realist, you must believe in miracles."

Shabbat Shalom,

Rabbi Mitch