Parshat Va’etchanan: The Ground Beneath the Storm - Trust Hashem With Your Child

I. When You’ve Reached the Edge

There are times in a parent’s life when they feel completely depleted. Not just frustrated or confused — but emptied. They have tried to speak gently. They have tried consequences, compassion, listening, and prayer. They have sat through long school meetings, consulted professionals, and spent sleepless nights playing every interaction back in their minds. They have stood outside their child’s locked door or withdrawn heart, waiting for some crack of connection to reopen. And still, the child remains distant, angry, or lost in patterns that seem impossible to reach. In those moments, a parent often asks, What else am I supposed to do? Why isn’t anything working?

Parshat Va’etchanan begins from that very place — not from triumph, but from surrender. Moshe Rabbeinu, after a lifetime of leadership, courage, and sacrifice, turns to Hashem with a simple, vulnerable plea. The pasuk says, “ואתחנן אל ה׳ בעת ההיא לאמר — I pleaded with Hashem at that time...” (Devarim 3:23). Rashi, citing the Midrash, explains that va’etchanan refers to a tefillah of chinun — a plea for pure mercy. Even though Moshe could have invoked his decades of selfless leadership and faith, he does not. He approaches Hashem not as a spiritual giant, but as a soul without claims, asking for kindness he knows he may not deserve.

Moshe does not argue. He does not negotiate. He simply prays — not with entitlement, but with longing. And Hashem answers: no.

At first glance, this seems like a moment of heartbreak. A painful, unresolved ending. But Chazal reveal a deeper truth. The Midrash (Devarim Rabbah 2:1) teaches that Moshe davened 515 times — again and again — and only stopped when Hashem commanded him to. This was not a weak or passive prayer. It was persistent, raw, and full of yearning. Yet the Torah preserves this moment not to show us how to press for results, but to teach us something more lasting: that there is something greater than getting what we want. There is the strength of staying in relationship, even when we don’t get what we asked for.

Moshe’s tefillah did not open the gates to Eretz Yisrael. But it opened something else — the gates of surrender, the gates of emunah, and the gates of spiritual safety. Not safety from pain, but safety within it. A kind of inner steadiness that comes not from knowing how the story ends, but from remembering Who is writing it.

This is not a story of rejection. It is a blueprint for spiritual grounding in the face of dashed hopes. And that is precisely the gift this parsha offers to parents who feel they are standing at the edge.

When your child isn’t responding, when your heart is breaking, when the answers feel beyond you — the Torah says: You are not alone in this place. Moshe stood here too. And what he discovered in that moment was not despair — it was depth. From that brokenness emerged not less leadership, but more. He became the Moshe who could speak to the soul of a nation. And so too, this moment can become the beginning of your deepest strength — a relationship with Hashem that holds you, even when nothing else seems to.

II. Prayer as Grounding, Not Just Request

For many parents, tefillah becomes a form of spiritual problem-solving. The words may sound like a heartfelt cry — “Please fix this. Please change my child. Please show me what to do.” But beneath those words is often a quieter, unspoken plea for control: If I daven hard enough, maybe I can turn this around.

Moshe’s tefillah in Va’etchanan teaches something entirely different. His prayer is not a negotiation. It is not a spiritual strategy. It is surrender. He is not trying to make something happen — he is trying to come close. As the Sforno explains, Moshe does not frame his request as a transaction. He does not bring his merits before Hashem. Instead, he places his heart before Hashem — open, unguarded, and vulnerable.

The Shem MiShmuel points out that the word va’etchanan shares the same root as chinun — undeserved grace — but also echoes the language of chinun milashon chinuch, a formative education of the self. In other words, Moshe’s plea was not only about entering the land — it was an expression of who he had become. He was not asking from his accomplishments, but from his essence. His prayer was not to change the outcome. It was to stay in relationship.

This shift — from control to connection — has the power to transform how we parent. Because sometimes, the most sacred thing we can do is stop trying to fix and start trying to ground. When a parent prays not to achieve a result, but to return to Hashem, the entire emotional climate begins to change. The breath slows. The body softens. The heart, so often clenched with fear, begins to reopen. Tefillah becomes less about asking Hashem to act — and more about letting Hashem hold you while you do the work of staying close.

This is what the Tanya calls teshuvah ila’ah — a higher form of return, not from sin, but from distance. It is the return to kirvat Elokim, to closeness itself. Even a spiritually sincere parent can get lost in the panic of doing — solving, managing, controlling. But the deeper healing begins when we stop striving and start seeking: Hashem, let me see this child through Your eyes. Let me soften where I’ve grown hard. Let me love even when I’m scared.

This kind of prayer does not always change the child — at least not right away. But it changes the parent. And when the parent is changed, the relationship begins to shift. A parent who is calm, spiritually anchored, and emotionally present becomes less reactive. They begin to listen without rushing to fix. They learn to tolerate emotional complexity without shutting down or turning away. The child may not be able to name the shift — but they feel it. They feel the difference between a parent who is anxiously trying to stop the storm, and a parent who can sit beside them in it.

This is the deeper transformation of Va’etchanan. Moshe does not get what he asks for. But he emerges from that tefillah with greater clarity, deeper humility, and a more intimate relationship with the people. He continues to lead — not from disappointment, but from presence. Not from certainty, but from trust. That is what spiritually grounded parenting looks like. Not passive. Not permissive. But steady. Centered. Rooted in something deeper than outcome: connection.

Tefillah, then, is not just a request for change. It is a path of return. A daily way of becoming the parent we are meant to be — not by changing the child, but by changing the space inside us where the child is met.

III. Safety Begins Inside the Parent

Within the 5-S framework, “Safe” is the first and most foundational need — and for good reason. Emotional safety is the ground upon which all healing and connection are built. When a child does not feel emotionally safe, even the most loving gestures or well-meaning words may be filtered through fear, shame, or mistrust. But what we often overlook is that emotional safety for the child begins not with what we say or do — it begins with who we are inside.

It is easy to focus on what the child needs: fewer lectures, more consistency, better boundaries, less reactivity. But those tools cannot take root if the parent’s inner world is not stable. A parent who is overwhelmed, anxious, resentful, or spiritually disconnected cannot offer the kind of steady emotional climate a struggling child requires. When we are dysregulated, even our love can feel unpredictable. Even our warmth can feel unsafe.

Moshe Rabbeinu warns the people, “רַק הִשָּׁמֶר לְךָ וּשְׁמֹר נַפְשְׁךָ מְאֹד...” — “Only guard yourself, and guard your soul very carefully” (Devarim 4:9). On the surface, this sounds like a call for vigilance against sin. But read through the lens of emotional presence, this pasuk becomes something else entirely: a spiritual whisper to the exhausted parent — your soul needs care, too. You are not just a provider of structure and love. You are a soul in need of anchoring. When you neglect your inner world, it is not only you who suffers. Your child feels the absence of that grounding.

The Piaseczno Rebbe, writing to broken parents and children in the Warsaw Ghetto, taught that the presence of the educator is more important than his words. He explained that the emotional and spiritual state of the adult becomes the emotional landscape in which the child lives. When we walk into a room spiritually scattered or inwardly agitated, children don’t just notice it — they absorb it. The inverse is also true: when we walk in grounded, calm, and inwardly connected, that presence alone becomes a source of quiet safety.

Guarding your soul means knowing what’s going on inside you. It means noticing when you're parenting from fear rather than from trust, when you're speaking from urgency rather than from presence. It means asking yourself, Am I trying to control this moment — or to meet it with compassion? And it means remembering, perhaps most of all, that you matter. Not just your child’s progress. Not just the next step in their journey. You — your soul, your wholeness, your safety — are a vital part of the picture.

Practices like honest tefillah, mindful breathing, pausing before speaking, or even stepping away for a moment to collect yourself are not indulgences. They are acts of spiritual preparation. They are the quiet avodah that make space for healing. When you regulate yourself — when you ground back into presence — you are doing one of the most powerful things a parent can do: offering your child something steady to lean on, even if they don’t realize they’re leaning.

Without saying a word, your energy speaks: I am here. I am steady. I am not going to collapse. And I’m not going to leave you alone in this, either.

In this way, safety is not something we do to our children. It is something we become — and they feel it, often before they can name it. A parent who is spiritually and emotionally anchored becomes a place of refuge. Not because they have all the answers, but because they can walk beside their child with presence, patience, and faith — even when the answers haven’t yet arrived.

IV. Return Begins from the Struggle

Parshat Va’etchanan is not only a parsha of longing and limits — it is also a parsha of deep hope. Moshe, even while standing on the threshold of a dream that will never be fulfilled, does not turn bitter or detached. He turns toward his people — and toward Hashem — with presence and faith. In doing so, he reminds us of something essential: spiritual return is always possible. There is no such thing as being too far gone. And perhaps even more radically, the starting point of return is not clarity or strength — it is pain.

Moshe says, “וּבִקַּשְׁתֶּם מִשָּׁם אֵת ה׳ אֱלֹקֶיךָ וּמָצָאתָ כִּי תִדְרְשֶׁנּוּ בְּכָל לְבָבְךָ...” — “From there, you will seek Hashem your God, and you will find Him — if you search for Him with all your heart” (Devarim 4:29). The key phrase in this verse is “from there.” From that place. Not from the mountaintop. Not from success. From the wilderness. From the confusion. From the middle of the story — not the end. The Torah does not ask us to wait until we have answers. It teaches that the deepest seeking begins precisely in the dark.

The Baal Shem Tov famously taught that a Jew should never ask, “Where is Hashem?” The real question is, “Where am I not letting Him in?” This pasuk affirms that Hashem is fully present — even in our most disoriented, ashamed, or overwhelmed states. What is required is not a path back to perfection, but a heart willing to turn — from there. The act of seeking, from within pain, confusion, or collapse, is itself teshuva. And not just a teshuva of the mind — but of the heart.

Rebbe Nachman of Breslov deepens this teaching when he writes that the greatest closeness to Hashem comes not when we climb upward, but when we seek Him from within the descent. He says that even the “from there” — the place of descent — is holy, because it too becomes a path of return. Teshuva is not only for the spiritually awakened. It belongs to those who feel far. And the farther you feel, the deeper the potential for authentic closeness.

This message is especially relevant for parents. Many well-meaning, spiritually sincere parents unconsciously postpone their own connection with Hashem — tying it to their child’s behavior or progress. “When things calm down… when she’s more stable… when we’re through this crisis — then I’ll be able to feel connected again.” But Va’etchanan insists: you do not have to wait. You can seek from here. From within the exhaustion. From within the tears. The pain itself can become sacred ground — not an obstacle to connection, but the very doorway to it.

And when a parent seeks Hashem from the struggle — not in spite of the mess, but because of it — something powerful begins to shift. The home takes on a different spiritual atmosphere. The child, even if still angry or shut down, begins to sense that their parent is being held by something deeper. The message becomes: I love you not because you’re succeeding. I love you because you’re mine. And my connection to Hashem is not waiting for your healing — it’s walking with me through it.

There is something profoundly healing for a child when they see that their parent remains spiritually anchored — not when life is easy, but when life is hard. It communicates that love and faith are not conditional. It creates a home where emotional pain can exist alongside presence and purpose. And perhaps most importantly, it gives the child an internal map: Even when I feel broken, I am not beyond return. I have seen my parent live that truth.

“From there” can be anywhere. The silence after a slammed door. The edge of the bed in the dark. The cracked voice of a mother lighting Shabbos candles through tears. The hand on the mezuzah after another failed meeting. It does not matter where you are. It matters that you turn. And the Torah promises: ומצאת — You will find Him.

And in that moment — not when the child changes, but when the parent turns — the soul begins to come home.

V. You Are Not Alone: והוצאתי — I Will Bring You Out

The Divine promise connected to this stage of the parenting journey is והוצאתי — “I will bring you out.” These words, first spoken to Bnei Yisrael in Mitzrayim, are not just historical. They are eternal. They are Hashem’s assurance to every soul walking through narrow, constricted places: You will not remain here forever. I am with you. And I will bring you out.

This promise is especially meaningful for parents walking through prolonged struggle. Because when you are carrying the pain of a child in crisis, it is easy to feel alone. Hashem can start to feel far — tucked away in the beit midrash, in someone else’s story, in homes where Shabbos is peaceful and children thrive. But והוצאתי says otherwise. It reminds us that Hashem is not only found in resolution. He is present in the questions. He is present in the confusion, the exhaustion, and the quiet heartbreak that no one else sees.

When Moshe pleads with Hashem in Va’etchanan and is told he cannot enter the land, Hashem does not leave him in despair. Instead, Hashem gives him a new mission — to strengthen Yehoshua, to bless the people, and to teach from the edge. In doing so, Hashem shows Moshe — and every one of us — that a “no” is not a rejection. It is a redirection. והוצאתי in this context does not mean “you will get what you want.” It means you are being carried, even here.

Moshe articulates this truth with tenderness and awe in one of the most intimate pesukim of the parsha:“כִּי מִי גּוֹי גָּדוֹל אֲשֶׁר לוֹ אֱלֹקִים קְרֹבִים אֵלָיו כַּה׳ אֱלֹקֵינוּ בְּכָל קָרְאֵנוּ אֵלָיו?”“For what great nation has a God so close to it, as Hashem our God is to us, whenever we call to Him?” (Devarim 4:7)

The greatness of Am Yisrael is not found in our strength. It is found in our relationship. Hashem’s closeness is not conditional on perfection, serenity, or spiritual worthiness. The pasuk does not say Hashem is close when we are elevated. It says He is close בכל קראנו אליו — whenever we call. Even when our words are jumbled. Even when all we can manage is a breath, a tear, a whisper of “Help me.”

The Me’or Einayim, a foundational Chassidic sefer, teaches that Hashem hides Himself precisely so that we will seek Him — and in that seeking, He is found in a deeper way than if He had never hidden at all. The darkness is not the absence of God. It is the container in which His closeness becomes personal.

This is not just theology — it is lived experience for so many parents. Hashem is close when you walk into your child’s room with a trembling heart. He is close when you choose not to scream, even though you're overwhelmed. He is close when you sit beside your child in silence, because that is all they can tolerate. These small, hidden choices — which no one applauds and which often leave you wondering if you’re doing anything right — are acts of deep spiritual courage. They are quiet moments of partnership with the Divine.

The promise of והוצאתי is not that the outcome will be immediate. It is that you are not being asked to carry the burden alone. You are not required to fix everything, understand everything, or foresee how this ends. You are being asked to stay connected — to your child, and to the One who sees the full picture, even when you cannot.

And that quiet act of faith — to keep showing up, to keep loving, to keep trusting when the way forward is unclear — is holy. It reverberates through generations. It writes a new kind of strength into your family’s story. And Hashem, who is close בכל קראנו אליו, receives every whisper, every breath, every unnoticed step — even when you feel like you're barely moving.

You are not alone. You never were.

VI. This Week’s Path Forward

Parshat Va’etchanan invites us to take a step — not a step of outward action, but a step inward. Moshe does not cross into the Land of Israel. His dream, though noble and deeply felt, is not fulfilled in his lifetime. But rather than falling into despair, Moshe models something far more transformative: he accepts. He shifts from striving to surrender. And in doing so, he teaches us how to cross a different kind of border — the invisible but critical line between control and trust, between fear and faith, between panic and presence.

For parents of struggling children, this is often the hardest shift to make. When you are watching your child suffer, act out, or drift away, everything inside you screams to act. Fix it. Stop it. Rescue them. But Va’etchanan teaches us that not all healing begins with movement. Some healing begins with stillness. With breathing before reacting. With letting go of what is beyond your reach and returning to what is always within it — your presence, your faith, your relationship with Hashem.

The Slonimer Rebbe writes that the highest form of avodah — the most honest spiritual work — is done not when we feel uplifted, but when we serve Hashem from a place of hester panim, when His face feels hidden. That is where the deepest truths are forged. The same is true in parenting. It is not only in the moments of connection and clarity that you are doing holy work. It is also in the moments when you hold steady through the storm. When you show up even when you don’t know how. When you keep loving even when it hurts.

This is the sacred work of parenting a child in pain. You are not expected to have all the answers. You are not expected to always feel strong. But you are invited — each day — to take one more step toward groundedness. One more moment of honest tefillah. One more pause before reacting. One more whispered breath of “Hashem, carry this with me. I can’t do it alone.”

Through tefillah, you come home to yourself. Through grounding, you become a safer emotional space for your child. Through surrender, you create room for Hashem to do what only He can do — guide the journey forward, in His time, with His wisdom, for both of you.

You do not need to see the whole path. You only need to stay rooted in the next right step: being present. Being connected. Being held.

And in that space — quiet, small, often unseen by others — healing begins. For your child. And for you.

Yaakov Lazar