Tomorrow night my youngest son returns home from overnight camp. It's the first time that he's been away for such a prolonged period of time. It is also the first time that my nine-year-old experienced such independence and responsibility that comes with being on your own.

Almost four weeks ago, the two of us were sprawled across the carpeted floor of his bedroom collecting neat piles of his clothes. Together, we developed an efficient system—he would gather his stuff from his drawers, passing me one piece at a time; I would label it and pack it into his suitcase, as he checked it off from his master list.

Observing my work closely, he cautioned, "Make sure you label everything, Ma! I don't want it to get lost." He was excitedly anticipating his first camping experience. "But write my name very small. Write it here in the back of the shirt," he said pointing, "or in a place where no one will notice." He instructed authoritatively.

When our family made the fourteen-hour drive back and forth to visit him, midway through his camping session, he proudly showed me his orderly cubby, where all his clothes were neatly folded, just so. Confidently, he informed me that he hadn't lost any of his belongings, thanks to our careful labelling. Other than one black stray pair of socks on which the black labelling pen wasn't legible, all his things were safely returned to him--even from the notorious, clothes-eating, camp laundromat.

And as he knowingly confirmed the merits of our fastidious labelling system, I began to consider the benefits of labels.

Not only on clothes. But on people, too.

Now, I know, it's not politically correct nowadays to apply labels to people. But hear me out.

It's a big bad world out there—even worse than that clothes-eating camp laundromat. Without a deeply engrained, strong sense of their identity, our kids can so easily lose their distinct selfhood, in their attempts to meld in with their surroundings. Only a clear, indelible and positively experienced label of our heritage--of who and what we are--can withstand the melting pot of assimilating into the crowd.

When we proudly wear a label of our identity, or a label of our family's and nation's heritage and history, we feel a distinct sense of belonging, a true knowledge of who we are and where we belong—one that can help us find our way back through any circumstance.

Tell your child he is a Jew--a member of a three-thousand year old chain of tradition. He is a part of a chosen people. He has parents, grandparents or great ancestors of whom he can be proud. He has a special tradition and family customs of which he can feel gratified. This identity will help him stand out, and remain apart—and, if he does falter, help him find his way back.

Also tell your child his unique qualities as a person--his strength and talents, and what you like so much about his special personality. Clearly label his untapped potential and you will help him maximize his best qualities and develop his character to its fullest. He will believe in the labels you give him and strive to live up to them.

Labels only become hazardous when they are negative or debilitating. Or when they become so central, that they overtake the individual.

As my son cautioned me—make sure the labels are small, and unnoticeable. Labels don't need to be worn outwardly, front and center. Labels that are too showy, arrogant, or too big are overwhelming—and unsightly. When a label becomes the person, rather than a part of his identity and what he can strive to be, it becomes counter-productive. Rather than helping him to actualize his unique sense of self, it hides it and squelches it.

We can then only see the label, and no longer the distinct individual.

I'm really excited that my son is finally coming home. I'm also happy that he's coming back with all his camp gear in tow.

But I'm even more glad that he's gained an increased sense of maturity and a belief in his capabilities and his identity.

I hope as the years progress, he will wear the label of his heritage with ever greater pride and that throughout the turns and twists of our confusing lives, it will help him find his path.

Now where did I store that labelling pen for next year?

Are you a boss? Do you have someone whom you supervise?

If you are a wise boss, you know that the way to get the most out of your employees is to make them feel some level of ownership. When your employees feel in charge of their own destiny, steering their independent area of jurisdiction, their full potential, devotion and responsibility will come to the fore. Creativity and productivity, on the other hand, is stifled by censorship and your underlings' lack of freedom to explore and develop their own initiatives.

Every successful boss realizes this. (And "bosses" aren't only found at work. At home they're usually called by the titles of "Mom" and "Dad"…or "Wife.")

A successful boss understands, as well, that the higher level of productivity and creativity is worth the inevitable errors, mess-ups and blunders that his employees are sure to make because of this freedom. True, an intuitive boss will sensitively keep a close watch, from afar, to ensure that the whole project will never be sacrificed due to any recklessness, lack of experience or unintentional errors. But he will also intervene in subtle ways, clandestinely putting things back in place and creating the right setting to steer the project back on track.

If he's really good, he'll be able to do this without his employees ever figuring it out. And definitely without them resenting it.

In our psychologically-attuned times, "empowering your employees" is the byword in the corporate world (--used by every self respecting, smart home-based boss too!). Every successful boss does this.

In fact, maybe these intuitive bosses learned this trick of the trade from the Ultimate Boss--the Boss of our world.

He, too, ensures that we're the master of our unique destinies, allowing us to develop our special talents and distinctive qualities to their fullest. He'll allow us mess ups and blunders, some of which may be quite costly. But if we're steering too far off course, He'll set the circumstances in place so that our projects eventually get back on track. He'll ensure that we never go too far off from the personal and universal missions of our world. The grand plan might be delayed or suspended, but it will never be entirely jeopardized.

And He usually does all that without us even realizing it.

Now that's what I call a wise boss.

The black fly was steadily crawling up and down my kitchen window screen. It was desperately—but methodically—seeking an escape, to get beyond the imprisoning panel of the screen, into the wide, open world.

It could smell the refreshing air. It could sense the gust of cool wind blowing across its long transparent wings and short stubby legs. This taste of freedom motivated the industrious fly to continue its painstaking pursuit to reach into that thrilling liberty.

Watching the fly, I realized that unless I provide some assistance, I'd be hearing it buzzing in my ears and disturbing my sleep at night. So I pushed the screen wide open; its escape now made easily attainable.

"Go on, just fly a little to the left and you'll be free," I said aloud, as my four-year-old and I sat at our kitchen table, closely observing it.

Inexplicably, though, the fly continued its regimented climb, on the same thread of the screen. Unaware of the open gap, it persisted fruitlessly in its stubborn search for a small hole to make its exit.

I'm told that wild animals that have been confined for a long time react similarly when the lock on their cage is finally released. They continue their nervous, circular pace around the parameters of their prison home, before finally venturing through the open door into their sought after freedom.

And, if you think about it, human beings do the same thing.

How often have you tried to break out of an old and irritating habit or an unhealthy outlook, only to be held back, caged in by the parameters of your imprisoning addiction?

How often have you wished for the freedom of change? A change in a negative pattern of thinking. A change in an automatic, emotionally triggered response. A change in your habits or routines. A change from the confining, "in your box" way of thinking or acting.

But, like the fly on my window screen, imprisoned by our routines, fenced in by our comfort zones, captured by the familiarity of what we know - rather than what we'd like to be - most of us, too, are unable to take the plunge and experience the much dreamed-of exhilaration of reaching our uninhibited, full potential.

"An imprisoned individual cannot set himself free," say our Sages.

In such situations, perhaps only the listening ear of a close friend or mentor can lend us the much needed courage, assistance and direction to forge into a better, emancipated reality.

Eventually, that fly did make its way out. But only after my daughter and I repeatedly "pushed" it towards the open screen--and towards its freedom.

You and your spouse are driving along the highway. You begin to strongly suspect that you have missed your exit. The thought keeps nagging at you, and as more time elapses and the terrain is looking less and less familiar, the more certain you become. Yet as you begin to vociferously demand that your husband turn off the next exit, he stubbornly insists that you are headed in the right direction.

Fifteen minutes have passed. By now you both realize that you are driving on the wrong route. Yet, instead of changing paths, your spouse is still hoping beyond hope that this will somehow bring you to your intended destination.

Why is he being so obstinate? Because turning around is admitting that he has made a mistake and that's probably the hardest thing for any human being to do.

We all have that highway scenario played out in our lives. We understand that we're heading down the wrong path, we realize that the longer we continue the more lost we will become, and yet we obstinately cling to our mistaken ways.

Why? Because it is so incredibly hard to admit that we've make a mistake.

You've had a disagreement with your spouse, child or co-worker. It escalated to the point of ugly comments and incriminating remarks.

You know you were wrong. You know you crossed some red lines. You realize that you should never have brought his mother into the conversation, or that hapless remark he once said—and apologized for dozens of times—more than ten years ago.

And yet…you couldn't stop yourself. As soon as you began your slippery slide into that nasty terrain of discord, there was no way to prevent plunging full force.

Now the heated moment is behind you. You know you ought to make amends, but every time it occurs to you to apologize, ever fiber of your being rebels as your mind begins a full scale line of defense—you may have been wrong…but he did say/do/act so inconsiderately…He should be apologizing!

Why remain in a bitter tug of war that is straining your relationship and distancing you further, when an apology could easily make things right? Because the hardest words to utter are "I'm sorry, I made a mistake."

Let me share a small incident. When I was travelling recently to the West Coast, a friend asked me to take a very important package to her son who was studying there. I readily agreed, packed it into my suitcase, took it along with me…and proceeded to forget all about it, shlepping it right back home with me! Only when I finally unpacked my suitcase upon my return did my heart drop as I realized my error.

What to do now?

1) My first reaction: ignore the whole mess up and avoid the unpleasant ramifications. But her son really did need this package. It was bound to come to the fore and wouldn't she be even more upset that I didn't inform her immediately?

2) Call her up and defend myself, effectively freeing me of any guilt. Explain, "hey, it was nice enough of me to agree to s-h-l-e-p it in the first place," and find some way of blaming her for not anticipating this by having her son call to remind me about the package.

3) Owe up to my mistake and sincerely apologize for it.

The incident was minor enough with small enough at stake that I was able to take the latter path—and truly admit to how idiotic and silly I felt for being so absent-minded. The conversation could have taken a very different turn, but instead the more I carried on about how utterly sorry I felt, the more she reassured me, "You're only human! Please stop blaming yourself."

But it did teach me that the more we go against our initial and natural resistance, admit to our wrong and sincerely apologize for it, the softer and more appeasing our friends, spouses, children and co-workers become. On the other hand, the more defensive or blaming we become, the more the situation spirals out of control into a full-blown war.

With minor mistakes, it is easy enough for us to owe up to our wrongs. The challenge, however, becomes when it happens in more sensitive areas or in more meaningful relationships, especially when there may be traces of emotional baggage and prior feelings of hurt, resentment, or anger.

I am sorry. Three short words. Three powerful words. Three words that can prevent us from plunging deeper down the wrong path.

Will we allow our egos to get in the way from steering us towards this harder, but far more rewarding path?

"Just look the other way!"

"Live and let live!"

"What's it to you, anyway?"

These are the mantras of our age of impersonalization…

Mind your own business, we tell ourselves. It's not your place to mix in, friends admonish one another. Even parents follow suit. And neighbors scrupulously defend these mottos. We feel it is wrong to interfere with issues that are not our own.

Tolerance and acceptance are espoused as our eleventh commandment. But I think that these positive words are merely cloaking our shameful apathy. They hide our real attitude of, "I don't really care enough about you or your issues to assist/make change/become involved, so instead I righteously act as if I don't want to interfere."

I remember one of the first times that I came face to face with apathy. I was visiting New York City as a young child. We were walking along a downtown street when I happened to notice a bulky form strewn across the sidewalk. As we approached, I was appalled to discern the shape of a human being, huddled on the ground, obliviously unaware in his drunken stupor of anyone around him. It was midday and without a hiccup to their quick pace, the flow of pedestrians stepped right over him as they went about their regular business. As a child, I couldn't comprehend the concept of a homeless vagabond sleeping on the boulevard, but it was even more jarring for me to witness the callous reaction of these fellow citizens.

While I'm not suggesting that we all approach homeless strangers in our downtown streets, this disregard for another has dangerously seeped into our own communities and lifestyles to the point that we avoid confronting unethical situations--under the guise of our "live and let live" attitude.

Suppose you were witness to a senior being verbally abused—would you rise above the crowd by being the sole voice of protest, or would you take the easier route and merely look the other way? Suppose it was your friend who was perpetuating this abuse, would you approach him to rectify the wrong, or would you remain silent under the guise of "it's not my place to say anything"?

The Talmud states that the Temple was destroyed due to Kamtza and Bar Kamtza. The story of Kamtza and Bar Kamtza is well-known and goes like this:

A Jewish individual had a friend named Kamtza and an enemy named Bar Kamtza. When this man made a large feast, he instructed his servant to invite Kamtza but instead the servant mistakenly invited his foe, Bar Kamtza. Bar Kamtza attended, assuming that their past rivalries had been forgiven. When the host discovered Bar Kamtza's presence, he demanded his immediate eviction. Bar Kamtza's pleas to be spared the public humiliation would not soften the host's stance. The host even adamantly refused Bar Kamtza's generous offer to pay for the entire feast as long as he'd be permitted to remain. Though the great rabbis and important people of Jerusalem were present, no one interfered. Bar Kamtza was so outraged and disgusted by this incident that he eventually plotted to libel the Jews before the Roman Emperor. This ultimately led to the Temple's destruction. (See the full story here. )

The Temple was destroyed due to unfounded hatred between Jews. The lack of leadership played a central role in the degeneration of the generation.

Yet the Talmud specifically blames Kamtza as well as Bar Kamtza—"Because of Kamtza and Bar Kamtza, Jerusalem was destroyed." Bar Kamtza was the individual who was in a serious dispute with the host. Yet Kamtza, the host's friend, appears entirely innocent. Kamtza wasn't even present at the affair, so what role did he possibly play in this wrongdoing? Why does the Talmud hold him accountable?

Yet perhaps the Talmud is teaching us about the necessity of doing our part--for each of us, “small” people, friends or neighbors--whether or not our leadership is setting the proper example.

Kamtza's fault stemmed from being aware of his friend's irreconcilable hatred towards his enemy. Kamtza heard about it, knew about it, witnessed it on occasions, yet remained ambivalent. Kamtza did nothing to rectify the situation.

Remaining silent while a wrong is being perpetuated, makes you, too, a party to the guilt. Apathetic silence to a crime is deemed acquiescence.

The Temple was destroyed for no less a reason.

Minding our own business is no justification. Our job is to make justice our business.

Is there ever a time to say, "Enough! No more Mr. Nice guy for me!"?

Think about this one before responding with a knee jerk reaction, it's not an easy question: Which quality would you like to impart to your child—how to be a nice person, or how to be a successful one?

In response, you'll probably wonder are the two necessarily mutually exclusive. Are they ever?

We define a nice person as someone who cares about others and is sensitive to their feelings. We've all met these sorts of individuals. These are the people who are selfless, seeing beyond their own wishes and putting the needs of others before their own. These are the people we love to be around.

Successful people, on the other hand, we identify as those who assert themselves to ensure that their personal goals are being met, irrespective of the needs, wishes or opinions of others. We've all met these types of individuals who guiltlessly step on anyone who gets in the way of their climb up their proverbial career or social ladders. These are the types whom we try to avoid—at all costs. But who nevertheless seem to be getting what they want out of life.

So, can the two co-exist?

Ideally, we'd all like to teach our children how to be accommodating to the perspectives of others. We'd like to teach them how to share their toys, their time on the swing and their snacks. We like to view ourselves, too, as considerate people who willingly give up our seat to the elderly or handicapped, who generously toss a few coins to the outstretched arms of a homeless indigent and who support the neighbourhood PTA. We value talking politely and criticizing sparingly. Until…that is, we have a run-in with someone who so blithely takes advantage of our good heartedness.

Ever had a situation where you are being neglectful to yourself (or your family) by tending to the whims of fussy Uncle Ben, critical cousin Sally and selfish neighbor Rhonda? Are you being considerate--or a wimp--by being a 'yes man' to your boss's opinions or by kowtowing to your tyrannical co-worker's quirks?

There are times when decidedly un-nice behaviour is the best response. Our traditions give the wise advice: "With a sly person, be sly." To achieve the greater goal, the correct response may be to deal deceitfully--or arrogantly, or selfishly, or sternly-- with a person who only understands that negative language. With people who can't see beyond the little circle of their ego, ask yourself is being nice the correct approach or will a more stern method ultimately achieve more greater good?

How do you draw the line?

Maybe the answer lies in evaluating our motives.

Ask yourself, why be nice? Do you believe this is the right way to approach life? Or do you just want to be thought of as a nice person? Do you genuinely believe that your child should share the coveted park's swing with others, or is it your fear of him being labelled as the ill-mannered bully? Why are you giving a rubber stamp approval to your friend or co-worker, is it because you agree with what s/he is doing, or are you reluctant to appear disagreeable? Why are you generously offering your time and energy to others—do you want to be considered kind or do you genuinely believe in the cause?

Perhaps the key is developing an inner strength.

Let's impart to our children—and demonstrate ourselves—the backbone to stand strong, whether that means having the courage to act with kindness and sensitivity (which should always be our default) or to act with deceitful slyness or gruff sternness to those that only understand that language—to achieve the best outcome.

Some of the most self-centered people look strong on the outside, but are weak within, completely incapable of overcoming their personal biases and whims.

And some of the nicest, kindest people may seem weak on the outside but have the steely determination within—to do the right thing. Whether that means saying an accommodating, sweet "yes" (in most cases) or an unkind, stiff "no."

Not because they are affected by how others will view them. But by how their Creator does.

What do YOU think? When is it time to stop being nice?

Several weeks ago, on Lag B'Omer, I joined our community for a rustic excursion to a vast outdoor park. As part of the program, there was a circus show, performed by a husband and wife team. They performed incredible feats of balance, control and co-ordination. At one point, my heart was racing so quickly, as I watched them masterfully balance on the unsteady surfaces while performing heart-stopping tricks.

The highlight of the show, however, was when the couple's young son joined in their unnerving feats. He balanced himself upside down on his father's shoulders--who himself was balanced on a high and unsteady surface--while the youngster performed all kinds of acrobatic, daredevil jumps in the sky landing upside down, his outstretched fingers locking with his father's.

As much as the anticipation grows for each of these daredevil feats, was it possible that in this performance an even greater tension could be sensed?

I don't think it was only my imagination, but the show took on an even greater intensity in these moments because we were aware that the young child balancing on the strong adult's shoulders was not "just" a child, but his son.

As his mother pressed the hoops into his arms for his challenging jumping routine, was she also conveying a kindly extra nod of encouragement, more than she would for any other fellow performer? And as his father stood by his side to take the final bow, was the pride evident in his eyes more for his son's amazing antics than for his own?

True, every performer's heart constricts until he sees his fellow performer successfully land after mastering a thorny trick. Each works hard to contribute his part so that the performance as a whole can succeed. No doubt, a close knit bond of kinship develops among each member of these performing groups.

But here that bond was palpably more evident. After all, this was his son. Her son. He was not just any performer, not just any child, but theirs.

As I watched the show, I thought of this underlying emotional tension.

I thought of how when we see friends or acquaintances going through an issue, a challenge or a temptation in their life, how we empathize for them and try to help in any way possible.

But watching this parent-child trio, I thought that if somehow we can view our friends or acquaintances as part of our family, would our perspective be different? If we could somehow convey true compassion, acceptance, love and self-interest in their success--would that intensity somehow make a tangible difference in their positive outcome?

In my last post, I wrote about my wonderful two day get-away with my husband to the scenic region of Niagara Falls.

One of the first tourist attractions that my husband arranged for us to do was a special boat ride along the Niagara River called "white water jet whirlpool."

For the hour or so that we were on this boat, I felt like a teenager again. Before boarding, we were forewarned that the ride would be bumpy and at times scary. We were also told that we would get wet—very wet—and that we should take along an extra change of clothing. But despite these warnings, I wasn't prepared for what lay ahead…

We began our adventure, by putting on heavy plastic coverings. We donned extra sweaters, to keep us warm in the colder temperature by the water, and an additional plastic rain coat, rubber bonnet and water shoes, topped off by a tightly fastened life jacket. In short, we were covered from head to toe in this thick yellow rubber shield before embarking on the boat.

The jet boat had about fifteen rows of seats and we were advised that the first rows would be the roughest and wettest. Of course, my husband opted for us to sit up front!

And then our escapade began.

At first, the boat rode slowly, almost like a relaxing tour in the river. But before long, we were bumpily riding the waves of the largest white water rapids. The river beneath us felt like hard jagged rocks sharply beating against our boat and I held on for dear life over each huge wave that we encountered. Water came pouring in on us, as if in bucketfuls, repeatedly splashing and thrashing our faces and bodies. No matter how much yellow rubber was enveloping us, we became thoroughly drenched, through and through. The hammering of the water was relentless, as were the walloping rapids, the boat's sharp turns and its sudden short stops.

In the moments that I wasn't gripping the steel bar in front of me so tightly that my knuckles turned white, I was joining in with the screams of all the other adult passengers on board.

Before long, the ship's captain announced that we were slightly ahead of schedule and asked if we wished to ride one more "bonus" ride on the biggest, bumpiest and highest rapid yet. Our group's undivided, resounding "yes" was followed once again by the ensuing hysterical screams, more drenching downpours and heart-stopping, menacing bumps.

And then, of course, hilarious giggles.

The group that debarked from the ship was sopping and dishevelled, but nevertheless unanimously happy. We had paid generously for this terrifying, bumpy encounter where huge waterfalls were slapped across our heads and faces. And yet we all exited laughing heartily.

And that is when I thought about how our attitude and perspective to each of life's challenges makes all the difference to our experience.

In a different set of circumstances, each of us would have been furious to be caught in such a downpour, soaked to the bone and subjected to such intimidating, heart-stopping activities. But because we perceived our experience as something enjoyable, as an adventure that we willingly undertook, these very same activities were seen with entirely different eyes.

Is there perhaps a message here on riding the bumpy waves, or in experiencing the drenching downpours of our lives?

This past week, my husband surprised me with exciting news.

"How about we both clear our schedules for just two days and get away? Just the two of us! We'll take a break from the kids, from our work and from the hectic pace of life and just enjoy each other's company."

The words were music to my ears. Every marriage expert suggests this—and for good reason—to reignite the marriage and recharge the batteries. But until we were actually in the car waving goodbye to our children on that Sunday afternoon, I didn't quite believe it would happen.

Our destination—a surprise for me, and chosen by my husband—was the beautiful scenic setting of Niagara Falls, just one-and-a-half hours away from our home. It was a perfect choice--far enough to feel like we got away but not too far to feel like we couldn't keep tabs on the kids, or return if we were unexpectedly needed. The plan was that we would be gone from Sunday afternoon until Monday night, long enough to get a fresh breather on life, but short enough for both of us to make adequate arrangements in our work schedules so we wouldn't be noticeably missed.

My husband planned our entire itinerary, filling our days with activities and tours that were a mixture of fun-filled and enjoyable as well as picturesque and relaxing. He also organized all the food and eating arrangements. I couldn't believe all the small details he thought of in advance, and all his research and co-ordination to make our trip as spectacular as it was. In his characteristic way, he thought of everything, and the two days away were absolute bliss, recharging and reinvigorating both of us.

On the way back, I, once again, expressed my gratitude to my husband for making this trip so memorable and we both resolved to do this more often.

"But do you know what I really liked the best?" I asked him. His curiosity was piqued as I continued. "It was the fact that you took the initiative to do this! Even if the trip wasn't as perfect or as well-planned as it was, even if the accommodations wouldn't have been as scenic, or even if there would have been glitches in our itinerary, to me, it still would have been perfect, because you took the time and effort to show that our relationship was important to you. It means the world to me—even if everything had gone wrong—that you arranged this for me!"

So what's my message here?

First, for all those husbands reading this—take the initiative to show your wife that your relationship is a priority to you. A couple days away would be a great place to start. But if that is not possible, in however you decide to show that you care, don't feel daunted by the expectation that it needs to be something extraordinary. Just the fact that you are taking the first step and that you are using your ingenuity will make her feel incredibly cared for and special.

I also was thinking that our connection with G‑d is a "relationship" too. G‑d tells us: "Open for me just the tipof a needle and I will open for you a floodgate."

Of course, G‑d can make any necessary "arrangements" in our lives far better and more perfectly than we can. But perhaps, we are being asked to "clear some time from our schedule," to demonstrate that our relationship with our Creator is a real and important part of our lives.

Perhaps, here too, our efforts need not be perfect. Our deeds need not have the backdrop of perfect, picturesque scenery. The arrangements need not even be glitch-free.

We simply have to take the initiative.

There are some people who profess greatness, but in moments of struggle, anger or challenge, their true colors come to the fore.

And then, there are others who claim to be simple, modest and plain individuals, but during certain circumstances, one can't help but gain a glimpse of their true greatness and spiritual fortitude.

Aaron (name has been changed) is a man in the latter category.

Aaron is a close friend of my family. Recently, his teenage son suffered a tragic accident. A group of his friends had been lighting fireworks when inexplicably a terrible mishap occurred and one exploded in his face. Although he was rushed to the hospital's emergency room, the damage was irreversible, and the sight in one of his eyes was permanently lost. After hours of laborious surgery, the other eye was thankfully salvaged and the doctors were able to assure the family that the ugly scar on the young boy's face would eventually completely heal.

At a moment of such unexpected horror, the reaction of a parent would understandably be anger and outrage at the unfairness and cruelty of life. It would be expected for such a parent to become submerged in a losing battle against an overpowering bleak and bitter misery as he experiences feelings of incredible self-pity for the terrible ordeal facing his son and his future.

But not Aaron.

Soon after the surgery, Aaron called my father, his rabbi, to explain, "I thank G‑d that my son's life was spared. The accident could have been far worse; he could have lost vision in both his eyes and become blind for life. His face, too, could have been permanently disfigured. We are very fortunate."

The first time that Aaron met my father in person after the accident, my father was in the middle of delivering a Torah class. When he spotted him, my father immediately stopped his class, approached Aaron and the two embraced. What words of comfort could he say to a man of such caliber?

Aaron revealed his spiritual stamina again when he shared his unbelievable reaction to this encounter with my husband, in the days that followed. "You should know how special your father-in-law is," he began. "He knows how to comfort like only a true friend and mentor can. His actions convey more than mere words."

After my own nine-year-old son approached Aaron to enquire about the welfare of his son, Aaron remarked to my husband (and found the time to call my parents to compliment them on their grandson's conduct), "Your son is so mature," he remarked, putting aside his own feelings at such a painful time. "Many adults have a difficult time facing me after this accident. But I marvel at the maturity of your son, to ask me in such a forthright manner, so sincerely and so maturely."

From where does an individual find the fortitude to overlook his son's new disability and focus instead on his fortune at being alive and on the abilities that he still possesses?

What enables a father to see beyond the bleakness of his own tragedy and focus on the outpouring of love and compassion of those around him?

How does a parent see the light and goodness of life at a moment when darkness and difficulty has penetrated into the life of his most beloved?

Honestly, I don't know the answers to these questions.

But what I do know is that when you are fortunate to witness such greatness, you can only stand in awe--and attempt to learn from its penetrating message.