Parshat Eikev – Listen Beneath the Surface - Listening to reveal, not to fix

I. The Urge to Jump In

There are moments in a parent’s life that feel like a sudden breath after being underwater too long. Your child — the one who has been quiet, guarded, or painfully out of reach — finally begins to speak. It might sound small, almost offhand: a complaint about a teacher who embarrassed them, a story about a friend who let them down, or a quiet hint that life has been feeling heavy lately. But to you, it’s not small at all. You hear it for what it is — a crack in the wall, an opening you’ve been waiting for, perhaps for weeks, perhaps for months.

They speak slowly, maybe haltingly. The words carry more than the story they tell — there’s a tone, a pace, a choice of phrases that feels like an invitation to step closer. You notice the stillness in the room, the way their eyes flicker toward you and then away, almost testing the waters to see how much they can trust you with. Something in you wants to meet that trust instantly, to prove in this very moment that you can help.

Before you even realize it, your mind is in motion. Relief rushes in: They’re talking to me. Then urgency follows: I can help them. You’re already imagining the advice you’ll give, the phone call you’ll make, the reassurance you’ll offer to help them see things in a better light. The thought of their pain pulls at something deep inside you — something that makes you want to stand between them and the hurt, to smooth it, fix it, make it lighter. You want to be the parent who knows what to do.

And so you begin to speak — maybe gently, maybe eagerly — and then it happens. A shift so subtle you might miss it if you weren’t looking for it. Their shoulders draw in, just slightly. Their eyes turn down. The openness in their face fades, replaced by something more guarded. The spark that was there a moment ago — the one that whispered, I’m letting you in — dims. The door you thought was opening has quietly, silently swung shut.

This is not because you failed as a listener. It’s because love often comes wrapped in urgency, and urgency can feel like intrusion. For your child, being “helped” too quickly can feel like losing control over their own story. Instead of feeling understood, they feel managed. Instead of feeling met, they feel moved — and not by their own choice. The moment you were so eager to protect slips away, leaving you both back in the same quiet distance you were trying to cross.

And maybe that’s why Parshat Eikev begins the way it does: “והיה עקב תשמעון” — “And it will be, because you will listen…” (Devarim 7:12). Not “because you will speak,” not “because you will explain,” but because you will listen. The Torah seems to know the tension of this moment — how much inner restraint it takes to remain with the words as they are, without rushing to make them easier to hear or shaping them into something more familiar. It asks us to hear not only with our ears, but with a kind of presence that receives the whole person standing before us.

Because in Hashem’s framework, listening is not passive. It is an act of covenant. It is the way He relates to us — hearing our tefillot even when they are tangled, incomplete, or raw. He does not cut us off mid-prayer to tell us what we “really” mean. He lets us speak until our own heart emerges. That is the model Eikev gives us as parents: to tell our children without words, Your story matters more than my solution . And because I listen, I may come to understand what even you did not yet have words for. I see you before I try to fix you. And that — more than any advice we could offer — is what keeps the door open long enough for trust to grow.

II. Listening in Eikev – More Than Hearing

Parshat Eikev opens with words that could have been written for the exact moment a parent finally hears their withdrawn child speak and feels the almost uncontrollable urge to leap into action: “והיה עקב תשמעון” — “And it will be, because you will listen…” (Devarim 7:12). For the parent whose inner voice is shouting, They’re finally talking to me! I have to help them! the Torah begins not with, “Because you will act,” or, “Because you will explain,” but with the gentlest — and most demanding — instruction: listen.

Rashi reminds us that tishma’un is not simply about allowing sound to reach the ear. It is to accept, to absorb, to let what you hear find a home deep inside you. It is a way of listening that changes you before it changes anything else. The Torah is telling us that in certain moments — especially the tender ones when a child risks opening their heart — the first work is not to speak, but to let their words take root in you.

Later in the parsha, the Torah raises the standard even higher: “והיה אם שמוע תשמעו” — “And it will be, if you surely listen…” (Devarim 11:13). Chazal in the Sifri note the doubling — shamo’a tishme’u — “If you listen to what you have already heard.” This is listening in layers. The first hearing might give you the facts: the sequence of events, the visible story. The second hearing — which only comes if you return to the words and let them echo — is where you begin to hear the heart: the hopes, the fears, the unspoken meanings that live in the pauses. In parenting, this means resisting the urge to move on once the “story” is told. It means circling back, listening again, and allowing yourself to discover what was there but hidden the first time.

Between these two calls to listen, the Torah gives a third image — one that links listening to survival itself: “למען הודיעך כי לא על הלחם לבדו יחיה האדם” — “So that you will know that man does not live on bread alone” (Devarim 8:3). Bread sustains the body, but the soul depends on something entirely different: the words, presence, and understanding it receives. Just as a body weakens without food, the spirit of a child weakens without being truly heard. For them, attentive listening is nourishment — a life-giving assurance that their inner world matters enough for someone to stop, stay, and make space for it.

Taken together, these pesukim form a spiritual arc. First, the courage to stop and listen with openness. Second, the humility to return and hear more deeply than before. And finally, the life-giving impact of listening that reaches the soul and gives it strength. This is not just advice for us; it is a reflection of how Hashem listens to us — hearing our prayers the first time, hearing them again when we repeat them in pain, and letting His listening itself become the place where we are comforted and renewed.

For a parent, this changes the entire goal. Listening is no longer about collecting enough facts to engineer a solution. It is about receiving the heart that travels with the words — the tone that trembles, the momentary catch in a sentence, the pause that lingers just a fraction too long. Often, the truth a child most needs to share lives in those moments where nothing is said out loud. To listen in the way Eikev calls us to is to treat those silences not as empty space, but as sacred ground — holding them with as much care as the words themselves. Because in those silences lies the nourishment that keeps a soul alive.

III. Rabbinic and Chassidic Insights – The Humility of Hearing

The Torah’s call to listen is not merely a communication skill; it is an inner avodah — a refining of the heart. The Midrash Tanchuma (Eikev 1) teaches that genuine listening begins with anavah — humility. To truly hear another person, you must make room inside yourself for their reality, even when it disrupts your own. Humility means loosening your grip on the “correct version” of events, resisting the reflex to defend yourself, and quieting the voice that wants to edit their words before they’ve finished speaking. Without humility, we don’t actually hear them; we only hear the reverberations of our own expectations.

For a parent, this humility is tested in ordinary moments that carry deep stakes. Your child comes home and says, “Everyone was laughing at me the whole time.” You know it wasn’t everyone — maybe just a few classmates — and you want to correct the exaggeration. Or they mutter in anger, “You never care about what I think!” and everything in you wants to reply, “That’s not true.” But humility means holding back. It means letting their experience stand in the air, unchallenged, long enough for you to understand what it feels like to be them in that moment. It is hearing their emotional truth before you apply your factual truth.

The Baal Shem Tov offers a vivid image for this restraint: when we listen without judgment, we become a kli — a vessel — capable of holding another person’s words and spirit. But when we rush to respond, especially with solutions or corrections, we “break the vessel” before it has held anything. Just as a cup cannot be filled if it is already brimming over, the heart cannot be filled if it is already crowded with our own voice. Leaving it open allows their truth to settle — and only then can anything nourishing be poured in.

The Lubavitcher Rebbe deepens this further: in Torah, shmiah — hearing — is not simply registering sound, but absorbing it so fully that it reshapes who you are. This is why the Shema begins with “Shema Yisrael” — not only “hear,” but “let this truth live inside you.” In parenting, that means letting your child’s words — even if messy, incomplete, or difficult to hear — remain with you long enough to influence your understanding before you try to influence theirs. It is listening with the conviction that their voice has worth before you know where it will lead.

Rav Dessler (Michtav MeEliyahu) warns that most people “hear” only what matches what they already believe. We listen for agreement rather than for discovery. The avodah of true listening is to reverse that — to hear the person before hearing the problem. Because when someone feels genuinely heard, the problem itself often softens, revealing its true shape in a way that might not have been possible under the pressure of being “corrected.”

This is how Hashem listens to us. We bring Him our prayers — sometimes tangled, sometimes exaggerated, sometimes blurted out in frustration — and He does not interrupt to adjust our language or clarify our facts. He receives the fullness of our words, hears the heart behind them, and only then responds in His time and His way.

Listening in this way is not a small courtesy. It is an act of humility, a shaping of yourself into a vessel, and — in the language of והצלתי — a quiet act of rescue. It tells your child: Your world matters enough for me to set aside mine for this moment. I will hold it, unbroken, until you are ready to share more. And in that choice, you become a partner with Hashem in lifting them from the loneliness of being unheard.

IV. The 5-S Connection – Seen

In the 5-S framework, “Seen” is not about watching your child from the outside or collecting behavioral data points. It is about entering — with permission and humility — the world as they experience it. It is stepping into their inner terrain not as a judge or inspector, but as a guest, aware that you are walking on sacred ground. It is resisting the urge to tidy up their story, reframe it into something easier for you to hear, or pull them toward your interpretation. To be “Seen” is to be known without being edited. It is to hear a child say, “Everyone laughed at me in class,” and choose to respond first with presence rather than fact-checking — to meet the truth of their experience before you try to adjust it to yours.

This is the way Hashem related to us in the midbar. “המוליכך במדבר הגדול והנורא... המאכילך מן... למען ענותך ולנסותך להטיבך באחריתך” (דברים ח:טו–טז). He did not measure us solely by our behavior or faithfulness on a given day. He saw our hunger before the מן fell, our thirst before the water flowed, our fear before the ענני הכבוד closed around us in shade. To be seen in the Torah’s sense is to be known in your vulnerability and still met with provision. Hashem met each moment with what it required — food from heaven, water from a rock, warmth in the cold, shelter in the heat — not because we had proven ourselves worthy, but because He was present to our need.

For our children, being “Seen” means something similar. It is noticing the deserts they walk through — the social isolation that feels endless, the silent pressure of academic struggle, the undercurrent of anxiety that follows them through the day — and meeting them there, not only with strategies, but with presence that says, I am here with you in this wilderness. Many children — especially those who struggle — do not expect this. They are accustomed to interactions that double as evaluations, where love and correction are so tightly bound that they feel watched but not witnessed. Over time, this teaches them to show only the safe, edited parts of themselves. The unfiltered truth — the messy emotion, the hard questions, the thoughts that might trigger disapproval — stays hidden.

I remember a mother describing how her teenage son came home one afternoon, dropped his backpack, and said, “I hate my life.” Every part of her wanted to argue — to remind him of his blessings, to tell him not to exaggerate. But she paused. She sat next to him and simply said, “Tell me what that feels like.” At first he shrugged, then slowly began to talk about the friend who had turned on him, the teacher who embarrassed him, the weight of feeling he didn’t belong anywhere. She didn’t correct his language or point out the positives. She just stayed. Later, she told me, “By the end of it, nothing in his situation had changed — but he looked lighter. And I realized, maybe that’s what being seen does. It lets them breathe again.”

This is why the Torah’s vision of listening is inseparable from the “Seen” of the 5-S model. Active listening transforms hearing into seeing. When you suspend the impulse to fix or reframe and instead simply remain in your child’s reality long enough to take it in, you offer them something rare: the chance to be known without having to persuade you, protect you, or prove anything to you. In the language of Hashem’s promise, this is a form of “והצלתי” — a quiet rescue. Not from the challenge itself, but from the exhausting loneliness of carrying that challenge unseen.

And here’s the paradox: this rescue rarely feels dramatic in the moment. There is no tearful breakthrough, no cinematic reconciliation. Sometimes they will keep talking. Sometimes they will stand up and change the subject. But beneath the surface, something vital is being planted — trust. Not the brittle trust that depends on perfect agreement or constant affirmation, but the enduring trust that comes from being met with steady presence. The trust that says, “You can bring your whole self to me — the polished and the unpolished — and you will still find me here.”

When we live this way with our children, we echo Hashem’s call later in the parsha: “ועתה ישראל מה ה' אלקיך שואל מעמך כי אם ליראה... ללכת בכל דרכיו ולאהבה אתו” (דברים י:יב). He does not demand flawlessness before He draws near. He asks us to walk with Him — in awe, in love, in the dailiness of relationship. Our children, too, are not asking for a flawless parent. They are asking for one who will walk with them — in their deserts and their promised lands — with eyes open, heart steady, and presence unshaken.

And to walk with our children in this way — with eyes and heart open — is itself an act of gevurah. In the midbar, Hashem not only saw Bnei Yisrael’s hunger and fear; He stayed with them in it, without forcing the next step before its time. So too, once we truly see our child’s inner world, the avodah becomes to hold that vision gently — resisting the urge to rush them forward — so they can grow at the pace their soul is ready for.

V. The Spiritual Work of Holding Space

Holding space for another person’s story is not passive. It is not a matter of nodding politely while their words pass through the air. It is a deliberate, sustained act of presence — a form of avodah that requires gevurah, the inner strength to remain steady when every instinct is pulling you to step in. To hold space is to practice savlanut — patience — not only with the one speaking, but with yourself. It is the discipline of letting the moment breathe, resisting the urgency to fill the silence, to rush toward resolution, to tidy up pain before its time.

Parshat Eikev reminds us that Hashem Himself models this for us. “ה' אלקיך הולך עמך” — Hashem your God goes with you (Devarim 20:4). In the wilderness, He did not wait on the other side of the Jordan for us to “get it together” before joining us. He walked with us in our hunger, our fear, our misunderstandings — meeting us where we were, providing what each moment required, without forcing us into the next stage before we were ready. This is the essence of holding space: walking alongside without dragging forward.

Later, Moshe gathers all of Torah’s demands into one sweeping invitation: “ועתה ישראל, מה ה' אלקיך שואל מעמך כי אם ליראה… ללכת בכל דרכיו ולדבקה בו” — And now, Israel, what does Hashem your God ask of you, but to fear Hashem… to walk in all His ways and to cleave to Him (Devarim 10:12, 20). Chazal teach that “walking in His ways” means imitating His compassion. And compassion, in its deepest form, is often not about fixing or rescuing, but about remaining — choosing to stay with someone through their uncertainty, their questions, and even their resistance, without demanding they match your pace.

Hashem Himself says, “וזכרת את כל הדרך אשר הוליכך ה' אלקיך… לדעת את אשר בלבבך” — Remember the entire way that Hashem your God led you… to know what is in your heart (Devarim 8:2). He came to know our hearts not by rushing our growth, but by staying with us long enough for the heart to reveal itself. That is precisely the posture of a parent holding space: listening long enough, and gently enough, for what is in your child’s heart to emerge without force.

I once heard a father describe sitting with his teenage daughter on the front steps after she had a falling out with her closest friend. She was angry and hurt, her words tumbling out in bursts, then stopping abruptly. Every pause tempted him to jump in — to reassure her, to offer perspective, to remind her that friendships heal. But something in him said, Stay quiet. Just be here. So he stayed. After a while, she looked at him and said, “I don’t need you to say anything. I just need you to know how much it hurt.” That moment became a turning point for them — not because he fixed anything, but because she discovered that his presence could hold her pain without swallowing it.

Shlomo HaMelech teaches, “שמע חכם ויוסף לקח” — The wise one listens and increases understanding (Mishlei 1:5). Wisdom begins in silence, because silence makes room for what we would otherwise miss. The Lubavitcher Rebbe once said that the most powerful answers are born from the patience to let a question live for a while. That patience allows the other person to reach their own clarity, rather than borrowing yours.

And Hashem models this for us every day. We pour out our tefillot — sometimes polished, but often halting, repetitive, or confused. He does not cut us off, say “get to the point,” or edit our words. He listens. Patiently. Fully. Without hurrying our process.

When we bring that model into our homes, we give our children something rare: the gift of being heard in full. We sit with their unfinished sentences, their contradictions, their pauses. We resist the urge to “fix” before they have finished speaking. In those moments, we are truly walking in His ways — מה הוא רחום, אף אתה רחום — becoming living reminders that they are worth hearing in full, before anything is solved. And often, that quiet assurance — the knowledge that someone is strong enough to hear them without rushing them — is the very thing that gives them the courage to keep speaking.

If this is the heart of the Torah’s call, the question is — how do we live it out in the daily moments at home?

VI. Practical Steps for Active Listening

Active listening is not only a communication skill; in the Torah’s language, it is a form of avodah. In Eikev, the word “שמע” — listen — appears again and again, each time calling us not just to hear, but to absorb, to return, and to act from what we have received. This is how Hashem related to us in the midbar — hearing our cries, our complaints, our fears, and responding with what we most needed in the moment, whether that was man, water, or reassurance. He did not tune out when our words were messy or repeated. He stayed. He heard us until our own hearts could begin to change. These steps are small ways of bringing that same divine posture into our homes — so that our listening is not only effective, but holy.

1. Stop — “ולא תסורו” (Do not turn aside)

Before you respond, pause your inner commentary — the mental rush to interpret, judge, or prepare your next words. Picture yourself “placing their words on your heart” (Eikev 11:18), letting them rest there until they can enter fully.Example: Your teen walks in, drops their bag, and mutters, “School was a nightmare.” Instead of asking, “What happened?” right away, you take a slow breath and simply turn toward them. Your stillness says: I’m here. I’m not turning aside from you.

Torah lens: Just as Hashem “turned not aside” from His people in the wilderness, your pause says: I am not leaving this moment — even inwardly.

2. Focus — “ללכת בכל דרכיו” (To walk in all His ways)

This is not only about mental attention; it is physical presence. Turn your body toward them. Keep your posture relaxed. Use eye contact that is gentle, not interrogating — the kind that says without words, Your presence matters here. Just as Hashem “walks with you” in the wilderness (Eikev 8:2), you walk with them in their story, step for step.Example: They sit down at the kitchen table, eyes fixed on the floor. You angle your chair toward them and soften your face, signaling without words: I can walk at your pace.

Torah lens: Walking in His ways here means matching His pace — patient, unhurried, and always alongside.

3. Reflect — “וידעת עם לבבך” (Know with your heart)

Reflection is not parroting their words; it is showing you have heard the feeling beneath them. You might say, “It sounds like you felt left out,” or, “It seems like that was really unfair.” This is how you fulfill the verse’s all to know “with your heart,” not only with your mind.

Example: They describe being left out of a group chat. You resist the urge to say, “It’s not a big deal,” and instead say, “That must have felt really isolating.” Their shoulders drop — not because the problem is solved, but because they are no longer carrying it alone.

Torah lens: Knowing with your heart is an act of chesed — entering their world without trying to repaint it.

4. Clarify — “שמע תשמעו” (If you surely listen) 

Ask curious, open-ended questions that invite them to share more: “What happened next?” “How did you feel when that happened?” The double language shamo’a tishme’u teaches that listening once invites listening again — each round deepening your understanding.

Example: They tell you about a fight with a friend. You lean forward slightly and ask, “What was the part that bothered you most?” Your curiosity says: I want to know you, not just the facts.

Torah lens: Repeated listening mirrors Hashem’s patience — He hears us over and over until we are ready to hear ourselves.

5. Resist fixing — Waiting in the wilderness

This is often the hardest step. You may see the solution clearly. You may want to protect them from further pain. But rushing in can close the very door you hope to open. Hashem waited forty years before bringing Am Yisrael into the Land (Eikev 8:2), allowing their hearts to be revealed in their own time. In parenting, waiting allows your child’s own voice to take root before you add yours.

Example: They finish their story and sit in silence. Instead of jumping in with, “Here’s what you should do,” you nod and let the quiet breathe. Sometimes, in that space, they keep talking — and what comes next is the real truth you needed to hear.

Torah lens: Waiting here is not neglect; it is the discipline of trust — the trust that growth is ripening even when unseen.

Practiced together, these steps do more than improve communication. They embody the humility of Eikev’s listening — the willingness to let the other’s words live in you before you act. They become a living form of “והצלתי” — the rescue that comes from no longer feeling alone. And they fulfill the “Seen” of the 5-S model, assuring your child: Your inner world is safe with me. I will not rush it. I will not turn away.

VII. Closing – Salvation in Being Heard

In Eikev, the Torah’s call begins simply: “והיה עקב תשמעון” — And it will be, because you will listen… (Devarim 7:12). At the start, those words feel like a gentle restraint — a reminder to hold back the instinct to rush past listening into action. But as the parsha unfolds, listening becomes more than a moment; it becomes a way of being. “שמע תשמעו” — If you surely listen — invites us to return to what we have already heard, to go deeper than the surface facts, and to hear the quiet spaces between the words. And “לא על הלחם לבדו יחיה האדם” — Man does not live on bread alone — teaches that the soul’s nourishment comes not only from solutions, but from the steady, unhurried presence of one who truly hears.

The Torah links listening with blessing, and blessing with life itself. This is not simply about obeying commandments; it is about living in covenant — the kind of relationship in which presence is steady, trust is reciprocal, and each voice finds a home in the other’s heart. In parenting, that covenant is renewed every time you choose to listen without rushing to fix, every time you allow your child’s truth to arrive in its own shape and pace, every time you resist the urge to bend their words into something easier for you to hear.

והצלתי —

I will save you — is not always about removing the hardship itself. More often, it is about lifting the heavier, hidden burden: the loneliness of carrying pain unseen. When you listen in this way — without interruption, without judgment, without the impatient urge to rescue — you offer a quiet deliverance. You create a space where their words can land without being bent, trimmed, or explained away.

And so, the next time it happens — the moment you have been waiting for, when your guarded child finally speaks — the rush of relief will still come. But now, instead of letting urgency push you into action, you will breathe. You will remember Eikev’s arc — from tishma’un, to shamo’a tishme’u, to lo al halechem levado. You will allow their words to rest on your heart before you speak. You will meet the crack in the wall not with hurried repair, but with the steady presence that says, I can hold this with you, for as long as it takes.

This shift may not bring quick, visible results. They may not thank you. They may leave the room as if nothing changed. But beneath the surface, something is germinating: a trust not built on quick fixes or promises of perfect understanding, but on the steady proof that you will keep showing up. That trust becomes a bridge — strong enough to hold the weight of their questions, fears, hopes, and even their failures — because it has been built plank by plank, through the simple, repeated act of hearing them in full.

The Torah’s journey in Eikev reminds us that listening is not the warm-up to the “real work.” It is the work. It is nourishment. It is covenant. And when you live this covenant with your child, you are not only parenting; you are walking in Hashem’s ways. You are joining Him in His promise of והצלתי — becoming His partner in the quiet, holy work of saving, one conversation at a time.

In saving them from the isolation of being unheard, you are also saving yourself from the burden of carrying their story as a problem to be solved. Instead, you carry it as a sacred trust — one that reshapes you, steadies you, and brings you back to the quiet covenant Hashem has with you, too.

Have A Wonderful Shabbos!!!

Yaakov Lazar

Father really listening to his son