I approached him personally and said, “I want to thank you for your service, and I want you to know that I daven for you daily”

After Monday morning davening during my long-awaited late-summer trip to Eretz Yisrael, my friend Rav Dovid Schoonmaker asked me if I would be interested in speaking at his yeshivah, Shapell’s/Darche Noam.

I jumped at the opportunity. It would be a privilege for me to share Torah at this wonderful yeshivah, many alumni of which have settled in Passaic.

I thought of contacting friends in Ramot about getting together after the shiur. But I was greeted by a text that left me in shock.

There has been a terror attack at the Ramot Junction on the 62 bus. All roads are closed.

My plans to meet friends were put aside. But I wasn’t patur from giving the shiur — as everyone in Eretz Yisrael knows, day-to-day life must go on, despite the challenges. So I boarded the light rail and headed to Shapell’s in Beit HaKerem.

After concluding the shiur and interacting with some of the talmidim, I caught the light rail to begin the trek back. As the train approached the stop known as the “Mercaz,” Kikar Tzion, something moved me to alight from the train, although it was not my stop.

Kikar Tzion, or Zion Square, is filled with tourists, local youth, street performers, and numerous inexpensive tourist shops, and currency exchange services. Not exactly a hub of Torah in Yerushalayim.

As I alighted from the train, I realized that the normally well-protected area was teeming with heavily armed soldiers and specialized police units, all on alert from the morning’s tragedy in Ramot.

Most of the soldiers were “not yet frum,” and all of them were young enough to be my grandchildren.

There I was, dressed in my rabbinic uniform of a frock and hat, and they in their olive-green uniforms with their helmets and flak jackets. I realized we shared a common goal. All of us, in our own way, are deeply invested in the success and continuity of the Jewish People.

I realized there had to be a reason Hashem had me alight from the train before my intended stop. I decided to approach the soldiers and thank each of them for their service, and ask them if they needed of a drink or a snack.

Most of the soldiers were appreciative and nodded their gratitude. One of them, though, remained stone-faced.

Something told me this soldier was seeking something. His apparent apathetic response to my entreaties was perhaps indicative of something more.

I approached him personally and said, “I want to thank you for your service, and I want you to know that I daven for you daily.”

He did not respond and continued to look away.

I then said, “I’m in my uniform and you’re in yours. I want you to know that we are partners together, each of us striving to help ensure the future of the Jewish People. I appreciate you and care about you. You are my partner — my brother.”

I headed back to the light rail.

Suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder.

I turned and saw it was the formerly expressionless soldier, but now he had tears running down his face.

He said almost in a whisper, “I just want to say, thank you for caring. Coming from someone in your uniform to someone in my uniform, your words entered my heart.”

Right then, the train arrived, and its doors opened.

He held tight to my shoulder as he declared, “Achi atah — You are my brother!”

He then lovingly pushed me onto the train just as the doors were closing.

I called out, “Achi, achi…” but my words were drowned out by the roar of the train.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1083)