I had never seen my father cry before.
Not when his mother passed. Not even when we crossed the Jordan River into our new land. But one morning, just after the sun rose, he sat on a rock outside our tent and wept openly. I was only nine summers old.
We had just finished our morning meal when Moshe — the man chosen by God — gathered the elders to give them the teachings that would become part of our lives forever. My father had gone to listen, like always, and when he returned, he held something in his heart that hadn’t been there the day before.
I’m Eliav, son of a shepherd near the tribe of Reuven — you won’t find my name in the scrolls. But I was there the morning the Shema was first spoken. I didn’t know that one verse could change your whole world.
I crept toward my father, curious but unsure if I should disturb him. He noticed and opened his arms. I sat beside him.
He whispered it to me, pressing his forehead to mine. “Shema Yisrael,” he began — “Hear, O Israel.” His voice trembled as he said the words Moshe had shared, the verse that still echoes through every sunrise and bedtime: “The Lord is our God, the Lord is One.”
I didn't understand why he cried until he explained it.
“All your life, Eliav,” he said, “you’ve seen the might of the Lord — the plagues in Egypt, the splitting of the sea, the mountain burning with fire. But now, we are not just a people saved. We are a people that belongs to something greater.”
He told me that Moshe had urged every parent to teach this verse to their children, to speak of it when lying down and rising up, when walking on the road and resting at home. Everyone. Always. It wasn’t just about believing in one God; it was about loving Him with all your heart, soul, and strength — even when it’s hard.
That day, I realized something important: faith isn’t only for the grown-ups huddled around Moshe. It is a flame passed from parent to child, from heart to heart.
Later that week, I watched my father carve the verse onto a piece of wood and hang it near the entrance of our tent. “It will remind us,” he said. “We are the people of the One God.”
Some neighbors laughed and said it wouldn’t last — that once we settled in the land, we’d forget. But that little piece of wood became something bigger. Eventually, our people began hiding those verses in little boxes called mezuzot, and we placed them on every doorway. We whispered the Shema when frightened. We sang it under the stars. Some say our ancestors even held it on their lips in their final moments — not out of fear, but out of hope.
Now I’m older, with children of my own. Each night, I press my forehead to theirs and whisper, “Shema Yisrael…”
Even when my voice trembles. Even when I’m too tired to finish the words. I say it. Because long ago, one verse bound a nation to God — and it still does.
I had never seen my father cry before.
Not when his mother passed. Not even when we crossed the Jordan River into our new land. But one morning, just after the sun rose, he sat on a rock outside our tent and wept openly. I was only nine summers old.
We had just finished our morning meal when Moshe — the man chosen by God — gathered the elders to give them the teachings that would become part of our lives forever. My father had gone to listen, like always, and when he returned, he held something in his heart that hadn’t been there the day before.
I’m Eliav, son of a shepherd near the tribe of Reuven — you won’t find my name in the scrolls. But I was there the morning the Shema was first spoken. I didn’t know that one verse could change your whole world.
I crept toward my father, curious but unsure if I should disturb him. He noticed and opened his arms. I sat beside him.
He whispered it to me, pressing his forehead to mine. “Shema Yisrael,” he began — “Hear, O Israel.” His voice trembled as he said the words Moshe had shared, the verse that still echoes through every sunrise and bedtime: “The Lord is our God, the Lord is One.”
I didn't understand why he cried until he explained it.
“All your life, Eliav,” he said, “you’ve seen the might of the Lord — the plagues in Egypt, the splitting of the sea, the mountain burning with fire. But now, we are not just a people saved. We are a people that belongs to something greater.”
He told me that Moshe had urged every parent to teach this verse to their children, to speak of it when lying down and rising up, when walking on the road and resting at home. Everyone. Always. It wasn’t just about believing in one God; it was about loving Him with all your heart, soul, and strength — even when it’s hard.
That day, I realized something important: faith isn’t only for the grown-ups huddled around Moshe. It is a flame passed from parent to child, from heart to heart.
Later that week, I watched my father carve the verse onto a piece of wood and hang it near the entrance of our tent. “It will remind us,” he said. “We are the people of the One God.”
Some neighbors laughed and said it wouldn’t last — that once we settled in the land, we’d forget. But that little piece of wood became something bigger. Eventually, our people began hiding those verses in little boxes called mezuzot, and we placed them on every doorway. We whispered the Shema when frightened. We sang it under the stars. Some say our ancestors even held it on their lips in their final moments — not out of fear, but out of hope.
Now I’m older, with children of my own. Each night, I press my forehead to theirs and whisper, “Shema Yisrael…”
Even when my voice trembles. Even when I’m too tired to finish the words. I say it. Because long ago, one verse bound a nation to God — and it still does.
