Not Commanders, But Anchors: Parenting Lessons from Parshat Ki Teitzei

Going Out to the Battle – And Coming Home

The parsha begins: “כִּי־תֵצֵא לַמִּלְחָמָה עַל־אֹיְבֶיךָ” — “When you go out to war against your enemies” (Devarim 21:10).

Chazal (Kiddushin 30b) teach that the Torah’s language of milchama — battle — refers not only to wars fought with weapons, but also to the lifelong struggle with the yetzer hara. Struggle, the Gemara reminds us, is not an interruption of life but part of it. Each of us must go out to war. And for our children, adolescence often feels like such a battlefield — sometimes because of the demands of school, the pressures of peers, and the expectations they carry on their shoulders, and sometimes because of the storms that rage inside them, storms they cannot yet put into words.

The Sfas Emes notes that the Torah does not say “if” you go out, but “when.” Struggle is not an accident; it is part of the journey of growth. Yet immediately the Torah reassures: “וּנְתָנוֹ ה' אֱ-לֹקֶיךָ בְּיָדֶךָ” — Hashem will deliver the enemy into your hand. The message is not that battles will vanish, but that victory is possible when we know we do not fight alone.

The Me’or Einayim takes this further and teaches that the yetzer hara itself is allowed by Hashem only so that a person will be drawn into connection beyond themselves. No one can win the inner war by might alone. Struggle softens when it is shared. Similarly, the Shem MiShmuel explains that the essence of geulah (redemption) is not the disappearance of struggle but the discovery of companionship within it. Redemption begins the moment we realize we are accompanied.

For parents, this truth reframes how we face the battles our children are fighting. Our instinct is often to tighten our grip, to argue harder, to clamp down on what feels out of control. But Ki Teitzei teaches that the deepest strength is not dominance but presence. A child does not need a commander to march them through their storm; they need an anchor who can hold steady beside them. Picture the teenager who comes home angry, slamming the door. The parent who resists the urge to lecture, who instead stays calm and makes themselves quietly available, becomes a vessel of Hashem’s promise: “וּנְתָנוֹ ה' בְּיָדֶךָ” — the strength to overcome does not come through force, but through presence.

The Rebellious Son – When Presence Is Missing

Soon after, the Torah presents the case of the Ben Sorer U’Moreh, the “stubborn and rebellious son” who refuses to listen to his parents (Devarim 21:18–21). The Torah prescribes a severe punishment, yet Chazal famously teach that this case “never happened and never will happen” (Sanhedrin 71a). Why, then, include it at all? To warn us of what can unfold when the bond between parent and child frays beyond repair.

The Ramban and Maharal explain that the tragedy of the Ben Sorer U’Moreh is not about a single act of defiance, but about a relationship that has collapsed. A child who is met only with control, criticism, or anger — without being steadied by love and compassion — grows increasingly alienated until connection feels impossible. The Torah paints this extreme outcome so we understand the stakes: when presence is missing, distance can harden into permanence.

Chassidic teachers read this passage less as legal instruction and more as a mirror. The Ben Sorer U’Moreh represents what happens when a child’s cries are consistently met with escalation instead of calm accompaniment. Picture the parent who shouts louder every time their child raises their voice, who piles on consequences when what the child really needs is containment. What the child needed was not harsher punishment but a parent able to master their own fear, soften their own reactivity, and remain present.

For us, the message could not be more urgent. Preventing our children from becoming “rebellious in spirit” is not about tightening the rules or doubling down on control. It is about showing deeper steadiness. Even when their words sting, even when their behavior pushes every button we have, the Torah reminds us: our role is not to overpower, but to accompany. That kind of presence — warm, open, steady — can make the difference between a child who feels condemned and a child who still believes redemption is possible.

Don’t Hide Yourself

“לֹא־תִרְאֶה… וְהִתְעַלַּמְתָּ” — “You shall not see your brother’s ox or sheep going astray and hide yourself” (Devarim 22:1).

The Midrash (Devarim Rabbah 4:4) explains that this mitzvah is not limited to returning lost property. It speaks to something deeper: when another Jew drifts off course, you cannot close your eyes and pretend not to notice. Spiritually, the Torah forbids detachment. To “hide yourself” is to abandon the responsibility to respond with care and presence.

For parents, this pasuk is piercing. When a child’s behavior veers off — when they withdraw emotionally, lash out in anger, or drift spiritually — our instinct is often to step back. Sometimes we even label that retreat as “giving space,” when in truth what we are offering is absence. Ki Teitzei insists: lo tuchal lehit’alem — you cannot look away. Presence itself is the mitzvah.

The Baal Shem Tov deepens this reading by teaching that hashavat aveidah — returning the lost — is not only about physical belongings, but about lost sparks of the soul. Every Jew carries sparks of holiness, and when those sparks are dimmed, those closest to them are called to help restore what is hidden. For a parent, showing up with calm steadiness is itself an act of hashavat aveidah. To stand with a child who has strayed — not with panic, not with judgment, but with quiet nearness — is to help return them gently to their own light.

The Shem MiShmuel adds that the greatest danger is not the misstep itself, but the loneliness of missteps endured without accompaniment. When we “hide ourselves,” the child feels abandoned, and the distance between us grows. But when we remain available — even silently, even without immediate solutions — the path back becomes less frightening, because they know they are not walking it alone.

In this way, lo tuchal lehit’alem becomes a profound parenting charge. We are not expected to prevent every detour or fix every wrong turn. But we are commanded not to disappear. To stay steady, compassionate, and near is to fulfill the Torah’s call — to help return what feels lost by refusing to let go of the one who carries it. Sometimes this looks like sitting quietly outside a closed bedroom door, or slipping a note under it that simply says, “I’m here.” These small acts can mark the difference between a child feeling abandoned and a child feeling held.

Building Guardrails – Presence as Protection

The parsha also commands: “When you build a new house, you shall make a guardrail for your roof, so you will not bring blood upon your house if someone falls from it” (Devarim 22:8). On the surface, this is a law of physical safety. Yet Chassidic commentaries read it symbolically: the “roof” represents the higher places we reach, and the “fence” is the boundary that protects us from falling when we are most elevated but also most fragile.

The Shem MiShmuel explains that a person can be most vulnerable precisely when they are “on the roof” — filled with energy, ambition, or intensity. In those moments of height, without boundaries, collapse is most likely. The Torah insists: build guardrails before the fall happens.

Parenting is no different. Adolescence is a rooftop season: high emotions, soaring independence, the thrill of freedom — and with it, the risk of crashing. Presence becomes the guardrail. Not the presence that smothers or traps, but the presence that steadies and contains. A parent who shows up calmly, who offers compassionate limits while remaining near, builds invisible rails around their child’s fragile heights.

This mitzvah teaches us that safety is not created only in moments of crisis, but in advance, through preparation. A guardrail is built before someone walks the roof. In the same way, parents who establish an atmosphere of steady availability — who, through words and actions, communicate “you are never alone here” — give their children something to lean on before the storm comes.

It is our presence — consistent, open, and warm — that keeps the home from becoming a place of danger and allows it to remain a place of blessing. Every guardrail we build through quiet presence is a silent promise: when you are high up and unsteady, I will be here to keep you from falling.

Respond Today, Not Tomorrow

“בְּיוֹמוֹ תִתֵּן שְׂכָרוֹ… וְאֵלָיו הוּא נֹשֵׂא אֶת־נַפְשׁוֹ” — “On that day you shall give him his wages… for he sets his soul upon it” (Devarim 24:15).

The Ramban explains that delaying a worker’s wages is not merely unfair — it is theft, because the worker depends on it for life itself. Even a brief withholding places his well-being at risk. Chazal in Bava Metzia (111a) highlight the urgency by noting that the Torah repeats this command several times. Wages are not only about payment; they are about dignity — the acknowledgment that one’s effort has value.

The Chiddushei HaRim adds a Chassidic dimension: bi-yomo titen — “on that day you shall give” — teaches that avodat Hashem belongs to the present. Holiness cannot be postponed. What the soul longs for today cannot be deferred until tomorrow, for sanctity is experienced in the immediacy of presence.

Applied to parenting, the lesson is piercing. When a child “sets their soul” on you — when they are reaching, however clumsily, for comfort, recognition, or safety — it must be answered now. To delay is to withhold something life-giving. Soothing heals most when it is immediate: a calm word in the heat of frustration, a gentle hand on the shoulder while the tears are still fresh, a few minutes of listening before the bedroom door clicks shut. These small responses, offered bi-yomo, communicate: Your soul matters to me now.

The Shem MiShmuel adds that a child’s cry is rarely only about the surface issue. Beneath it is their soul asking: “Do you see me? Do I matter to you?” A prompt response affirms their worth. A delayed one risks teaching them that their pain is not important.

Every parent knows the temptation to wait until we feel calmer, more prepared, more ready with the “right” words. But the Torah’s command is clear: bi-yomo titen — respond in the day itself. For parents, this becomes a spiritual charge: redemption does not begin in grand strategies, but in immediacy. The deepest need of a struggling child is not our clever advice but our present attention. When we show up quickly, calmly, and steadily, we echo Hashem’s own promise of וְגָאַלְתִּי — I will redeem you — not from a distance, but in the very moment of need.

Notice What Is Forgotten

“כִּי־תִקְצֹר קְצִירְךָ בְּשָׂדֶךָ, וְשָׁכַחְתָּ עֹמֶר בַּשָּׂדֶה, לֹא־תָשׁוּב לְקַחְתּוֹ; לַגֵּר לַיָּתוֹם וְלָאַלְמָנָה יִהְיֶה, לְמַעַן יְבָרֶכְךָ ה' אֱ-לֹקֶיךָ” — “When you reap your harvest… and forget a sheaf in the field, do not go back to take it. It shall belong to the stranger, the orphan, and the widow, so that Hashem will bless you” (Devarim 24:19).

The Mishnah (Pe’ah 5:6) teaches that shikchah — the forgotten sheaf — has no fixed measure. Its holiness lies precisely in what was unplanned. The Torah reveals that divine favor flows not only from what we intentionally gather, but from what we are willing to release for the vulnerable.

The Chasam Sofer explains that true blessing comes not when we claim everything for ourselves, but when we accept incompleteness — when we leave room for others. The Noam Elimelech adds that the forgotten sheaf symbolizes sparks of holiness that fall into hidden places. They may seem small, even insignificant, but when noticed and lifted, they release great light.

For parents, this pasuk carries a piercing truth: what wounds a child most deeply is not always harsh words, but being unseen. A child who feels “forgotten” — whose quiet needs, subtle signals, or unspoken struggles go unnoticed — begins to believe that they themselves are forgettable. Torah reframes this: the forgotten sheaf is not waste. It is the very place where blessing waits.

This redefines parenting. We often focus on the “planned harvest”: meals prepared, homework checked, schedules enforced, advice offered. But the deepest blessing comes when we notice the forgotten sheaves — the silence at the dinner table, the slumped shoulders after school, the tear that is quickly wiped away. These moments whisper: Look for me here. Don’t let me be left behind.

Chassidic masters teach that Hashem Himself is Zocher nishkachot — the One who remembers what is forgotten (Tehillim 9:13). Nothing escapes His notice. When parents refuse to overlook even the hidden corners of a child’s soul, they imitate Hashem’s presence.

Soothing often begins in these quiet spaces. By attending to what a child cannot yet put into words, we say: Nothing about you is forgotten. No part of you is too small to matter. In that act of remembrance, blessing is released — not only for the child, but for the relationship itself. And in that attention, the child experiences their own small measure of geulah: freedom from the fear of invisibility, and the rediscovery that they are worthy of being seen.

Remember Amalek

Finally, the parsha closes: “זָכוֹר אֵת אֲשֶׁר־עָשָׂה לְךָ עֲמָלֵק… לֹא תִשְׁכָּח” — “Remember what Amalek did to you… do not forget” (Devarim 25:17–19).

Rashi explains that the phrase “אֲשֶׁר קָרְךָ” can mean “they happened upon you,” but also “they cooled you off.” Amalek’s tactic was not only to attack physically, but to sap warmth and faith, striking precisely when the Jewish people were weary and vulnerable.

The Kedushat Levi teaches that Amalek represents the inner force of indifference — the icy voice that whispers: “It doesn’t matter. Don’t feel. Don’t care.” The Shem MiShmuel adds that Amalek is the opposite of emunah. Where faith draws us close and warms us with presence, Amalek chills the heart and pushes us away. Amalek thrives whenever weakness is met with judgment instead of compassion, or fear is met with silence instead of support.

For parents, this warning is urgent. Amalek often shows up not as an external enemy, but as an impulse inside us. It appears in the sharp, sarcastic remark when patience was called for. In the cold silence offered when reassurance was most needed. In the retreat behind a phone or a closed door when presence would have been the real protection. Amalek’s voice tells us: step back, cool down, don’t bother. The Torah commands us to resist. Zachor… lo tishkach — remember, and do not forget.

The antidote is soothing. To bring warmth, openness, and nearness at the very moment a child expects distance or dismissal is to strike at Amalek’s root. It is to say: I will not abandon you in your weakness. I will not cool off when you are most fragile. My warmth will stand guard against your loneliness. Even small gestures — sitting quietly by their side, pouring a glass of water, or gently saying “I see this is hard for you” — become acts of defiance against Amalek’s chill.

Every child will face moments of exhaustion and vulnerability. Remembering Amalek means remembering that the danger of coldness is always near — and answering it with compassion, steadiness, and warmth. When we do this, we do more than shield our children from loneliness; we transform the moment itself into geulah. We embody Hashem’s redemptive love — a love that does not withdraw in the face of weakness, but draws closer, refusing to disappear.

Why Soothed

This is why Ki Teitzei is mapped to Soothed in the 5-S framework. Taken together, the mitzvot of this parsha circle around one core truth: do not hide yourself, do not delay, do not forget, do not grow cold. Each warning is a different way of teaching us that when someone is vulnerable, our attentiveness is not optional. It is the very ground upon which redemption begins.

For children, this truth is not abstract but lived. A child in struggle does not need us to mirror their chaos. They do not find healing in anger, lectures, or withdrawal. What restores them is the steadying presence of a parent who can hold their own fear and remain anchored. Psychologists call this co-regulation: when a parent regulates instead of retaliates, the child’s nervous system borrows stability from theirs. The storm may not disappear, but it becomes survivable because it is no longer faced alone.

The Torah’s promise of “וְגָאַלְתִּי” — “I will redeem you” — takes on new depth in this light. Redemption does not begin with escape from pain, but with companionship inside it. Before Hashem redeemed us from Egypt, the Torah says: “וַיֵּדַע אֱלֹקִים” — “And God knew” (Shemot 2:25). Rashi explains: He turned His full attention toward us. He allowed Himself to be moved by our suffering. Only then did redemption begin. The sequence matters. Presence precedes deliverance.

So too with our children. Their redemption begins not when the struggle is erased, but when they discover that their struggle does not drive us away. Soothing is not indulgence or permissiveness; it is strength in its truest form. It is chesed b’gevurah — compassion expressed through restraint, love revealed through steadiness. It is the act of saying: Your pain will not push me out. I can hold this with you. You are not alone.

When parents learn to soothe in this way, they do more than comfort their child. They mirror Hashem’s own way of redeeming His people — holiness that shows itself not in distance, but in nearness; not in avoidance, but in deep attention. And in that practice, parents themselves are changed. They discover that their greatest strength is not in solving every problem, but in becoming the anchor through which blessing and geulah can flow — first into their child’s life, and then into their own.

Parenting Application – Warm, Open Presence

To show up with energy is not about being loud, animated, or endlessly cheerful. It is about bringing a spirit of warmth, openness, and steadiness into the space between parent and child — especially in moments when the instinct is to withdraw, retaliate, or shut down.

Warmth is more than friendliness; it is the opposite of coldness and detachment. It is the attentive spirit that tells a child: You still matter to me, even now. Without warmth, even well-meant words can land as rejection. With warmth, even silence can feel like love. Sometimes warmth looks like the parent who stays at the kitchen table until their child, who has been hiding upstairs, finally emerges. The message is simple but profound: I am here, and I am not going anywhere.

Openness means resisting the fear or defensiveness that rises when a child’s emotions overwhelm us. Panic shuts them down; openness makes room for their voice. To be open is to say: There is space here for your anger, your sadness, your confusion. You don’t need to hide it or dress it up for me. This openness is not permissiveness. It is discipline of the highest order — the discipline of remaining available when every nerve inside us wants to escape or to control. In that openness, a child learns that their inner world will not be dismissed.

Presence is the choice to respond in real time, not later when it is convenient. It does not always look like conversation. Sometimes it is a steady silence, a hand gently placed on the shoulder, or even the sound of your breathing beside theirs. Presence communicates: You are worth my time right now. When we delay, a child may learn that their needs are inconvenient. When we show up in the moment, we teach them that their soul matters now — not only when it is easy.

Psychologists call this dynamic co-regulation: the way one calm nervous system steadies another. Chassidut calls it chesed b’gevurah — love expressed through containment, compassion revealed through strength. In both languages, the truth is the same: the parent’s restraint becomes the child’s reassurance. The parent’s steadiness becomes the child’s stability. And the parent’s refusal to retaliate becomes the child’s first taste of geulah — redemption from the fear that their emotions make them unlovable.

And yet, warm, open presence does not only transform the child — it transforms the parent as well. It calls us to slow our breath when everything in us wants to shout. It forces us to face our own discomfort with vulnerability, our own impatience, our own fear of not being in control. It teaches us to rely on Hashem in the very moment when we feel least adequate. Each time we choose presence instead of panic, steadiness instead of withdrawal, we grow in our own capacity for compassion and self-mastery.

To choose warm, open presence, then, is not just a parenting technique; it is avodah. It is inner work that refines us, stretches us, and sanctifies us. It mirrors Hashem’s way with us: dwelling in our midst, not withdrawing in anger; redeeming us not by erasing our struggle, but by staying with us inside it. When we practice this, we do more than soothe our children. We sanctify the bond between us. We turn moments of rupture into seeds of trust. And slowly, we redeem not only their pain, but the relationship itself — and, in the process, we redeem something within ourselves.

Closing Reflection

Ki Teitzei reminds us that life’s battles are not rare interruptions — they are part of the human journey. The Torah does not ask us to pretend otherwise. Instead, it redefines strength. Again and again in this parsha we are warned: do not hide yourself, do not delay your response, do not forget what is fragile, do not let coldness take root. Each teaching is another way of saying: when struggle comes, the greatest act of courage is to bring a soothing presence.

For a child, being soothed is not a luxury; it is redemption. When a parent refuses to disappear, when they answer vulnerability not with distance but with warmth, not with retaliation but with calm steadiness, the child experiences something life-changing: My pain does not overwhelm you. My feelings do not make me unlovable. I am not alone inside this storm. In that moment, the home itself shifts — from a place of pressure and performance to a place where the heart can rest.

This is the Torah’s promise of “וְגָאַלְתִּי” — “I will redeem you.” Redemption is not only the breaking of chains; it begins quietly, with the experience of being soothed. Before Hashem split seas or crushed oppressors, the Torah says: “וַיֵּדַע אֱלֹקִים” — “And God knew” (Shemot 2:25). Rashi explains: He turned His full attention toward us; He became emotionally involved. That act of divine attunement — of being with us in our anguish — was the first spark of geulah.

So it is with our children. Their redemption begins not when the struggle ends, but when they discover that their storm does not drive us away. To soothe is not indulgence; it is sacred work. It is the choice to remain calm when chaos rises, to bring compassion when coldness beckons, to stay close when distance would be easier. By soothing again and again, we mirror Hashem’s way of dwelling among His people — not stepping back in anger, but drawing near in tenderness.

And in that choice, we are transformed as well. We discover that our greatest strength is not in controlling outcomes, but in becoming a source of calm that allows healing to take root. The family itself is reshaped: battles no longer define us — soothing does. That is the soil where trust, resilience, and geulah begin to grow.

Your presence soothes.

And from soothing, redemption begins —

for your child, for yourself, and for the sacred bond between you.