How a Child’s Spark Reunited His Broken Family

Rabbi M., a devoted educator at a yeshiva high school in Israel, once shared a moving story in the Ish L’Re’ehu newsletter. His school, which includes a dormitory, serves boys from all kinds of backgrounds—some from deeply religious homes, others from more traditional or even completely secular families. What they all have in common is that they wouldn’t thrive in a standard setting. “This is the place where we help bring out the best in them,” Rabbi M. explained.

One summer morning in the year 2000, the school principal asked Rabbi M. to come in for a few hours to help with registration. He agreed, not knowing that this day would mark the beginning of a story that would stay with him for years.

That morning, a secular woman walked in with three boys—her sons. They had stylish haircuts and wore no kippot, and their appearance alone made it clear that they hadn’t had any exposure to religious life. “I want to register them,” the mother said firmly.

Curious, Rabbi M. asked about their background. The boys had come from public school and had almost no knowledge of Judaism. The mother explained that beyond her growing interest in something different, she was also struggling to cover the high expenses of public school—trips, parties, uniforms, and more. The yeshiva offered a more affordable option, and perhaps something more meaningful too.

“It broke my heart,” said Rabbi M., “to think these three Jewish souls could be lost. So after she agreed to the religious expectations of the school, I enrolled them.”

Roi, the oldest, joined Rabbi M.’s own fourth-grade class. On the very first day, he asked, “Teacher—what’s Hashem?”  The rabbi hesitated—was this a real question or a joke?

He replied gently, “Do you know what Shema Yisrael is?”
“No.”
“What about Shabbat?”
Roi answered honestly: “That’s the day when religious people don’t go to the beach, and in Jerusalem they throw stones.”

At that moment, Rabbi M. realized how little Roi truly knew. He felt overwhelmed, unsure whether he had taken on too much. But instead of turning away, he took a deep breath and decided to commit—to meet Roi where he was and guide him forward.

Soon after, a loud knock came at the door. Roi’s father stood outside, visibly angry. “Is Roi studying here?” he asked. When told yes, he growled, “The divorce is all because of him. He’s out of control. You have my permission to be strict. Very strict.”

An hour later, the mother showed up. “I heard my ex-husband was here,” she said. “Let me guess—he told you to be hard on Roi, right? Well, listen to me: if you’re hard on him, he will become that troublemaker. What he really needs is love.”

And so it continued, day after day. The parents would show up, each blaming the other, each pulling in a different direction. Rabbi M. realized he would have to walk a very fine line—offering stability, understanding, and kindness to a child caught between two worlds.

And then, at the end of Elul—the Hebrew month leading up to the High Holidays—something changed.

One day, Roi came into class beaming. “Rabbi, do you know? My dad doesn’t drive on Shabbat anymore!”

After Sukkot, Roi shared more: his father had taken him to synagogue, built a sukkah, and even bought a set of the four species (lulav, etrog, hadas, and aravah). Months passed, and the unthinkable happened: Roi’s father, inspired by his son’s growing connection to Torah, decided to let go of his anger and resentment. He returned home. The family reunited.

The children were glowing with joy.

But just before Passover, a new test arrived. Roi came to school with a clouded face. Eventually, he burst into tears and confided that his mother had been diagnosed with a serious illness.

“With Hashem’s help, we’ll pray for her healing,” Rabbi M. said gently. He invited the class to say two chapters of Tehillim (Psalms) every day. Then he asked Roi, “What about Shabbat candles? Does your mother light them?”

“She does,” Roi replied.

But after a gentle conversation, the rabbi discovered that she had been lighting the candles after nightfall, not knowing that once Shabbat begins, kindling fire is no longer permitted. He gave Roi a calendar with candle-lighting times and told him, “Please ask your mother to light the Shabbat candles before sunset. It’s a special mitzvah that brings blessing into the home.”

Two months later, the mother came to school, smiling from ear to ear. “The test results came today,” she said. “I’m healed.”