In my eye, my benevolent eye of a father, there is a mother's
tear.
These drops will strike the rock of hope, stones to be worn
down by tears.
Will he become a Rabbi Akiva of this generation?
A drop, a tear, a drop.
Striking stone.
Will he find his place along this new path,
Up the slope, over its stony protrusions, its obstacles?
Will his capabilities stand up to the sharp chisel of the
Rosh Yeshiva's mind?
Will his tenacity stand up to the difficulties and see them
through to the end?
Will he hold on tightly to his goal, while climbing up to the
heady peak?
Will the mashgiach's hand be sufficiently supportive
and caring?
Will the latter's penetrating eye see my Yossi for what he
is, what he can become, from amidst the entire group filling
the Torah hall?
Will he identify the timbre of his soul, crying out for help,
even through his abashed silence?
Will he see in him the unique, special, singular Yossi I
know, amongst tens of other unique ones clustered in the
yeshiva hall?
Will he discern the small flame of my child burning amidst
the huge bren uplifting the entire group, capturing
hearts with the exhilirating lilt of Torah study?
Will Yossi find that engineer to build him and chisel the
building stones of his fine character traits, or will he
emerge a mass product, a monochromatic edifice like low
incoming housing?
Go, my son. Grow. Your father's tears are a prayer:
May you find favor in the eyes of Hashem, and also in the
eyes of man. In the eyes of your Rosh Mesivta, your
Mashgiach, in the eyes of your Chavrusa and roommate.
Your father's tears will rise higher and higher to blaze the
path for your aspirations, to open up the gates for you. This
is your big moment, my young Ben Torah. This is your test,
which is also my test. We are being tried, you and I,
together and seperately.
My little boy left the house, in order to grow in Torah. I
plead with You, Hashem, Master of the World — provide
him with a ladder . . .
