Earlier this week, I had the immense privilege of standing beneath the warmth of the afternoon sun, the sacred knife in my hand, surrounded by my children and grandchildren. I was about to perform the brit milah – the covenantal ritual that has linked Jewish fathers and sons across centuries and continents – to welcome my newest grandson into the world.
It was a picture-perfect moment: my oldest son had flown in from Australia to give the baby his name, my youngest son was honored as the sandak – the one who holds the baby during the circumcision – and my other two children, glowing with pride, each took turns holding the baby during the ceremony. A true family gathering. A moment saturated with blessing. The kind of moment you dream about as a parent.
And yet, woven into the fabric of that joy was a thread of deep sorrow – a sorrow that cut through the sweetness with the sharpness of memory and loss.
The baby was named Lev Valery – the heart of Valery.
To understand that name, you need to understand a bond forged not in a synagogue or a living room, but on the training grounds of the Israel Defense Forces, and later, on the battlefield. My son Bobby, the baby’s father, served as a sniper during his army service. It was during this time that he met another young soldier: Valery Chefornov.
They trained side by side, perfecting the delicate dance of sniper and spotter – a partnership that demands utter trust. In their line of work, one breath, one miscalculation, could mean death. Together, they faced not only technical challenges, but danger, cold, fatigue, and fear. They were not just soldiers; they became brothers. The kind of bond only those who have stared down death together can understand.
VALERY WAS more than just a comrade. He was brave. Loyal. A rock in times of chaos. A man of quiet courage and deep conviction. Bobby often spoke of how Valery made him a better soldier – and a better man.
Eleven months ago, Valery was called up for miluim – reserve duty – on Israel’s volatile northern border. It was there, in the line of duty, that he was killed. A hero until the very last moment, Valery left behind a grieving widow, Avigayil, and two small children who will grow up with only photographs and stories of their father’s bravery.
Bobby was inconsolable. I watched my son – now a man, a husband, a father – cry like a child. He mourned not only the death of a friend, but of a brother-in-arms. He wept for the children now fatherless, for the wife left behind, and for the gaping hole in his own soul.
When Bobby and his wife Alisa learned they were expecting a baby boy, they reached out to Avigayil with a request that can only be described as profoundly moving. With her blessing, they wanted to name the baby after Valery – not simply in memory, but in life. They wanted their son to grow up carrying the heart of Valery, to be a living testament to his heroism.
And so, on the day of the brit milah, Avigayil came as the guest of honor. We adorned the room with two photographs of Valery: one in full army gear, shoulder to shoulder with Bobby, and the other in a tuxedo, a portrait of the man he was beyond the uniform. When the time came for the blessing using his new name, it was Avigayil who cradled baby Lev Valery in her arms. Her hands trembled, but her face was radiant with strength.
I began the blessing, my voice thick with tears, struggling to speak through the emotion that flooded my chest. How do you name a child with a name so heavy, so full of love and loss?
THEN BOBBY stood up. Without notes, without preparation, he spoke from the heart. He told the room – packed with friends, family, and fellow soldiers – about Valery. About the courage, the loyalty, the deep friendship. About the moments they had faced together in silence, in laughter, in fear. He said that his son would grow up knowing not just the name of a hero, but the story of one. That the heart beating in little Lev Valery’s chest would carry forward the spirit of the man who had been a hero more than once.
There wasn’t a dry eye in the room.
This, I thought to myself, this is what it means to be Israeli today
We dance at weddings with a hole in our hearts. We raise glasses at britot while thinking of funerals. We celebrate the gift of new life with the shadow of lost lives close behind. This war, this endless grief that has followed us for generations – it touches everything. Even our happiest moments.
But that’s also what makes us who we are. We do not forget. We do not move on. We carry. We name. We remember. We transform pain into purpose.
And as I looked at Avigayil holding the baby named after her beloved husband, I felt that bittersweet truth settle in my soul: our joy is never complete, and yet it is fierce. It is defiant. It is sacred.
I do not know what kind of world Lev Valery will grow up in. I pray it will be one of peace. I pray he will never know war. I pray that when he learns the story behind his name, it will be in the context of museums and history books, not fresh wounds and daily headlines.
But I do know this: he was born into a people who love deeply, who remember fiercely, and who hold both tears and triumph in the same hand.
We pray that no more babies will need to be named after heroes.
We pray there will be no more widows clutching newborns with trembling hands.
But until that day, we will continue to live, to love, to bring new life into this world – and to name our children with broken hearts full of hope.
Because this is Israel. This is family. And this is forever.
The writer is a rabbi and physician who lives in Ramat Poleg, Netanya. He is a co-founder of Techelet-Inspiring Judaism.