Finding Faith in Crisis: Diary of a Father of an Injured Soldier

Rambam Hospital, Haifa, November 25, 2024

It has been a harrowing week for my family and me. Our beloved son, Noam, sustained serious wounds while serving in Lebanon, courageously defending our people and our land.

As I write these words, he remains intubated and sedated but stable. We, along with countless others, continue to pray fervently for his complete recovery.

We hold steadfast faith that God will guard our precious son, whose unwavering dedication and self-sacrifice embody the spirit of his generation of giants.

It has been an emotionally overwhelming week, filled with fear, tears, and profound uncertainty. At times I could hardly stand and, often feeling the weight of it all, I struggled to catch my breath.

We are suffering deeply for our son – the anguish of his pain, the weight of his medical struggles, and the daunting path that lies ahead.

This week has been soaked in tears, a cascade of sorrow and heartache that seems unrelenting.

This painful week has been a stark reminder of the intricate emotional challenges that life places before us, testing our resilience and faith. It has been exceedingly difficult to balance joy and sadness.

Yet, amid this sea of sadness, we optimistically cling to the hope and faith that the same strength that carried him will guide us through this turbulent storm.

I am deeply grateful to everyone who has held our son in their hearts and prayers. Each message, every blessing – no matter how small – lifts us and infuses us with the strength we so urgently need.

This painful week has been a stark reminder of the intricate emotional challenges that life places before us, testing our resilience and faith. It has been exceedingly difficult to balance joy and sadness.

Life often challenges us to carry a mixture of conflicting emotions, holding joy and sorrow side by side in a delicate and painful tension.

The Midrash portrays Abraham’s emotional state during the Akeidah, The Binding of Isaac, as a profound paradox.

He shed tears of sorrow at the prospect of sacrificing his son, yet his heart brimmed with joy at the opportunity to fulfill the divine will and shape the destiny of Jewish history.

Abraham was called upon to embody two opposing emotions simultaneously.

Perhaps for this reason, God designed the heart as a multi-chambered organ, capable of holding feelings that seem to contradict one another, reflecting the complex emotional balance that life often demands of us.

Similarly, the Talmud in Tractate Bava Batra teaches that upon the passing of a close relative, one recites the blessing of Dayan Ha’emet (the true judge), humbly accepting the divine decree.

Yet, upon receiving the inheritance from the deceased, the very same individual is instructed to recite the blessing of Hatov Ve’hameitiv (who is good and does good), expressing gratitude to God.

This delicate juxtaposition reflects the profound challenge faced by Abraham at Mount Moriah – the ability to hold contrasting emotions in tension, balancing grief and gratitude, while maintaining unwavering faith in moments of profound complexity.

I have wrestled deeply with the delicate balance between joy and sorrow. Despite the severity of his wounds, my heart overflows with gratitude that Noam’s life was spared and that he has a positive prognosis.

He endured the devastating impact of a direct drone attack, yet God, in His infinite kindness, shielded my precious son.

I thank God for this miraculous gift of life and continue to fervently pray that He will watch over my dear Noam, granting him strength and guiding him toward a complete and lasting recovery.

Yet, my heart remains heavy, burdened with pain. My son’s condition is still precarious, and, with God’s help when he recovers, the path forward will be long and arduous.

I am overwhelmed with grief for the suffering he must endure – a young man so deeply devoted to serving his people, now weighed down by pain and the uncertainty of what lies ahead.

Secondary Emotions

Beyond the struggle of toggling between sadness and grief, this week I found myself grappling with the complexity of emotions, as each conflicting one carried deep and charged secondary responses.

My gratitude that my son’s life was spared felt tinged with guilt when I thought of the soldier who was killed in the same attack.

My gratitude that my son’s life was spared felt tinged with guilt when I thought of the soldier who was killed in the same attack, and certainly when I considered the immense pain and suffering that so many have endured over the past year.

Am I allowed to feel even this small trace of joy and gratitude? It also felt wrong to feel even minimal gratification while my son still suffers, and while we continue to live in a state of constant and uncertain stress.

However, not feeling gratitude toward God felt like a denial of the protection He granted my son. How can I not thank God deeply for protecting my beautiful Noam from that deadly attack?

It is one thing to reconcile two opposing emotions; it is much harder when each emotion is layered with secondary feelings of guilt and concern about being insensitive or imbalanced.

I hope that I will find a way to remain grateful for the miracle, while not overlooking our suffering nor the immense suffering of others.

Greater Sympathy

This trauma opened my heart in a new and visceral way to the immense suffering our people have endured.

As much as we try to empathize with others’ pain, as much as we shed tears for their suffering, it is difficult to understand the depth of their anguish until we ourselves experience something that begins to approximate it. My agony made me more deeply realize what others have gone through.

It was so important to us to learn about every step of my son’s journey to the hospital.

When you care so deeply for someone, you don’t want them to endure even the smallest amount of pain.

It was so difficult imaging him wounded and suffering on the battlefield without me there to help him. It brought me great reassurance to hear from the soldiers who saved his life, how quickly they responded and how they acted with such precision to keep him alive.

Similarly, speaking with the doctors and hospital staff who admitted him, knowing that my child was under the care of people who were doing everything they could to alleviate his suffering, was a source of comfort.

Though I cannot speak with him, I take solace in knowing he is being cared for every step of the way with love and concern.

My mind cannot escape the unimaginable suffering of the families of the hostages.

But my mind cannot escape the unimaginable suffering of the families of the hostages. To not know anything about your child’s fate, and to live with the knowledge that they are in the hands of brutal terrorists who have no respect for human life and are consumed by hate, must be an unbearable burden – one that requires immense strength just to wake up each day. I apologize to them if I have not felt this grief as deeply as I should have. I will try harder.

Likewise, it brings me immense comfort to know that my son’s unit operated exactly as they should have. Having been attacked by a drone, they feared a terrorist infiltration, and my son immediately ran from his tent to guard the perimeter.

After being attacked by mortars and taking shelter, he rushed to a lookout post, following protocol, at which point the second drone fell directly on the guard post.

His friends quickly rushed to provide medical care for him and for the other wounded, while the Humvee trucks transported them swiftly to the helicopters that flew him to the hospital.

Within a little more than an hour, he was in the operating room. This rapid response undoubtedly saved his life. It gives me great strength to know that my son and everyone around him are heroes and acted with professionalism and dedication.

I have been haunted all week, thinking about situations where soldiers are injured or killed in accidents, friendly fire, or other malfunctions, God forbid.

It is agonizingly painful to suffer a loss without the storyline to hold onto, without the clarity of a defined sequence that can offer some sense of peace or understanding.

The war persists, and our sacred struggle to safeguard our land and protect our people remains unwavering. While the headlines have shifted to politics, diplomacy, and elections, it is crucial to remember – especially for those far away, where the echoes of war may seem distant – that the pain and hardship endure.

Please keep our people’s pain and suffering front and center as you continue your daily routines.

And please continue praying for my dear son, Noam Avraham ben Atara Shlomit.

Rambam Hospital, Haifa, December 1

My Gratitude

With the serious wound our son sustained in Lebanon, my family has faced its own harrowing challenges. Yet, even in the shadow of hardship, I have tried to hold fast to gratitude. Here are the things for which I am profoundly grateful:

I am deeply grateful to God. With His help and constant watching over our son, Noam, we have begun the long and arduous road to his recovery.

I am deeply grateful to God. With His help and constant watching over our son, Noam, we have begun the long and arduous road to his recovery. Though the journey ahead will require resilience and faith, I know that with God’s guidance, we will navigate it together.

As I have learned more about the attack our son endured and the intricate process of his medical treatment, I am overwhelmed by the countless moments in which God protected him. Each detail reveals His guiding hand, shielding our son in ways I can scarcely comprehend.

I cannot fully understand why we have been granted these miracles, but I pray for the strength, clarity, and courage to prove myself worthy of this extraordinary gift.

As the poet Milton so eloquently wrote, “Gratitude bestows reverence, allowing us to encounter everyday epiphanies.” I have felt these moments of divine revelation and stand in reverence of God’s kindness and presence in our lives.

Grateful for Israel

I am profoundly grateful to live in Israel and equally thankful for the decision I made decades ago to relocate my family here.

Some readers may find this sentiment surprising. After all, the cost of living in this land is high. Seven of my children and sons-in-law devoted much of their past year to serving and defending our country, including Noam, who was gravely wounded.

The price of living in Israel is undeniably steep. Yet the cost of not living here is far greater.

This week, I felt the gaze of my grandparents upon my family, their spirits brimming with pride. What would they have given to witness a Jewish soldier standing guard over a sovereign Jewish state?

I know that by living here, we are making an investment in the grand narrative of Jewish history – a down payment on a future that, God willing, will yield dividends for generations to come.

I Have Become an Israeli

I am grateful to feel more connected to Israel than ever before, precisely because loss binds so many of us here.

Most Israelis, in some way, carry the weight of personal struggle. It is this very sacrifice that deepens our connection to this sacred land, as the more we give of ourselves, the more profoundly we possess it.

Our sages teach us that the Land of Israel is only acquired through hardship.

During these two weeks, as I took fleeting strolls along the shores of Haifa, allowing the sea breeze to clear my mind, I felt an extraordinary sense of intimacy with the land. I touched the trees, inhaled the fragrant breezes, and listened to the rhythmic song of the ocean. The land embraced and caressed me, soothed my worries and comforted my fears, reminding me that even in the shadow of loss, the heartbeat of our homeland remains steady and strong.

Army and Loving Fellow Jews

I am deeply thankful for our army as a remarkable unifier of our people. It forges immediate bonds and unites our entire nation into one family.

This past Friday evening, as I sat by our son’s bedside, a soldier who had suffered a military accident was brought into the ICU. Though he was not religious, his parents and I immediately connected over our shared tragedy. We invited them to join our Shabbat meal, and for the next 48 hours we shared a bond that transcended religion.

Feeling unified with my people is not merely an abstract ideal of solidarity – it is the core of the unconditional love for every Jew and the commitment to a shared destiny, transcending ethnicity or religious observance.

On Sunday morning, a soldier who had been wounded a month ago came to the ICU to thank the staff as he prepared to leave the hospital. He came by to cheer up our son, who had just awoken, and assured him that his road to recovery would be successful. Once again, I felt an immediate bond with his parents, whom I had never met. It turns out that he had served in Lebanon with our son-in-law, so we were connected in ways we hadn’t imagined at first.

Feeling unified with my people is not merely an abstract ideal of solidarity – it is the core of ahavat Yisrael, the unconditional love for every Jew and the commitment to a shared destiny, transcending ethnicity or religious observance.

People

I am profoundly thankful for the extraordinary people I have encountered on this still-unfolding odyssey.

Haifa, nestled in the North, serves a diverse community, including many Israeli Arabs. On Shabbat, the medical staff at the hospital is often composed of Arabs. During my time there, I met remarkable individuals who tended to our son with genuine love and extended to me boundless emotional support.

One man, an Arab whose son had been in a car accident, shared weeks of anxiety and uncertainty with me. I celebrated his son’s recovery with him, just as he was overjoyed by our son’s healing.

We cannot afford to be naïve – we live in a region where many ruthless and heartless individuals are constantly planning harm against us, and we must avoid any delusions. However, there are many good, ordinary people who desire to live alongside us in peace. We are divinely promised this land, and until those divine promises come true, we must share this land with those who accept our presence and our state. Nationalism must never devolve into bigotry.

Vulnerability

Finally, I am again grateful to God for the vulnerability I experienced. I wish it hadn’t been born from the hardship we are enduring, but vulnerability is the source of human dignity and nobility.

This week, I tried to hold myself with dignity, compassion, and sensitivity, fully aware of how fragile my life is and how quickly it can be shattered. Success in life can sometimes lead us to arrogance, indifference, and neglect of the simple beauties of daily life and interactions. Yet, it is in our vulnerability that we are reminded of these small, precious moments.

We are all like Jacob’s ladder – dreaming of soaring to heaven, yet always remaining grounded on Earth. Gratitude keeps us rooted, helping us appreciate the simple beauty that surrounds us.

Rambam Hospital, Haifa, Israel, Dec 10

Misty Doubt

After our son’s wounding, my life has suddenly been enveloped in a fog of doubt and uncertainty – on every front. I have no idea how long his medical recovery will take or where it will ultimately unfold. Since his wounding, we have been far from home, living between hospital corridors and modest motels, caught in the whirlwind of an unpredictable and exhausting routine.

My entire life has been put on hold – all my plans suspended as I try to be the best parent that I can possibly be. Even catching a minyan feels like a rare achievement, as the strain of the daily schedule leaves little room for stability or normalcy.

Why did this happen to my beautiful son? Amid all the pain and heartache, I am overwhelmingly and wholeheartedly grateful to God for the miracle that, God willing, he will make a full recovery.

I am haunted by deep, internal uncertainties. Why did this happen to my beautiful son? Why must he endure such profound struggle? Amid all the pain and heartache, I am overwhelmingly and wholeheartedly grateful to God for the miracle that, God willing, he will make a full recovery. The countless miracles that have paved the way for this outcome leave me in awe.

But with this gratitude comes another layer of doubt: Why was I granted this miracle? What does God now expect of me? Will I have the strength and courage to rise to these expectations – even if I can discern what they are? The weight of this reality presses down on me. How will this trauma reshape my family? How will it transform me? My life feels unsteady, as if I were standing on quicksand rather than solid ground, searching for balance amid the instability. These questions follow me day and night, and I have no clear answer.

Always at the Door

On Sunday I was twice reminded of the fact that uncertainty always lurks at the door. Literally as I began to write this article, the news arrived: Four more soldiers have been seriously wounded in Lebanon. A few minutes later, a woman burst into the hospital synagogue where I sat, her face streaked with tears, pleading to enter the men’s section. I quickly assured her that she could and watched as she stood before the ark, sobbing uncontrollably.

Gently, I approached and asked if I could help. She cried out, her voice raw with anguish, that her daughter’s condition was dire. Hoping to offer some comfort, I told her I was a rabbi and offered to recite Psalms with her and give her daughter a blessing. Together, we walked to the ICU, where her daughter lay fighting for her life – just a few meters from the spot where my own son had been intubated and sedated for two long weeks.

Witnessing my son’s steady recovery, I had allowed myself a fleeting moment of relief, daring to glimpse the possibility of stability. However, I was swiftly reminded of the storm I had weathered just days before – both physically and emotionally. Her anguish rekindled my awareness that the tempest of unpredictability still rages, enveloping countless others in its relentless grasp.

Deprived of the regularity of daily life and the predictability of the future, we must search for deeper meaning and reach for something more solid to anchor ourselves amid chaos.

We are not accustomed to living with doubt. We crave control over our schedules and the ability to map out our lives with precision. Planning the future and dictating the rhythms of our days provide a comforting sense of stability. Human psychology thrives on certainty and predictability, while our natural biorhythms are aligned with the steady cycles of day and night, enabling us to function with consistency and purpose.

Ironically, when that stability is stripped away – when the schedules and plans we depend on dissolve – we are thrust into a more existential state. We are compelled to confront our identity in its most raw and stripped-down form. Deprived of the regularity of daily life and the predictability of the future, we must search for deeper meaning and reach for something more solid to anchor ourselves amid chaos.

My Rock

I have tried to use this doubt to draw close to God. In a world where everything can be stripped away in an instant, the only enduring foundation is faith. I have leaned heavily on countless people for support during this challenging time – friends from across the globe who reached out with heartfelt wishes; strangers who assured me they were praying for my son or singing his favorite Shabbat songs; tireless doctors who worked to heal him and uplift us with their optimism; and, above all, my extraordinary family – a blessing for which I can never express enough gratitude.

Yet, in my darkest and most uncertain moments, I turned to God as my steadfast rock. Speaking to Him, confiding in Him, and feeling His guiding hand brought me a sense of comfort and reassurance that no human presence could provide.

Doubt has pushed me into a more profound and existential space, forcing me to confront life’s rawest truths and to anchor myself in something deeper.

We are living through a dark and challenging chapter of Jewish history. May God grant us strength, vision, and the courage to hold steadfast to our faith.

I hope that when this cloud of uncertainty eventually lifts, the clarity and strength I have found in this crucible will remain etched in my soul, fortifying my relationship with God and deepening my own sense of purpose and selflessness.

Thank God, our son has recovered from his serious injury and is now diligently working on his rehabilitation. Our family deeply thanks you for your continued prayers—not only for our son but also for the many other wounded soldiers and the countless individuals in Israel whose hearts and bodies are in need of healing.

We are living through a dark and challenging chapter of Jewish history. May God grant us strength, vision, and the courage to hold steadfast to our faith.

Click here to order Rabbi Taragin’s book Dark Clouds Above, Faith Below, a collection of penetrating psychological insights, theological analysis, and personal reflection in the aftermath of October 7. 

The post Finding Faith in Crisis: Diary of a Father of an Injured Soldier appeared first on Aish.com.