Through the Heat
The sacred work of returning, again and again.
This past Shabbat, I stood at the top of the stairs on our synagogue’s youth floor—my first Shabbat as a rabbi—and just listened.
From the first and second grade room, I heard cheers from a parsha party. From the middle school room, voices deep in conversation. Hebrew flowed from the immersion room. In the kindergarten space, there were giggles and squeals, and somewhere someone was asking for another snack. I stood still and let the sound wash over me.
This wasn’t always what it sounded like.
The youth floor has become a space filled with joyful noise, growing minds, and kids who want to return each week—not just because their parents brought them, but because something meaningful is being built here. The space is not yet complete. It is always becoming. A living, breathing environment that expands each time a new child walks through the door. Each time a youth leader brings their voice, their care, their creativity. Each time we listen closely enough to begin again. Every summer, we turn inward - we reflect, we plan, and we build anew.
Building something sacred takes time. It requires patience, flexibility, presence, and real grit. It asks us to show up when things feel uncertain. To stay long enough for trust to grow roots. To walk beside each child as they become more fully themselves. It also requires the humility to grow from what didn’t work—the missteps, the moments we lost our way, the strategies that fell flat. Sacred spaces are not built through perfection, but through the willingness to begin again.
Now, summer is beginning. A heatwave is already on its way. The kind of heat that slows the breath and tests your will. The kind that strips things down to what matters most, because everything requires more energy—more intention, more staying power, more care. In the heat, even ordinary tasks become acts of endurance. Sometimes, that is where the most meaningful growth begins.
There is a strong temptation to step back. To say: I’ve done enough for now.
Some seasons require rest. Sacred work, too, needs its Shabbat.
Still, there are times when the most essential thing we can do is remain present through the heat—not out of obligation, but out of love. Out of hope. Out of the quiet faith that something holy is still forming, even when we cannot yet name it. It is not easy to keep showing up when the results are invisible, when the growth is buried beneath layers of resistance or pain. Yet that is often when presence matters most—when we stay not because we see the outcome, but because we believe in the process.
That truth came into focus on the last day of school this year.
There was a student—someone I had seen nearly every day. He had struggled in just about every way a middle schooler can. He fought. Stormed out. Said things that stung. He pushed limits, and people. His pain showed up as anger. His fear as control.
There were days I wondered if anything I said made a difference. Days I sat with him and questioned whether the space I was offering was doing anything at all. He didn’t seem to take it in. He pushed back, shut down, deflected. Still, I met him. Not with perfect patience. Not with grand solutions. Just with steadiness. I reminded him, again and again, that there was something strong and good inside him—even if he couldn’t feel it yet. Even if the world had made it hard for him to believe.
He wasn’t ready to accept that. Not this year.
On the last day of school, he ran out of the building as fast as he could, without looking back.
The next morning, as I walked down the stairs after a staff meeting, there he was. Standing quietly outside my office.
“I didn’t get to say goodbye,” he said. “I wanted to thank you for helping me this year.”
He had taken a city bus—by himself—just to come back. For two minutes. To say thank you.
Even now, I feel my breath catch thinking about it. He didn’t return for closure. He returned because something sacred had begun to take root. Something that grew quietly through resistance and rupture. Something that held.
I told him what I had told him all year. That he mattered. That I saw him. That I always would.
Transformation rarely comes in flashes of light. It arrives slowly, almost imperceptibly, through the ordinary courage of staying present.
This is what staying looks like. Not grand gestures, but daily acts of love. Sitting with a child in silence when they can’t speak. Singing loudly and off-key because they need someone to go first. Walking through a hallway heavy with heat and still showing up, again and again, until something sacred finds air.
The most meaningful spaces do not appear fully formed. They are made by people willing to return. By teachers who try again. By youth leaders who stretch beyond what they thought they could do. By parents who stay present even through the tantrums, the silences, and the sharp words.
The heat is real. The work is hard. The transformation is slow.
Yet it is happening.
We only have to stay long enough to hear the laughter on the other side.
For parents, this staying often looks quieter. It means sitting beside a child who refuses to speak, or packing the same lunch again for the tenth day in a row because that’s what feels safe. It means gently setting limits while absorbing their frustration. It means noticing the small signs of growth—how they recover faster than they used to, how they circle back after slamming the door, how they ask a question that shows they’ve been listening after all.
Not every moment needs to be teachable. Some just need to be held. Sometimes, we are not there to explain or to fix, but simply to witness. To listen without trying to shape the outcome. To stay close enough that a child can begin to feel safe in their own unfolding. Sometimes, our role is to hold their growth gently, so they can begin to experience it for themselves.
Staying through the heat of their big feelings, their resistance, their becoming - that’s the sacred task. It is rarely dramatic. It doesn’t always look like progress. Yet it builds a world.
The kids may not say it out loud.
One day, though, they come back. Sometimes in words. Sometimes in presence. Sometimes just by becoming more of who they are.
Those are the moments we stay for.
🌿 For those walking with children, especially through the heat of summer, here are a few things to remember:
1. Stay close, even when it’s hard.
Children don’t always show their need directly. Sometimes your quiet presence speaks louder than any words.
2. Look for the small signs.
A breath taken before reacting. A question asked later. A moment of calm that used to end in tears. These are seeds of becoming.
3. Choose consistency over perfection.
You don’t need to get it right every time. Your return is the anchor.
4. Let the moment be enough.
Every struggle doesn’t need to be solved. Some only need to be witnessed.
5. Ask spiritual questions in ordinary moments.
Try: “What gives you strength when things are hard?” or “When have you felt connected to something bigger than yourself?” These questions help children access their own inner wisdom.
6. Create a ritual of return.
A hug, a shared word, or a quiet gesture after conflict teaches a powerful truth: even after rupture, we begin again.
7. Name the sacred in staying.
Say aloud: “This is hard, and I’m here.” Let children feel that your presence is not conditional on their ease.
8. Translate emotional outbursts.
When a child says “Leave me alone,” you might gently respond: “You’re overwhelmed. I’ll be nearby.” Translation teaches emotional awareness over time.
9. Support the pull-away.
As children grow, pulling back is developmentally healthy. Your steadiness gives them something to come home to.
10. Celebrate the reapproach.
Notice when they circle back. A small question. A quiet moment of connection. These are their ways of saying, “I still need you.”