Montessori Moments

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What Are We Still Here to Do?
A shiva visit left me with questions I cannot put down
By Rivkah Isaacs
I came home from a shiva house last week, and I have not been the same since.
I went to visit a dear friend who had just lost her husband — a woman I have known for many years, a mother of twelve, already a great-grandmother. The house was full in the way shiva houses are: the unmistakable fullness of grief held together by family and friends, by memories of decades of a life well-lived.
I left inspired. And I left unsettled. Both at once, woven together.
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What I could not stop thinking about was something I knew, and heard again and again, about her husband: he had been “a doer.”
Always moving, always beginning something, always looking for the next way to be useful. But what struck me most was not the doing itself — it was the quality of the doing. He was not driven by outcomes. He did not measure himself by whether something succeeded or fell short. His question, always, was simply: What can I do right now? What does Hashem want me to DO right now?
There is a teaching in Pirkei Avos: לא עליך המלאכה לגמור — it is not upon you to complete the work. We say it and we know it and teach it. But this man lived it, quietly, in every area of his life, right up until the very end.
Sitting there, I thought about how often I hear the word “retirement.” People ask me about it gently — what are my plans, will I slow down, isn’t it time? Of course, I understand the question. Yet in that room, surrounded by the children this man had shaped and inspired, I found myself asking something altogether different: Do we actually have the right to stop? Is slowing down a kindness to ourselves, or is it something we will have to explain l'maalah, in 120? What does Hashem want from us in our later chapters — really?
I don’t have a clean answer, and I’m not sure I’m meant to, yet.
___
There was a second conversation happening across the room that afternoon — almost without my noticing, until I was pulled into it.
A group of young mothers had gathered near the doorway. Someone introduced me as a Jewish Montessori educational consultant, and almost immediately one of them turned and said, quietly but urgently: “Please — open a school. Our children need something different.”
The others nodded. And as I listened to them, I felt that same braided feeling again: inspired and unsettled together. Because I know there are beautiful schools out there, dedicated teachers, parents who give everything. And yet something, somewhere, is not reaching these families. There is a gap, and not a gap of effort or love, but of something harder to name.
One of the women told me she has been searching for a Montessori school for her child. I told her gently: the philosophy alone is not enough. Look at the staff. Look at the culture. Look at what has been built quietly over years. There are so many pieces, and they all matter.
I drove home turning it all over — the man who never stopped showing up, the mothers searching for something they couldn’t quite articulate, and my own quiet reckoning with what it means to still be here, still capable, still needed. And hearing there’s a need that maybe, b’siyata di’Shmaya, with help from Hashem, I could fill.
___
I don’t think these two conversations found me in the same emotionally charged and open place by accident. I think Hashem was asking me something. Something I need to answer to be shalem, to be whole, in His eyes (kivyachol) and in my own.
And I suspect, if you are reading this and feeling a flicker of recognition — He may be asking you something too.

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#beneaththeuniform #amyisraelchai #integrity | Shlomo Isaacs "I spent 2,000 shekels from someone’s 2,600-shekel donation. So I called her to ask what to do with the remaining 600." She laughed. Then cried a little. Then said: “You’re the first soldier who’s ever told me there was money left.” This is Daniel. 470 days of miluim. Three kids. A wife ho...

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Avraham Dov Hershler

https://www.facebook.com/share/16dcgTEt8A/

Three weeks into the war, right before I went into Gaza, I got a package.

A tallis, sent from England through a messenger.

The sender's father was a Holocaust survivor named Ziggy Shipper. The message with it said this was his talis—wear it and "make sure it never happens again."

I brought my tefillin and that tallit with me into Gaza.

---

Early on we got intelligence on a Hamas commander responsible for October 7th. Our mission was to take over that complex.

We went in. We secured it. We found weapons.

But more shockingly, we found correspondence—with the BBC, with major news agencies from France, Australia, around the world.

This was proof that Hamas commanders were coordinating directly with international media.

This wasn't just a military command center. It was a propaganda machine for the extermination of our nation.

---

Right there in that house, I did something that will stick with me for the rest of my life.

I put on my tefillin. I wrapped myself in Ziggy Shipper's tallit. And I prayed.

I was praying in the house of someone who spent their entire life trying to wipe us out. Proof of their failure.

---

I made a video there expressing what "never again" actually means.

Something along the lines of:

"The difference between then and now... 1,200 Jews were killed on Oct 7th. Families destroyed. People kidnapped. Two or three days of absolute terror and rockets.

BUT... we're not marching to concentration camps. We're not being gassed. We're not being kicked out of our homes by the millions. We're not helpless.

We have an army. We have a country. We have the ability to fight back.

That's what Ziggy Shipper's generation fought for. So their grandchildren wouldn't be helpless anymore.

When his daughter sent me that tallit, she wasn't just giving me cloth. She was passing down a promise. And I got to fulfill it."

---

Standing in that Hamas commander's house, wearing a Holocaust survivor's tallit, practicing Jewish traditions in the exact place where someone planned our destruction and manipulated the world against us.

That's a privilege our grandparents died to give us.

---

We're not victims anymore. We're defenders. We're fighters. We're Jews who stand up.

And yeah, the world criticizes us for it. Yeah, people call us oppressors for refusing to be victims again.

But I'll take that over being marched into gas chambers any day.

---

This war changed me. It showed me what it actually means to be a Jew.

It means we can never stop fighting for our survival. It means wrapping tefillin in enemy territory because we can.

Because we're not hiding anymore. We're not apologizing for existing anymore.

We're here. We're strong. And we're making sure never again actually means never again.

---

That's what Ziggy Shipper survived for. That's what I fought for. That's what we all need to remember.

With my message to the world: I want to say thank you to Ziggy, all the survivors, and all those who died simply for being Jewish.

Am Yisrael Chai.

https://www.instagram.com/p/DSnfxpniv9g/

Three weeks into the war, I got a package. A tallis from England. The sender's father was a Holocaust survivor named Ziggy Shipper. The message: wear it and "make sure it never happens again." I brought it into Gaza. --- We got intelligence on a Hamas commander responsible for October 7th. Mission: take over that complex. We went in. Found weapons. But more shockingly: correspondence with BBC, major news agencies from France, Australia, around the world. Hamas commanders coordinating directly with international media. This wasn't just a military command center. It was a propaganda machine. --- Right there in that house, I did something I'll never forget. I put on tefillin. Wrapped myself in Ziggy Shipper's tallit. And prayed. In the house of someone who spent their life trying to wipe us out. Proof of their failure. --- The difference between then and now: 1,200 Jews killed on Oct 7th. Families destroyed. People kidnapped. Days of terror. BUT... we're not marching to concentration camps. We're not being gassed. We're not helpless. We have an army. A country. The ability to fight back. That's what Ziggy Shipper's generation fought for. When his daughter sent me that tallit, she wasn't just giving me cloth. She was passing down a promise. And I got to fulfill it. --- Standing in that Hamas commander's house, wearing a Holocaust survivor's tallit, practicing Jewish traditions in the exact place where someone planned our destruction. That's a privilege our grandparents died to give us. --- We're not victims anymore. We're defenders. We're Jews who stand up. The world criticizes us. Calls us oppressors for refusing to be victims. But I'll take that over gas chambers any day. --- This war showed me what it means to be a Jew. We can never stop fighting for our survival. Wrapping tefillin in enemy territory because we can. We're not hiding. We're not apologizing for existing. We're here. We're strong. Never again actually means never again. --- Thank you to Ziggy, all the survivors, and all those who died simply for being Jewish. Am Yisrael Chai.

As we approach Chanuka, we invite you to help us bring a little extra light to children from divorced homes — children who carry more on their small shoulders than most of us see.

This Chanuka, you can put a smile back on a young, brave heart. Remind these kids that they are noticed, loved, and never alone.

For just $30, you can gift a child a Chanuka present — a fun day at White Pool, a delicious lunch, and the priceless feeling that someone out there cares.

Together, we can lift these young souls and help build a stronger, healthier next generation.

Hashem promised:
"אַתֶּם מְשַׂמְּחִים שֶׁלִּי, וַאֲנִי מְשַׂמֵּחַ שֶׁלָּכֶם."
"You take care of My children, and I will take care of yours."

Donate: https://thechesedfund.com/mishpachahachat/channukah-light-2025

ככל שאנו מתקרבים לחג החנוכה, אנו מזמינים אתכם לעזור לנו להביא מעט אור נוסף לילדים מבתים גרושים — ילדים שנושאים על כתפיהם הקטנות יותר ממה שרובנו רואים.

בחנוכה הזה, אתם יכולים להחזיר חיוך ללב צעיר ואמיץ. להזכיר לילדים האלו שהם נראים, אהובים, ולעולם לא לבד.

ב־30 דולר בלבד, תוכלו להעניק לילד מתנת חנוכה — יום כיף ב־White Pool, ארוחת צהריים טעימה, והתחושה היקרה מפז שמישהו שם בחוץ באמת אכפת לו.

ביחד, נוכל לרומם את הנשמות הצעירות האלו ולעזור לבנות דור הבא חזק ובריא יותר.

הקב"ה הבטיח:
"אַתֶּם מְשַׂמְּחִים שֶׁלִּי, וַאֲנִי מְשַׂמֵּחַ שֶׁלָּכֶם."
"אתם דואגים לילדים שלי, ואני אדאג לשלכם."

לתרומה:
https://thechesedfund.com/mishpachahachat/channukah-light-2025

Channukah Light 2025

Every Israeli knows Rachel Edri.

I met her personally.

---

She had just come back from the bomb shelter. It was Simchat Torah morning. October 7th.

She opened the door to her home in Ofakim.

Five Hamas terrorists were waiting inside.

Grenades. Kalashnikovs. A rocket launcher. They had smashed through her window while she and David were hiding.

At 65 years old, standing face to face with armed terrorists, Rachel made a calculation.

She didn't have weapons. She didn't have training. She didn't have backup.

But sometimes the smartest way to catch a fish is to give it a worm.

---

"Did you eat? Would you like coffee or tea?"

---

For the next 17 hours, Rachel Edri executed a tactic that nobody—not military strategists, not hostage negotiators, not special forces—teaches in any manual.

She baited them.

Coffee. Cookies. Chicken. Canned pineapple. Coke Zero.

"I could see they were angry," she later said. "A hungry man is more dangerous than a fed one."

So she fed them. And not just food.

She fed them conversation in Arabic. She fed them the illusion of safety. She fed them maternal comfort.

---

One terrorist was wounded. Rachel didn't just bandage his hand—she sat with him. Stroked it.

Another looked at her and said, "You remind me of my mother."

"I am like your mother. I will help you. I will take care of you."

She told one he looked tired. Suggested a nap.

Kept them calm, distracted, exactly where she needed them.

---

Her husband David stood there watching his wife with diabetes calmly executing the most dangerous hospitality of her life. One terrorist held a gr***de to her head with the pin already pulled.

But Rachel knew something they didn't.

While they were eating her cookies, drinking her coffee, letting their guard down...

The trap was being set.

Her two sons were police officers. And one of them, Evyatar, was outside at that very moment, sketching the layout of the house he grew up in.

---

Every cookie bought another minute.
Every moment of false comfort brought the special forces closer.

17 hours. That's how long she kept them on the hook.

Close to 2 AM, Israeli commandos dropped through the ceiling of the shower.

All five terrorists were killed.

Rachel and David walked out alive.

---

To our sorrow, David passed away four months later. The trauma took him. He never recovered.

Did Rachel despair?

NO!

She spent the rest of the war at the border feeding soldiers.

What a remarkable person.

---

Before Shabbat, she had a message for Jewish women everywhere:

"The real ammunition is in your hands. Shabbat candles—that's our weapon."

---

I met Rachel after her ordeal. Seeing her in person, knowing what she survived, knowing she chose to spend her time feeding soldiers instead of recovering...

Because she knows the power of the Jew.

This story shows the truth of a Jewish soul doing what Jewish souls do.

We give. We show up. We find light in darkness.

And somehow, impossibly, miraculously... we survive.

Am Yisrael Chai.

A MOTHER DROVE TWO AND A HALF HOURS TO A ROAD JUNCTION TO DELIVER SOCKS.

This is Sarah’s story — and it’s the story of so many Israeli mothers during the war.

When her son Yoni was called up after October 7th, he and his unit were camped out in a forest off the highway. No base. No real supplies. Not even proper socks or underwear. Families were still scrambling to understand what their sons needed just to get through each day.

So Sarah and her husband packed food, clean clothes, his tefillin — everything he needed — and drove two and a half hours north.

When they arrived, Yoni couldn’t meet them. He was out on patrol.

They came back the next morning. Still couldn’t see him.

But Yoni’s friend — let’s call him David — heard that they’d driven all that way. He volunteered to meet them at a random junction on the highway to bring the supplies back to camp.

Sarah and her husband handed him the bags, grateful that at least someone would get them to their son. And then David looked at them and asked:

“Do you think… I could get a bracha too?”

A young soldier, standing on the side of a highway, on his way back to a forest where he might be sent into combat, asking parents he barely knew for a blessing.

So Yoni’s father put his hands on this soldier’s head and gave him a bracha right there — next to passing cars and dust and the reality of war.

That was the war for so many families.
Parents becoming logistics coordinators.
Driving hours.
Sleeping wherever they could.
Meeting soldiers they didn’t know at road junctions just to make sure someone’s child had socks.

And the soldiers felt it. David felt it. He knew a mother had driven half the country because her son had nothing. That’s why he asked for a bracha — because he understood what that moment meant.

Sarah told me later that the things she worried about most weren’t always the big things. She worried about their feet being stuck in boots 24/7. That they weren’t eating enough, sleeping enough — the small daily things that mothers carry on their hearts.

War made mothers into warriors of a different kind — fighters armed with supply bags, phone calls, and prayers.

David got his bracha.
Yoni got his supplies.
And Sarah drove two and a half hours back home knowing she had done everything she could for her son.

That’s a mother’s war.

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