Parshat Re’eh – See the Good: Look Deeper — Your Child Is More Than Their Struggle

I. The Call to “See”

The parsha opens with a striking charge: “רְאֵה אָנֹכִי נֹתֵן לִפְנֵיכֶם הַיּוֹם בְּרָכָה וּקְלָלָה” — “See, I place before you today a blessing and a curse” (Devarim 11:26).

Moshe could have said shema — hear, or da — know. But instead he chooses re’eh — see. The Torah is not calling us merely to collect information or reflect in theory; it is calling us to experience reality directly, to stand before truth with clarity. Hearing can be partial, knowing can remain abstract — but seeing admits no denial. To truly see is to encounter something as real, present, and demanding a response.

The Sfas Emes teaches that this vision is not limited to physical sight. Chazal call it re’iyah d’liba — the seeing of the heart. With the eyes of the body we notice externals: behavior, appearance, first impressions. With the eyes of the heart, we glimpse essence: the spark of holiness beneath the surface, the potential waiting to emerge, the dignity that endures even in failure. Seeing with the heart means perceiving what is truer than appearances.

The Midrash notes that Re’eh is written in the singular even though Moshe speaks to the entire nation. The Baal Shem Tov explains that this is because every person must hear it as a personal call. No one else can do your seeing for you. Each of us must decide which lens we will bring to the world. In parenting, this means that while teachers, relatives, or neighbors may share their perspectives, a parent’s vision carries unique spiritual weight. A child learns who they are not only from what they do, but from how their parent sees them.

The pasuk adds the word hayom — today. The choice between blessing and curse is not a one-time moment in history but a daily invitation. Every interaction with a child is an opportunity to choose sight. A phone hidden under a napkin at the table can be seen as deceit — or as a fumbling attempt to feel connected. A shrug and downcast eyes can be dismissed as apathy — or understood as the exhaustion of holding it together in public. What we see in those moments is not predetermined by the facts; it is shaped by the lens we bring. That lens determines whether the moment becomes curse — a label that hardens the child in shame — or blessing, which uncovers the deeper truth beneath the behavior.

The Ramban comments that to “see” is to encounter something with certainty. When applied to parenting, this means that vision does more than describe; it creates. A child who feels seen in their essence — who senses that their parent believes they are more than their mistakes — begins to live into that vision. The seeing itself draws them upward, toward the blessing our eyes have chosen to notice.

Moshe’s charge to “see” was not only for the wilderness generation standing at the edge of the Land. Just as the people had to learn to look beyond surface appearances to discern where blessing lay in Eretz Yisrael, so too parents must learn to look beneath the surface of their children’s behavior. Each day we are invited to decide: will we see with the eyes of the body that stop at externals, or with the eyes of the heart that recognize essence?

This discipline is not simple. It requires gevurah — the strength of restraint and inner mastery. As Pirkei Avot (4:1) teaches, “אֵיזֶהוּ גִּבּוֹר? הַכּוֹבֵשׁ אֶת יִצְרוֹ” — “Who is mighty? One who conquers their own impulses.” The true strength of a parent is not in overpowering a child’s behavior, but in mastering the impulse to judge too quickly, and choosing instead to see with generous eyes. The answer to that question shapes not only how we experience our children, but who they will become.

II. Blessing and Curse — The First Lens

Moshe continues: “אֶת־הַבְּרָכָה אֲשֶׁר תִּשְׁמְעוּ… וְהַקְּלָלָה אִם לֹא תִשְׁמְעוּ” — “The blessing, if you listen… and the curse, if you do not listen” (Devarim 11:27–28).

Rashi explains that the blessings were proclaimed on Mount Gerizim and the curses on Mount Eival to make the choice tangible, visible, undeniable. The Or HaChaim notes that Moshe’s wording — נותן… לפניכם… היום — means the choice is being placed before you continually, not once long ago. The Ramban adds that life is not left to chance: each event is either lifted into blessing or allowed to sink into curse by how we respond.

The Midrash (Devarim Rabbah 4:3) sharpens the point: two people can meet the very same reality — one sees blessing, the other sees curse. The facts remain; the frame decides. And Moshe sets the timeframe with hayom — today. The choice is renewed in each moment. In other words, vision is not passive; it is an act that shapes the world we then inhabit.

Chassidic thought opens this further. Klalah shares a root with kelalah — to make small. Curse shrinks reality into its harshest, narrowest reading. Bracha, by contrast, is expansion: drawing out hidden potential, enlarging the vessel to receive goodness. The Sfas Emes calls bracha shefa — a flow that increases life. To see with eyes of blessing is to widen what the moment can hold; to see with eyes of curse is to constrict and shut it down.

This Torah lens speaks directly to parenting. Every day, the facts of a child’s behavior lie before us, and we must choose how to see them. A missed curfew, an unfinished chore, a blank worksheet can be read as curse — irresponsibility, defiance, apathy. The very same facts can be reframed as blessing: a misjudged attempt at independence, a nervous system in overload, a child frozen by overwhelm. The child has not changed; the lens has.

If we live only in the shrinking lens, our children begin to shrink under our gaze. But when we look for blessing, their world widens: “You are more than this moment. I see effort, yearning, and possibility.” Choosing blessing is demanding work; it requires self-regulation before child-regulation. It asks us to look not with eyes that react to what shouts on the surface, but with eyes of the heart that perceive essence. In the language of the 5-S path, this is what it means to help a child feel Seen — not for perfection, but for essence.

And here the continuity from Section I becomes clear. To “see” with the heart is not just about noticing differently; it is about choosing blessing instead of curse, expansion instead of constriction, redemption instead of reduction. Moshe’s teaching is timeless: bracha and klalah are always לפניכם — before you — for the nation, for the parent, for the child. The question is not whether both exist, but which lens you will choose today.

III. The Lens of Avodah Zarah — False Seeing

Moshe warns later in the parsha: “לֹא תַעֲשׂוּן כָּל־אֲשֶׁר אֲנַחְנוּ עֹשִׂים פֹּה הַיּוֹם, אִישׁ כָּל־הַיָּשָׁר בְּעֵינָיו” — “You shall not do as we do here today — every man what is right in his own eyes” (Devarim 12:8).

Rashi explains that in the wilderness, before the Beit HaMikdash was established, people brought korbanot wherever and however they chose; once in the Land, avodah had to be anchored in the place Hashem would choose. It is not only service that must be anchored, but vision: “what seems right in my eyes” is not reliable when it is unmoored from Torah.

Re’eh sharpens this with another warning: “הִשָּׁמֶר לְךָ פֶּן־תַּעֲלֶה עֹלֹתֶיךָ בְּכָל־מָקוֹם אֲשֶׁר תִּרְאֶה” — “Guard yourself lest you offer your burnt offerings in any place that you see” (12:13). The Torah uses seeing itself as the caution. Vision that goes wherever the eye wanders becomes dangerous; only when sight is oriented to the makom asher yivchar Hashem — the place Hashem chooses — does it become trustworthy.

On a deeper level, the Chiddushei HaRim teaches that idolatry begins in false seeing: mistaking surface for essence, elevating the created over the Creator. Human vision is easily clouded by ego, fatigue, fear, or shame; without an anchor, we end up worshipping our own distortions.

This danger is alive in parenting. How often do we interpret a child’s behavior through the narrow lens of our own woundedness? Walking away mid-conversation can feel like rejection. An eye roll can feel like defiance. Silence can feel like apathy. Very often, these are surface readings — our immediate filter, not the child’s inner truth. What looks like rebellion may be a plea for dignity. What looks like distance may be fragile self-protection.

Here lies the avodah of Seen. A child cannot feel truly seen if our eyes stop at the surface. When ego, fear of judgment, or the idol of control dictates our interpretation, we create false seeing and the child feels misnamed and unseen. The antidote is anchoring. We pause and ask: What else might be true here? What story might my child be living beneath this behavior? Or in the language of Re’eh: Where is the place Hashem chooses in this moment — what would kavod, emet, and chesed look like right now? When we ask from that place, we begin to see not only with our eyes, but with the heart.

Reframing, then, is more than a technique; it is the practice of resisting idolatry in perception. Just as avodah in the Land must be offered where Hashem chooses, a parent’s seeing must be rooted in Torah’s truth: every neshamah is infinitely valuable, and no behavior erases that essence. When we reframe, we refuse to worship the surface. We topple the idol of false seeing and search instead for the holiness hidden within.

If curse is a narrowing lens and blessing is an expanding one, then false seeing is what blocks that expansion at its root. The Torah therefore trains us next in generous vision — not only avoiding distortion, but learning to see with an open heart that restores dignity.

IV. Seeing Generously — The Lens of Tzedakah

After warning us against false seeing, the Torah turns our eyes toward generosity. Moshe commands: “לֹא תְאַמֵּץ אֶת־לְבָבְךָ וְלֹא תִקְפֹּץ אֶת־יָדְךָ מֵאָחִיךָ הָאֶבְיוֹן. כִּי פָתֹחַ תִּפְתַּח אֶת־יָדְךָ לוֹ…” — “Do not harden your heart and do not close your hand against your needy brother. Rather, open your hand and give him” (Devarim 15:7–8).

Chazal hear the Torah’s doubling — pato’ach tiftach, “open, you shall surely open” — as a call to open more than the hand. The Or HaChaim notes the deliberate pairing of heart and hand: if the heart is closed, the hand tightens; if the heart softens, the hand follows with ease. To give without softening the heart is incomplete, because the essence of tzedakah is not the coin — it is the way we see the one in need.

Re’eh makes this explicitly about vision. A few verses later the Torah warns, “וְרָעָה עֵינְךָ בְּאָחִיךָ הָאֶבְיוֹן” — “do not let your eye be evil toward your needy brother” (15:9). Stinginess is framed as an eye problem — a lens that reads the other as burden, interruption, manipulation. The corrective is not only to give, but to see differently. And the charge is ongoing: “כִּי לֹא יֶחְדַּל אֶבְיוֹן” (15:11) — need will never disappear, so the discipline of generous seeing must be renewed hayom, today.

This same verse (15:8) adds a crucial phrase: “דֵּי מַחְסֹרוֹ אֲשֶׁר יֶחְסַר לוֹ” — “sufficient for his lack, whatever he lacks.” Chazal read this as tailored dignity: you give in a way that restores the person to themselves — even, they teach, providing the trappings of dignity someone was once accustomed to. In other words, tzedakah is not one-size-fits-all; it is a way of seeing the person so clearly that the help fits them.

So too with our children. When needs arrive clumsily — whining, clinging, interrupting, demanding — our first reflex is often to harden. We see drain; we see strategy; we see a threat to our energy. Re’eh calls us pato’ach tiftach — open, and then open again. Open the heart, then the hand; open the eyes, then re-open them until what looked like manipulation is revealed as vulnerability, what looked like defiance as a search for dignity, what looked like grasping as a bid for closeness. And tailor the response to “דֵּי מַחְסֹרוֹ”: some moments need presence more than problem-solving, structure more than soothing, space more than talk.

This is the avodah of Seen. To see generously is itself a form of tzedakah — the gift of restoring dignity by recognizing essence. A child who feels like a burden is impoverished not only of resource but of recognition. When a parent says, “I see you’re overwhelmed; I see that underneath the anger you’re hurting,” the child is no longer invisible. They are lifted from klalah to bracha — from being diminished to being restored.

And just as the Torah promises that generous giving does not impoverish us — “כִּי בִגְלַל הַדָּבָר הַזֶּה יְבָרֶכְךָ ה׳ אֱלֹקֶיךָ” (15:10) — so too generosity of vision does not drain a parent; it enlarges them. True gevurah in parenting (Pirkei Avot 4:1) is not control, but mastery of the impulse to harden, and the courage to soften instead. From here on, think of generosity simply as opening the heart before the hand — and then fitting what you give to this child’s lack, in this moment, with this child’s dignity in view.

Yet even with generous eyes, parents often struggle when opposites collide — when moments of holiness sit beside moments of failure, or tenderness beside defiance. Re’eh addresses this tension directly by teaching us how to hold mixed states without collapsing into despair.

V. The Struggle of Surface Vision

Re’eh reminds us that impurity and purity can coexist: “הַטָּמֵא וְהַטָּהוֹר יַחְדָּו יֹאכְלֶנּוּ” — “The impure and the pure together may eat it” (Devarim 12:22).

On the halachic level, the verse speaks of basar ta’avah — ordinary meat permitted upon entering the Land (12:20–22). Unlike sacrificial meat with its strict boundaries, this everyday table is open to those in different ritual states. The Torah thus acknowledges a realm where participation is not all-or-nothing: status does not bar the table. That legal detail opens a spiritual window. Life often comes to us as a mixture; not everything is absolute. There are seasons when opposites sit side by side, and our task is not to purify the scene before we eat, but to eat with awareness and humility.

A few chapters later this perspective is anchored in identity: “בָּנִים אַתֶּם לַה׳ אֱלֹקֵיכֶם… כִּי עַם קָדוֹשׁ אַתָּה לַה׳ אֱלֹקֶיךָ” (Devarim 14:1–2). In that very context the Torah forbids self-laceration in mourning. Ramban explains: because we are Hashem’s children, even our grief is bounded by hope and dignity. The Torah is training our vision — do not let surface pain erase essence. If tumah and taharah can sit at the same table, then human struggle and holiness can sit in the same soul; the presence of one does not cancel the other.

Chassidic teachers return to this again and again. The Baal Shem Tov insists that while garments may be soiled, the core of the neshamah remains whole. Breslov speaks of nekudah tovah — the “point of good” that endures within a person even in failure — and the work of finding that point first. This is not denial; it is disciplined sight. We do not confuse the mud with the diamond it covers, nor do we pretend the mud is absent. We learn to see both, and to begin our seeing from essence.

This is precisely the discipline parents must cultivate. Children live in mixed states. A teen who snapped at a sibling may also have spent the afternoon helping with homework. A child who melted down at bedtime may also have spent the day holding it together at school. A student who failed an exam may also be the one who texted a friend to check in after practice. If our eyes fix only on the “tumah side” — the visible misstep — we blind ourselves to the taharah still alive within them. We end up narrating a child by their noisiest moment.

Positive reframing is the avodah that lets us hold both truths together while always leading with essence. It refuses to collapse identity into behavior. It does not minimize the struggle, but it will not reduce a child to their weakest scene. A parent can say, “Tonight was rough and words got sharp; I also know how much you care about your sister. Let’s repair, and let’s protect that caring as we do.” Or, in another moment, “This grade hurts. I also see how you stayed in the room and tried. We’ll make a plan — and we’re not turning this into your name.” In each case we name the mud, and we name the diamond, and we teach the child which one is their self.

Here lies the 5-S of being Seen. To see is not to catalog behavior but to witness essence; not to deny the mixture, but to refuse to let the mixture define identity. When a parent chooses this lens, they mirror Hashem’s vision in Re’eh: even when impurity is present, He calls us banim first. That way of seeing is already a small redemption — for the child who learns they are larger than their hardest moment, and for the parent whose eyes are trained to find blessing at the table where opposites sit together.

VI. Positive Reframing — Choosing the Lens of Blessing

Re’eh trains the people to see; Eikev trained us to listen. Together they form the two core parental senses that allow a child to feel not only safe but, most crucially here, seen. And because the Torah places the choice hayom—today—before us (11:26), reframing is not an abstract ideal but a present-tense practice, lived in the immediacy of our interactions.

For parents, reframing means refusing to stop at surface impressions. It is not a softening of truth or an excuse for misbehavior; it is the discipline of looking again—לְשִׁכְנוֹ תִדְרְשׁוּ (12:5)—seeking the inner place beneath what meets the eye. When a parent reframes, they tell a child, “I see more than your mistake. I see who you are beneath it.” To be seen is not to be praised for accomplishments or excused from consequences; it is to be recognized in one’s wholeness. A child who hears only labels—lazy, disrespectful, unmotivated—feels invisible at the core. A child who hears reframed words—“I see you’re exhausted,” “I see you’re fighting to be heard,” “I see you’re protecting yourself”—feels their inner world named and realizes: my parent still sees me, even in my struggle.

Psychologically, this shift is lifesaving. Shame collapses identity into failure: you are the problem. Reframing separates identity from behavior: you are not the problem—you are carrying a problem. That separation preserves dignity, interrupts the spiral of shame and isolation, and keeps connection alive even in conflict. Spiritually, it mirrors Hashem’s way of seeing: even when we falter, He calls us “בנים אתם לה׳ אלקיכם” (14:1)—children first—essence before behavior.

In practice, reframing happens in small, ordinary moments, precisely where the temptation toward snap judgment is strongest. It begins with a pause, long enough for the parent’s own body to settle so that the eyes can truly see. This pause is the antidote to “אִישׁ כָּל־הַיָּשָׁר בְּעֵינָיו” (12:8), the reflex of reacting to what seems obvious. From that pause, the parent names the need beneath the behavior in a single calm sentence—פָּתֹחַ תִּפְתַּח (15:8): open the heart so that words can follow with compassion. Boundaries are still given, but in brief, clear language that restores order without collapsing identity. Often, what makes the difference is offering a path forward—a small step or a choice that restores the child’s sense of agency. Later, when emotions have cooled, the parent circles back to repair, to name the effort that was present, and to reset expectations—holding in mind the Torah’s reminder that “הַטָּמֵא וְהַטָּהוֹר יַחְדָּו” (12:22), struggle and dignity together.

Consider the door-slamming teen. A parent might say, “I hear how strong your feelings are, and I know you need space. Slamming isn’t okay, but I still want to hear you.” The child is given time and a path back: “I’ll be in the kitchen in ten minutes; if it’s easier, text me one sentence about what felt hardest.” When things have cooled, the parent can add, “Thanks for coming back calmer; next time I need the door handled gently—what would help you do that?”

Or think of the “I can’t” child at homework. The parent can reflect, “I can see this feels overwhelming. We’re still doing it, but let’s make it tiny—five minutes on a timer or the first three problems.” If choosing proves too hard, the parent chooses kindly and stays nearby, then later reflects, “You pushed through even when it felt heavy; next time should we start with the easiest question?”

In both cases the behavior is addressed, but the child is not reduced to it. They remain a whole person—struggling, yes, but still worthy of respect and relationship. This is Re’eh made practical: pausing before false seeing, opening the heart before the hand, holding both truths without collapse, and remembering—as Re’eh names us banim—that identity precedes performance.

VII. The 5-S Framework — “Seen”

Of all the 5-S’s, Seen is Re’eh’s echo. The facts rarely change; the lens does. In parenting, that lens is whether a child feels truly seen. And because Eikev trained us to listen beneath the noise while Re’eh trains us to look beneath appearances, the two senses now work together: listening discovers the quiet truth; seeing keeps that truth in view. When both are active, correction becomes care rather than combat.

To be seen is not to be admired for achievements or excused from consequences; it is to be recognized for essence — the Divine spark that remains whole even in struggle. Moshe’s call to “see” demands eyes of the heart, and לְשִׁכְנוֹ תִדְרְשׁוּ (12:5) teaches us to search for the inner dwelling. Applied to parenting, this means looking past behavior to the heart beneath it — letting listening attune us to what is true inside, and letting sight hold that truth central as we respond.

This kind of seeing has both a sound and a feel. Picture dinner when the phone buzzes and your teen freezes. You exhale and say, “I want you here. Keep the phone away, and I also see how hard it is to unplug tonight. One check after dishes — then back to us.” Nothing magical happens in that instant, yet the air shifts; the child feels located and held rather than reduced and dismissed. The next morning, in the rush to leave, a younger child snaps, “I’m not going!” You kneel and say, “You don’t want to go and you’re tight inside. Shoes on first, then we’ll choose a song for the car.” The boundary arrives, but first the person is found. That is what it means to be Seen.

Spiritually, this discipline turns covenant into a cue: before any correction, say one sentence of belonging — “You are mine; I see your good” — and then give the boundary. That sequence mirrors Re’eh’s vision: בנים אתם (14:1) first, guidance second; essence before behavior so limits can be borne.

Psychologically, being seen is what loosens shame’s grip. Shame collapses a child into behavior: I am my failure. Seeing expands them back into wholeness: I am more than my failure. It separates identity from struggle, preserves dignity, and keeps connection alive even in conflict. The story a parent reflects becomes the mirror in which the child learns to recognize themselves.

Within the 5-S pathway, Seen becomes the bridge from survival to significance. Safety steadies the body; soothing calms the storm; security anchors the relationship. Seen makes the inner world shareable: it tells a child that what lives inside them matters and is worth witnessing. That is where blessing begins to take shape — because someone who loves them has chosen a generous lens and held it long enough for the child to begin seeing themselves the same way.

VIII. Hashem’s Framework — והצלתי: I Will Save You

Hashem promises elsewhere, “וְהִצַּלְתִּי אֶתְכֶם” — “I will save you” (Shemot 6:6). Chassidic thought teaches that redemption does not begin with external change but with vision. Salvation starts when Hashem sees us not only in our exile but in our essence. The Zohar calls this re’iyah d’liba — the seeing of the heart — a way of perceiving that looks past judgment and surface into the place where the Divine spark remains unbroken. That act of being truly seen is itself the beginning of redemption.

Re’eh turns this Divine stance into a human discipline. If life is placed hayom—today—before us as blessing or curse (11:26), then the first move of redemption is the lens we choose right now. The parsha trains the eyes: לְשִׁכְנוֹ תִדְרְשׁוּ (12:5) — seek the inner dwelling, not just what meets the eye; הַטָּמֵא וְהַטָּהוֹר יַחְדָּו (12:22) — hold mixed states without collapse; בָּנִים אַתֶּם (14:1) — belonging before behavior; פָּתֹחַ תִּפְתַּח (15:8) — open the heart so the hand and words can follow. In other words, Re’eh gives us the practices of sight by which we participate in Hashem’s והצלתי.

Parents are invited to mirror this Divine way of seeing. A child weighed down by shame can feel trapped in an inner exile, convinced they are only their failures or defiance. But when a parent looks with re’iyah d’liba — eyes that see through the heart — something shifts. The child begins to feel, “I am not only the struggle I’m stuck in. Someone sees more in me. Someone believes there is a way out.” The words are simple — “You are more than your worst moment. I see not only what happened, but who you are becoming” — yet the experience is profound: belonging before boundary, essence before correction.

This vision is salvific. It does not erase boundaries or consequences; it restores dignity so limits can be borne. It does not deny pain; it locates the person inside the pain. After a game where your child was benched, you might say, “This hurts, and I see how much you care about the team. We’ll talk skills — and I’m holding your effort first.” After a social slight, “I see the ache, and I also see your kindness hasn’t dimmed.” Just as Hashem’s seeing calls forth the hidden spark of His people, a parent’s seeing calls forth the hidden goodness of a child.

In that sense, the parent does not merely comfort; they save. Each time a parent chooses this lens hayom, they enact a small והצלתי — lifting a child from the exile of shame into the first steps of freedom. Over time, the child learns to borrow that gaze, and then to wear it — until they can see themselves the way you have seen them all along.

IX. Parenting in Practice

The call of Re’eh is not only lofty; it is deeply practical. Hayom—today—Moshe places blessing and curse before us, which means the work of seeing differently happens not in grand moments but in the ordinary rhythms of home. When a child snaps back, rolls their eyes, or retreats into silence, instinct pulls us to do “אִישׁ כָּל־הַיָּשָׁר בְּעֵינָיו” (12:8) — to label what seems obvious: lazy, defiant, ungrateful. Re’eh asks us instead to pause long enough to choose another lens. That small pause becomes holy ground. It is the breath in which we ask, “What are two ways I could see this? What might be true beneath the surface?” That single question turns down heat and turns up compassion. It is “לְשִׁכְנוֹ תִדְרְשׁוּ” (12:5) — seeking the inner dwelling rather than stopping at appearances.

From that pause, we learn to name the blessing. Words shape vision and vision shapes identity. Rather than sealing the moment with accusation, we speak the deeper truth: “I know you’re angry, and I also see how much you care.” This does not excuse behavior; it reframes the story so the child is seen for effort and yearning, not only failure. Chassidic teachers describe bracha as shefa — a flow that increases life. Our language can open channels or close them. This is why the order matters: we lead with recognition of effort or longing first, then add the boundary. When blessing precedes limit, the limit can be carried.

The next move is to choose generosity. “לֹא תְאַמֵּץ אֶת־לְבָבְךָ… כִּי פָתֹחַ תִּפְתַּח” (15:7–8) is not only about coins; it is about softening the heart. Children often come in clumsy, draining ways — whining, interrupting, demanding. A hardened heart sees burden and manipulation; an open heart sees vulnerability, longing, and a bid for connection. To soften is to practice tzedakah with our eyes: to give the gift of being seen before we give solutions. In the morning scramble we can say, “You’re stuck and the clock is loud. Shoes on; I’ll carry the backpack while you breathe with me.” At pickup after a hard practice: “You’re disappointed and tense. I’m here — and we’ll still speak with respect. Want silence or music on the drive?” In the kitchen at 6:30 p.m.: “You’re overwhelmed and it’s spilling out rough. I’m here, and we’re still going to be kind. Let’s try that sentence again.” These are not speeches but small moments of generous vision that restore dignity while still guiding.

Finally, the work of Re’eh is to hold the vision. A child stuck in shame cannot see their own goodness; in those moments they need to borrow a parent’s eyes. We keep seeing blessing — even when they cannot — by remembering that struggle and dignity can sit at the same table: “הַטָּמֵא וְהַטָּהוֹר יַחְדָּו” (12:22). We correct the behavior while naming the person beneath it: “I can tell today hit you hard. Slamming isn’t okay. I’ll be in the kitchen in ten minutes if you want to try again.” Later, when everyone is calm, we circle back: “You came back and repaired — that mattered. Next time, what would help you keep your voice steady? Let’s make a small plan.” That steady, repeated seeing is how a child gradually internalizes, “I am not only my hardest moment.”

None of this is permissive. Limits remain clear; boundaries are non-negotiable. Yet Re’eh insists they be anchored in kavod, so correction grows from belonging rather than from shame. At the same time, we must acknowledge that boundaries are not always felt as loving in the moment. Sometimes they hurt. After rupture, they may even feel like a burden or a barrier. In those moments, what sustains the child is not the rule itself but the relationship that carries it. When a parent keeps seeing their child with eyes of dignity, boundaries eventually become bearable — even growth-giving — because they are experienced not as exile but as care.

Closing Reflection

Parshat Re’eh is a parsha of vision. Again and again Moshe places lifneichem—before you—contrasts of blessing and curse, generosity and hardness, pure and impure. He teaches that the facts of life are not neutral; they are invitations to choose how we will see. Hayom—today—vision itself shapes reality. When we look with clarity, guided by Torah, life opens into blessing. When we look only with surface eyes, distorted by fear or frustration, life hardens into curse.

Parenting is no different. Every interaction can be framed in two directions. A sharp moment can be read as rejection—or as a bid for dignity or space. If we stay with surface sight, we risk trapping a child in curse, defining them by their worst moment. But when we choose the eyes of the heart, we align with Hashem’s ve’hitzalti—not erasing consequences, but rescuing a child from being reduced to mistakes and calling forth the blessing hidden within them: banim atem, essence before behavior.

This is where Re’eh builds on Eikev. Listening trained us to hear beneath the silence; seeing now trains us to look beneath appearances. Together they become the two core parental senses—ear and eye—that let a child feel both safe and, most centrally, seen. Being seen separates identity from struggle, restores dignity, and keeps the path of connection open even in conflict.

Every time you pause and choose to see differently, you give your child hope. You tell them: “You are not only what you did today. You are more than your struggle. I see you—and I will keep seeing you until you can see yourself.” That is the daily work of Re’eh: to seek the inner dwelling (l’shichno tidreshu), to open the heart before the hand (patoach tiftach), and to hold both truths at the same table (hatamei v’hatahor yachdav). In that way, curse gives way to blessing, shame to dignity, and despair to the first taste of redemption.

Have A Wonderful Shabbos!!!

Yaakov Lazar