Presence Over Progress: The Torah’s Message for Parents in the Desert - Why Staying — Not Solving — Is the Most Sacred Work We Do

I. When the Road Feels Too Long

There are moments in the life of a parent when you look around and realize you’re still in the desert.

You thought you’d already passed this stage — the shutdowns, the missed classes, the late nights and worried mornings. You thought things were stabilizing. That maybe, finally, you were heading in the right direction. But then something shifts — a new behavior, an old struggle resurfacing, another wall built higher than the last. And suddenly it feels like you’ve gone backwards.

Again.

You wonder if anything you’ve done has mattered. If the support, the patience, the work — yours and theirs — has made any difference at all. You’re exhausted. You’re discouraged. And you’re quietly grieving the dream you once had of how this journey was supposed to go.

In moments like this, it can feel like something has gone wrong. Like you missed the turnoff. Like your child’s pain, or their resistance, or your own helplessness is proof that the story has lost its way.

But Parshat Masei tells a different story.

The Torah closes Sefer Bamidbar with what at first seems like a dry list: “These are the journeys of the children of Israel...” (Bamidbar 33:1). Forty-two places are named. Every campsite, every stop, every pause between Egypt and the border of the Promised Land is documented. Some of these stops were sites of miracles. Others were filled with sin, with fear, with stagnation. And yet — the Torah records all of them. Not just the high points. Not just the victories. Every moment of wandering is written into the sacred story.

Why?

Rashi, citing the Midrash Tanchuma, explains that this recounting is an act of Divine compassion — a reminder of Hashem’s chesed throughout the journey, even when the people didn’t see it. The Ramban adds that these stops were not arbitrary; they were stages of spiritual formation, each one purposeful and divinely orchestrated.

What looks like wandering to us may, in Hashem’s eyes, be exactly the path home. Rav Samson Raphael Hirsch expands this even further. The wilderness, he writes, was not wasted time — it was a sacred corridor of transformation. A place where the people were stripped of illusion and taught to live with daily dependence on Hashem. In other words: The desert wasn’t a detour. It was the curriculum.

This idea isn’t just about national history. It’s about parenting. Especially when you’re raising a child whose path is winding, fragile, or filled with stops that seem to lead nowhere. Parshat Masei teaches us that the detours are not detours at all. They’re part of the journey. Even the regressions. Even the pauses. Even the long, silent nights where nothing seems to be moving.

Parenting in the desert — especially the emotional and spiritual desert of adolescence, mental health challenges, or broken trust — is not a sign of failure. It’s a sign that you’re still walking. Still accompanying your child. Still choosing presence over panic, faith over control.

Before we reach the Land, we name the journey. Because the journey is the work. And no step is wasted.

II. The Torah Doesn’t Skip the Hard Parts — And Neither Should We

The journeys of Parshat Masei span forty-two places. That’s forty-two separate encampments, each named, each recalled in exact order, from the moment Bnei Yisrael left Egypt until they stood at the threshold of the Promised Land.

To the casual reader, the list may seem repetitive or even tedious. Why mention them all? Why record each stage — including the ones we’d rather forget?

Rashi, quoting the Midrash Tanchuma, explains that Hashem commanded Moshe to record every journey “to recount the kindnesses of the Holy One, Blessed Be He.” Even during years of wandering, sin, and setback, Hashem’s presence never left the people. Each stop was accompanied by miracles — the well, the manna, the clouds — even when the people were unaware or undeserving. The act of listing them is not just historical; it’s relational. It’s a Divine parent saying: I was there with you, even then.

But there’s something even deeper happening here.

The Torah doesn’t edit out the painful parts. It doesn’t pretend the desert was a straight line from slavery to freedom. It honors the full journey — the regressions, the stumbles, the failures. It includes the places where the people rebelled, where they despaired, where they grieved. Nothing is erased. Nothing is glossed over. And that itself is a form of redemption.

The Or HaChaim points out that each stop corresponded to a spiritual necessity. Hashem didn’t just allow the detours — He designed them. Even the places that seemed like delays were part of the inner repair that had to happen before the people could enter the Land.

As parents — especially of teens in crisis — this is a truth we often resist. We want the good ending. We want to believe the healing has begun and will continue in a neat, upward path. We want to leave behind the “bad years,” to stop talking about the meltdowns, the dropouts, the diagnoses, the dark months or years when we didn’t know if our child would make it through.

But Parshat Masei tells us: Don’t skip the hard parts. Don’t bury them. Don’t rush past them just to feel like you’re making progress.

Because the pain is part of the story.

Not because we want it. Not because it should be glorified. But because pretending it didn’t happen erases the depth of what has happened — the growth, the survival, the healing that only began when the struggle was acknowledged. The Torah insists on naming each stop because each one held something essential — a lesson, a test, a trace of presence. And so it is with our lives: even the chapters we’d never choose carry weight. They shape us. They belong to the journey.

Reb Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev teaches that the greatest sanctification comes not from perfect ascent, but from the willingness to remember the places we fell — and to reclaim them as part of our teshuvah. Naming the low places, he says, turns them into sources of spiritual strength. Because when we return to those moments with compassion and humility, we discover they were not dead ends — they were hidden altars.

When we name the hardest parts of the story — without shame, without judgment — we reclaim their place in the journey. We show our children that they are not broken because they’ve been through something hard. We show ourselves that presence during the storm is just as holy as presence in the calm.

Hashem didn’t lead the people on the shortest route. He led them on the route that would shape them, test them, and ultimately prepare them. And in the Torah’s eyes, that route was worth recording in full.

So is yours.

III. The Baal Shem Tov’s Teaching — Every Person Has Their 42 Journeys

The Baal Shem Tov offers a transformative reading of Parshat Masei. He teaches that the 42 journeys of Bnei Yisrael are not only historical — they are deeply personal. Each one corresponds to a stage in the life of the soul. Every human being, he writes, goes through their own version of these journeys: from the confines of Mitzrayim to the gates of purpose, from constriction to expansion, from breakdown to belonging.

And not all of these journeys are pleasant.

Some are filled with confusion. Some bring us face to face with old fears. Some feel like circles — repeating places we swore we’d never go back to. But according to the Baal Shem Tov, every stop is necessary. Every experience is divinely guided. And none of them can be skipped.

This reframes how we understand both growth and regression — not only spiritually, but emotionally and developmentally as well.

We’re conditioned to think of growth as linear — that once someone makes progress, the next step should be better, stronger, more elevated. And when a teen regresses — shuts down after opening up, returns to harmful behavior after a season of stability, stops davening after showing interest — it can feel like everything is lost. As if we’re back at square one.

But the Baal Shem Tov tells us otherwise.

Just because it doesn’t look like forward movement doesn’t mean it isn’t sacred. A regression may be part of something deeper unfolding. A necessary stop — a time to fall apart, to rest, to integrate, and eventually rebuild. The Mei HaShiloach adds that there are places along the path where a person must appear to fall — not because they are failing, but because they are being prepared for a deeper revelation. In the eyes of Heaven, these moments are not detours. They are waypoints. Each one is holy. Each one is part of the soul’s unfolding.

Rav Tzadok HaKohen of Lublin writes, “אין עלייה בלי ירידה” — there is no ascent without descent. The fall is not a deviation from the spiritual path; it is the path. It’s how the soul finds what can’t be accessed in moments of clarity. Sometimes the most painful step is the most essential one.

As parents, this insight can be a lifeline.

When we see our child struggling again — not going to school, not keeping Shabbos, not able to speak to us — it’s easy to feel despair. It’s easy to believe we’ve lost ground. But this Chassidic lens allows us to step back and say: This isn’t the end. This is a journey. This moment, as hard as it is, may be doing something hidden. Something real. And my role isn’t to force the next stop. It’s to honor the one they’re in.

To breathe with them here. To stay close until the Cloud lifts.

Not every step is beautiful. But every step is part of a larger story — a sacred story, written with love and patience by the One who leads us all through our deserts, one journey at a time.

IV. When We Can’t See the Destination — Walking With Faith, Not Control

Moshe Rabbeinu, the greatest leader in our history, never steps foot into the Promised Land.

He leads the people out of Egypt, through the sea, through rebellion, famine, war, miracles, and loss. He teaches them Torah. He defends them before Hashem. He brings them to the very edge of their destiny — and then, he stops. He climbs a mountain, sees the Land from afar, and passes the journey forward to someone else.

It’s one of the most heartbreaking and humbling moments in the Torah. And it holds a profound truth for parents walking through the wilderness with a struggling child.

Because sometimes, we don’t get to see the outcome. Sometimes, we do everything we can — we show up, we love, we sacrifice, we learn new ways to parent, we pray with all our heart — and still, the results don’t come in the way we hoped. Our child doesn’t “come back” when we thought they would. The healing we imagined hasn’t arrived. The pain hasn’t lifted.

And in those moments, the temptation is to panic. To try to fix. To control. To believe that if we just say the right thing or find the right therapist or offer the right consequences, we can guide the story toward the ending we need.

But Parshat Masei teaches a different kind of faith.

Moshe doesn’t control the ending. He walks with presence, with consistency, and with deep love — accepting his role even without resolution. His leadership is not measured by reaching the Land, but by walking every step of the journey with integrity.

The Sfat Emet writes that Moshe’s greatness lies not only in his ability to lead, but in his willingness to walk without reward. He served not for outcome, but for truth. He trusted that his presence — even if it ended at the border — was enough to give the people what they needed. That is the kind of emunah that parents are called to embody: faith not in what will happen, but in what it means to keep showing up.

Rav Nachman of Breslov echoes this idea when he teaches that "kol ha'olam kulo gesher tzar me'od" — the whole world is a very narrow bridge — but what matters most is not to be afraid of the uncertainty. Faith is not about knowing where the bridge leads. It’s about crossing it anyway — with love, with hope, with your child beside you.

For parents, this kind of emunah is not about pretending to be okay. It’s not blind optimism. It’s the courage to stay close even when the road doesn’t make sense. It’s the spiritual trust that this moment — even this one — is part of something bigger. That the journey isn’t broken just because we don’t see the destination.

In the Torah’s eyes, the path to inheritance is not paved in clarity. It’s paved in wandering, in waiting, in uncertainty. But it is not wasted time. The wandering is what prepares us. Refines us. Softens us. And when the next generation finally enters the Land, they do so on the foundation of those who stayed faithful in the desert.

We can’t control where the journey leads. But we can choose how we walk it. And that choice — to walk with steadiness, not control — becomes our child’s emotional inheritance. One day, they may stand on steadier ground — not because we pushed them forward, but because we stayed with them when they couldn’t move.

V. Presence Over Progress — What Our Children Need in the Wilderness

We often think of good parenting as movement — as progress, forward momentum, getting our children from where they are to where they’re supposed to be. Especially when a child is struggling, we instinctively want to help them “get better,” return to themselves, regain their spark. And when they don’t — when they resist, stall, or regress — we feel helpless, or worse, like we’ve failed.

But Parshat Masei offers another vision: a vision not of speed, but of staying. Forty-two encampments. Sometimes the people moved after a single night. Sometimes they stayed for weeks, even years. Sometimes they moved forward, and sometimes it must have felt like they were going in circles. And yet, Hashem’s presence never left. The Cloud remained. The journey continued — not because of the pace, but because of the presence.

The Zohar teaches that the Ananei HaKavod, the Clouds of Glory, did not depend on the people’s worthiness or their progress. They were a sign of constant Divine companionship — a covering of love and safety, even in moments of stagnation, doubt, or failure. The Shechinah did not disappear when the people fell. It hovered above them. Waiting. Holding. Loving. That is the deepest kind of faithfulness.

Attachment theory echoes this wisdom. The role of the parent is not to push, force, or fix. It is to serve as a secure base — a stable, safe, emotionally attuned presence who remains close, especially in distress. A child doesn’t grow because we push them to move. They grow because they know they’re not alone when they’re stuck.

The Netivot Shalom adds that the Divine presence is called “Shokhen Itam b’toch tum’atam” — God dwells with us even in our impurity (Vayikra 16:16). Not after we’re fixed. Not after we’re healed. Within our lowest moments. For parents, this means our job is not to demand movement — but to remain present when movement is not yet possible.

Imagine the difference between a parent as the driver of the bus — responsible for the route, the stops, the destination — versus a parent as a fellow traveler. The driver needs to know the exact route. They panic when things go off course. But the fellow traveler walks beside their child, step by step, saying, “I’m here with you, no matter how long it takes. We’ll figure this out together.” The fellow traveler doesn’t know all the answers. But they offer something far more powerful: companionship.

For a teen in distress — especially one facing mental health challenges, addiction, or spiritual disconnection — what heals is not progress. It’s presence. Not being told where to go, but knowing someone is willing to walk beside them even when they don’t know the way.

That kind of steadiness is not passive. It’s one of the most powerful forms of love there is. It says: “I’m not giving up on you. I’m not afraid of your struggle. I can hold this space until you’re ready to move again.”

Even when your child isn’t ready to go forward, you can become the safe place they’ll return to. You can become their covering of quiet faith — like the cloud that stayed even when they didn’t move.

VI. Sacred Accounting — Why the Torah Names Every Stop

Parshat Masei does something remarkable: it names every stop along the journey — even the ones that carry shame and failure. Even the ones we might prefer to forget.

Among the 42 locations listed is Har Sinai, the site of Revelation — but also Kivrot HaTaavah, where the people were punished for craving meat, and Chatzerot, where the rebellion of Korach took place. Implicit in the list is the place of the Golden Calf, the complaints, the fear, the backsliding. The Torah makes no effort to whitewash the past. It lays it all out — not as a warning, but as a record. A sacred accounting of a complex journey.

This matters. Because it teaches us that holiness is not about hiding the parts of the story that make us uncomfortable. It’s about integrating them — honestly, humbly, and without shame.

The Kedushat Levi explains that when we reflect on our past sins or low points with a heart of teshuvah, they are transformed into merit. By naming these moments, we elevate them — not because the failure was good, but because the return, the awareness, the humility that followed it became the seed of something holy. What once brought distance can become the very bridge to connection.

The Midrash Tanchuma adds that each place listed in Masei is not only a location but a spiritual symbol. The Torah lists them, not to shame the people, but to teach that Hashem was present at each stage — even when His presence was hidden. That’s not judgment. That’s love.

As parents, this is a lesson we often resist. We don’t want to talk about the breakdown, the hospitalization, the months where our child disappeared emotionally or spiritually. We’re afraid of what it means if we say it out loud — afraid it will define our child, or us, in ways we can’t undo.

But the Torah shows us something different.

Naming each place is not a form of judgment. It’s a form of kiddushin — of sanctification. When we name where we’ve been, we say: This, too, is part of the story. This, too, had a role. We don’t glorify it. But we don’t deny it either. When we try to erase the past, we erase the strength it took to survive — and the growth that came through it.

As the Rebbe of Slonim teaches, teshuvah begins not with perfection but with recognition. The courage to say, “That happened — and I’m still here.” That’s not weakness. That’s redemption.

For a struggling teen, this matters more than we realize.

When we pretend the hard chapters never happened — or try to rush past them in search of healing — we risk sending a subtle message: That part of you was unacceptable. But when we’re able to say, gently and honestly, “Yes, we went through that. And I still love you. And I’m still here,” we offer something far deeper than comfort. We offer belonging.

Our children need to know we don’t love them despite their struggle. They need to know we love them within it.

Naming every station reminds us that healing doesn’t come from erasing the past. It comes from honoring the whole journey — especially the parts that took the most strength to survive.

VII. Closing Reflection — You’re Still on the Road, and That’s Holy

To the parent who feels like they’re still in the wilderness:

You may feel stuck. You may feel lost. You may not see the next step, let alone the destination. There are days when it seems like nothing is changing. When the pain cycles back around. When you wonder if this is really a journey — or just a loop you can’t escape.

But what Parshat Masei whispers to you is this: You are not lost. You are walking through something sacred.

The Torah didn’t skip the desert. Hashem didn’t only count the victories. Every place the people stopped — even the places of despair, even the places of failure — was counted, recorded, and remembered. Every step mattered. So does yours.

The Midrash Bamidbar Rabbah (23:1) compares the list of journeys to a loving parent recounting their child’s milestones — even the messy ones — because each stage is etched with affection and meaning. Not because it was perfect, but because it was theirs. That’s how Hashem sees our path. That’s how we’re invited to see our children’s.

One day, when your child looks back, they may not remember every word you said or every strategy you tried. But they will remember one thing: You stayed. You didn’t walk away when it got hard. You didn’t demand a finish line before offering love. You stayed beside them — the way only a fellow traveler can.

And sometimes, that is what keeps a soul alive.

Not the perfect intervention. Not the quick turnaround. But the quiet, steady presence of a parent who never gave up walking with them.

Your love is part of the map. It’s your faith — not in outcomes, but in the journey itself — that gives your child the courage to keep going. You may not know where the path leads. But your presence tells them that they don’t have to walk it alone.

May we have the strength to stay present for every journey — even the ones we didn’t choose.

And may every step, even the hidden ones, bring us closer to healing, to wholeness, and to home.