War. Guns. Bullets. Combat Officers. Tanks. Paratroopers. Unfortunately, we've all become far too familiar with these terms.

And yet, as familiar as I am, for me, as for many of us in the Western world, the whole scenario remains a vague blur.

And as small a nation the Jewish people is – and though I may know people who currently are, were or will be serving in the Israeli army – it's still all about them.

Fighting far away, over there. Across a vast ocean.

As connected as I may feel to our Homeland, as much as I feel so much a part of one large extended Jewish family, it remains in safe cognitive dissonance territory.

As an editor at this site, over the last few days, me and my colleagues have been working round the clock to gather personal reflections, thoughts, life scenes and interviews with the people on the scene, personally affected by the current war—precisely to make it more personal. I was especially excited when we found a soldier on the frontlines who began texting us his regular blog and provided me, and all of us, with a real live human soldier, among the sea of soldiers, who could communicate the personal thoughts and emotions that were coursing through his veins.

And yet, still, for me at least, there was still an element of far away, over there-ness. The war hadn't yet been brought home.

Until today.

This past week, an email was sent out to our entire community by my father, Rabbi Dovid Schochet, our community rabbi, making us aware of two of "our own" boys who were stationed on the front, asking us to increase in prayers and good deeds in their and all the soldiers' merit.

"Our" two boys, Avraham Meyer (ben Leah Naomi) Ostfeld and Levy Yitzchack (ben Margalit) Mogilevsky, are in their early twenties. They grew up in our Toronto community, where their families currently live, just a stone's throw from my own home. Yet the boys decided, on their own, to volunteer for the Israeli army; and in their respective special divisions – they were chosen from amongst many others in training – both are preparing to be at the very fore of the ground assault—if and when it may come.

I reached one mother, Lily Ostfeld, last night. Lily and her husband, Eron, are well-known members of the Toronto Chabad community, as well as the international Chabad community, for their philanthropy. Here, Lily is known for her modest grace, elegance and open warmth, generously offering her beautiful, spacious home to host any one of our many large communal events.

An AP photo of Avraham Meir Ostfeld on actual duty

"What is it like for you to have a son poised to begin the ground assault? To come face to face with his enemies?" I ask Lily.

"Avrohom Meyer was actually serving in an intense Mazlan battalion in the North. He switched very recently to the elite Golani brigade where he felt that the atmosphere was less intense, less rivalry and there was more of a sense of camaraderie amongst the unit. At this point," here Lily sighs, "I guess I've got mixed feelings about his switch, since he might very well be involved in ground combat."

"How did it all begin?" I wonder.

Lily speaks openly and frankly. "Three years ago, Avrohom Meyer was studying in CRC, now Meorot Chabad, a Lubavitch yeshivah in Israel, when he decided to volunteer for the army. He is well aware of the faults of the Israeli government in the whole peace plan and fully understands why many people are disillusioned with the effectiveness of the government in providing adequate security for its citizens," Lily pauses. "But he has always said to me, 'Our brothers and sisters are in danger. Someone has to go to the front line to protect them. Just because the government puts the land in peril, someone still has to defend them.'"

One of those "someones" is now Avrohom Meyer.

How does a mother, living a comfortable life in Toronto, feel about her son's decision?

"I'll be honest with you, Chana." Lily confides. "I can't tell you how many times I tried to talk him out of this. I can't say that I've supported his decision. I still have reservations and I admit that I was not a fan. And yet, I admire his determination and I'm so impressed by his motives.

"And the way that I hear him talking now—he's changed. He's grown. Life in the army makes them grow up really quickly. They gain a certain…" Lily grasps for the word, "a certain wisdom and knowledge.

"Look, here is a Toronto boy, growing up in a sheltered, cushy environment. And suddenly, he's faced with real questions, with life staring him in the face, and situations that he needs to ask for guidance, from mentors.

"We speak to him very often—probably three or four times a day! I call him every night at 1:30AM, which is 8:30 in the morning Israel time, to hear what is happening, or if he has been informed of the day's schedule.

"It's important for him to speak to us. He can talk to us differently than to his katzin (army officer)—even though he's got a great officer who's a former expellee from Gush Katif and from whom he's learned so much—but there are still things that you want to say to your mother or your father.

"He's talking differently. He speaks about preparing his mindset, being especially focused in his goals and his mission and how he needs to be ready—not only physically but emotionally too—to face the enemy. He's done his briefing and his training and a lot of work on himself emotionally to be in the right frame of mind."

"And, you, as a mother, Lily?" I ask. "How are you faring? What do you do when you feel nervous or scared?"

Without a pause, Lily continues, "I remind myself of this:

"I know he is there with his chitas [book containing a Chumash, Psalms, and Tanya, recommended by the Rebbe for extra safety—C.W.] safely nestled in his bullet-proof vest, and with his Rebbe dollars.

"I know the Abishter firt de velt—G‑d runs the world.

"And…I say my Tehillim (Psalms)."

Almost as an afterthought, Lily says, "Please, Chana, write that the more Tehillim that is said for our boys, the more mitzvot that are done—it's so important for them…and the more encouragement we all feel."

Because really truly, there is no them.

It is all about us. Every one of us.

Every parent has had this heart-stopping, chilling experience at least once. And even once is once too many...

You are with your young toddler, inside a crowded shopping mall or walking along a downtown sidewalk facing a whir of oncoming traffic.

A second ago, your child's hand was warmly nestled into yours. Now he is suddenly gone. He has disappeared. Into thin air.

Your heart begins racing. Your palms become sweaty. Your stomach is caught in your throat. You feel faint from fright and you are finding it difficult to breathe. You frantically begin to search for him. You steel your gaze to pinpoint anything colored with the very pale shade of blue that is your son's shirt. In vain, you attempt to squelch the dooming thoughts ablaze in your mind...the horrors of what could happen...what might be the terrifying end result. The picture of little dismembered limbs stuck under screeching brakes or menacing kidnappers walking off with your child invades your brain.

Your mind is exploding. Tears begin forming in your eyes. You are running...blindly...frantically...You must find your perfect, sweet, little child.

And then, miracle of miracles, from the side of your eye, you notice him. You grab him tenderly, hugging him closely towards you, vowing never to let him go, to forever envelope him in your protective embrace. You heave a huge sigh of relief, forever grateful for your safe reunion.

It will take several more minutes for your pulse to stabilize, for your heavy breathing to settle and for your shaking arms to steady. But as you check your watch, you notice that what seemed like an interminable passage of excruciatingly painful time was indeed only...15 seconds.

Did you perhaps overreact? Given the short time that elapsed, was your fear completely unwarranted? No, you know very well, that 15 seconds is plenty of time for a deranged criminal to grab a hold of your child and make his way to the exit. Fifteen seconds is long enough for your energetic toddler to innocently jump off the pedestrian sidewalk right into the path of the racing traffic.

Fifteen seconds may sound like a short span of time, but not 15 seconds of torture. Not 15 seconds of absolute agony that could result in untold misery for the remainder of your life.

It was the worst 15 seconds that you have ever experienced.

Now multiply that one horrific experience of 15 seconds by twenty times. Every day. Imagine what the tension would do to your psyche.

Twenty times a day, every day. For an entire week. For months on end.

Imagine if after those interminable 15 seconds, you were not yet reunited with your child, but you heard a terrible, huge, loud explosion—one that crumbled cement buildings as if they were a deck of cards, and one that caused blazing fires to erupt all around you. One that destroyed homes, buildings, factories and outdoor playgrounds--and all who were unfortunate to be stuck underneath them.

Imagine now tightly you held your child when he was safely returned to you and then imagine if your arms, the warmth of your home or the protective walls of your child's school could never be adequate enough protection.

That he was vulnerable and in danger everywhere he went. Every moment of the day. Twenty times a day. And you could do nothing to stop it.

And as you imagine the horror you felt in those unforgettable 15 seconds, imagine the heart-throbbing 15 seconds after the alarming call of "RED ALERT—TZEVA ADOM" that every citizen in Sderot has experienced in trying to run to hoped for safety before a rocket came crashing down on them. Twenty times a day.

Six-thousand-five-hundred rockets have been fired into Israel, at all times of day and night. Two hundred and fifty thousand men and women, from the elderly to newborn infants, are under the direct threat of the rockets' firing zone. Hundreds of Israeli civilians have been wounded and several killed by these rockets.

And as you imagine all this, as well as how horrifying 15 seconds can be, you will not question why Israel has entered Gaza.

Instead you will ask this: if a government is appointed to care for and safeguard the lives of its citizens—what took them so long?!

Ever wonder what might have happened had the first Adam reacted differently?

I don't mean if Adam wouldn't have eaten the forbidden fruit. I believe that somehow, on some level, that was a necessary component to our being human. We're not meant to be perfect angels, or mechanical robots, always following directions explicitly, and always doing the right thing. Temptation and failings, challenges and adventure is meant to be a part of our human journey.

But suppose Adam would have responded differently after he ate the fruit.

Suppose when G‑d confronted him about not obeying His explicit and only commandment, Adam would contritely have said, "Oh, my gosh! You know, you're so right! I can't believe that I did that.

"Here you gave me everything I could ever need or want on a silver platter and the only one thing You ask me not to do, I go ahead and do.

"I am so sorry. You must be so disappointed in me. Please, let me make that up to You, dear G‑d. Please forgive me my insensitivity, selfishness and lack of care."

I know it is hypothetical, but how do you think G‑d would have responded? It is kind of hard to admonish, punish, or even be angry at someone who so humbly and profusely apologizes for his misdeed.

I imagine G‑d would have said something like this, "Yes, Adam, you really did disappoint me. What you did was terribly wrong and you didn't live up to your true potential. But since you realize your mistake and feel so regretful about it, I hope that you've learned your lesson. You have earned my forgiveness."

Imagine how different human history would have turned out…!

But instead, after eating of the forbidden fruit, Adam hides from G‑d, as if G‑d wouldn't realize.

Then when G‑d calls to Adam, giving him an opportunity to express his regret, he messes up by lying, "I heard you calling and I was afraid because I am naked."

And finally, in his fait accompli, when G‑d rebukes him point blank about his sin, rather than owning up to it, Adam blames someone else for his actions—"the woman that You gave me," it was all her fault.

Fast forward thousands of years.

"My dear spouse, stop ignoring me. We need to talk!"

"Honey, I'm not avoiding you…I just had a lot on my head these last few days. And besides, I thought you were really angry, so I was afraid to speak with you. I thought I'd let you cool off first."

"You know that what you did was so insensitive! How could you humiliate me like that? Don't you care about my feelings? If there's one thing that I've asked you so many times not to do, it is that!"

"It's not true. I didn't…Or at least, I didn't mean to embarrass you. You are totally taking it the wrong way...

"In fact, come to think of it, you are always blaming me for things that go wrong....

"And besides, you could have made sure that you prepared me for this situation better. You really should have had more foresight…"

As humans, we will make mistakes. We will be tempted. We will succumb to our shortcomings and inevitably, there will be times when we will fail.

But how will we react to those failings? Hiding, denial and blaming someone else-- or is there perhaps a better way?

Have you ever noticed…

How a little bit of light…

Can chase away a whole lot of darkness?

How a kind word, a smile, a nod of encouragement, a helping hand or a listening ear can brighten another person's day…or life?

But how? How can my little act dispel so much surrounding gloom, so much encompassing pain and suffering, so much sadness in our world? It doesn't seem possible.

Just follow the Chanuka example.

Chanuka is the holiday of lights. Every night we light the menorah, the special Chanukah lights. Follow these Chanukah steps to light up our world:

1) We light the menorah in the doorway or opening of our home—to share the light with as many others as possible.

Open up your door and your life to others. Don't wait for the opportunity to come to you. Create an opening to share your joy—and blessing—with those around you.

2) The Chanukah holiday falls at the darkest time of the year—the daylight hours are the shortest and the dark, cold, gloomy nights loom on and on. Into this darkness, we begin to light the candles, one at a time.

Don't despair from the looming darkness or hopelessness around you. Despite the darkest night, just add one light at a time, and you'll be surprised by how the darkness is dispelled.

3) And finally—every night we continue to add one additional candle.

Don't be satisfied with what goodness you've done. Strive to continually add just one more candle--a little bit more kindness, another mitzvah, another meaningful act.

This Chanukah, as we celebrate the festival of light, resolve to add more light in your life.

And then resolve to share that light with those around you. To completely light up your world.

Once upon a time, there was a little flame that glowed brightly.

Wherever this little flame went, it brought light and luminosity.

Even in the absolute black darkness, the flame twinkled and illuminated.

But wherever it went, there were also those who didn't like its radiance. And wanted to snuff it out.

There was the wind that wanted to blow it out...

The sand that wanted to stomp it out...

The water that wanted to drown it...

And the darkness that wanted to blacken it.

But the stubborn flame refused to be extinguished.

Sometimes, the flame itself wished for its end. It yearned to be as dim as the surrounding blackness.

The little flame would doubt its beautiful glow and question its unique sparkle.

During those moments, the flame would flicker and its sparkle seemed like it would fade into obscurity.

But no matter what, something inside the flame kept it shining.

Some called it stubbornness.

Others saw it as luck. Or perhaps, fate.

While others predicted its demise.

And a few recognized it as the greatest miracle ever.

Chanukah is the Festival of Light. We light our Menorahs to commemorate the miracle of the flames that refused to be extinguished. There was barely enough oil for one day, but the flames burned proudly for eight.

But Chanukah also commemorates the miracle of the Jewish people. A nation that refused--and continues to refuse--to be smothered into oblivion.

Because the little flame continues to shine light into the dark world around it.

I've recently returned from a seven-day speaking tour, lecturing all across Europe. (Read my travel diary in my blog above...) It was an amazing experience to meet such a diverse group of people, some in small Jewish communities where the struggle to remain connected to Judaism is real. It was incredible, as well, to meet and get to know a little bit about the lives of the shluchim (Chabad emissaries) courageously stationed in these small communities, who persevere in their mission of igniting Jewish souls and spreading the light of our heritage.

In one of the communities, in The Hague of Holland, I was shown a letter that was written by the sixth Lubavitcher Rebbe, Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak Schneersohn, to my own grandfather, Rabbi Dov Yehudah Schochet, who served as rabbi to this community after World War II.

The letter so unnerved me that long after I returned home, it still haunts me.

The Rebbe writes to my grandfather in 1949, four long years after the war had ended. He tells my grandfather that many Jewish parents, terrified of the approaching Nazis, entrusted their children to the care of orphanages run by nuns or priests, in a desperate attempt to spare their children's lives. Now, years after the end of the Holocaust, many of those children still remained in these environments, being fed Christian doctrines along with their daily fare.

The Rebbe pleaded with my grandfather—and no doubt wrote similar letters to many other persons in position of influence—to "do whatever is in your power to find and save these children." He continues, chillingly, "For every day that these children remain in these foreign environments, their parents in the Afterlife suffer terrible agony for their sons and daughters."

Ominous words. "Save the children...every day...suffer terrible agony."

We are now more than half a century after the Holocaust, but the words of the sixth Chabad Rebbe still ring true, though in perhaps a slightly different context.

Assimilation is widespread in every community and in every country. I witness it in each and every one of my travels—and even back at home in as thriving a Jewish community as Toronto. There are far too many Jewish children in "foreign" environments that need to be "brought home" —shown the beauty, wisdom and depth of their own heritage.

Indeed, the Rebbe, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson, made this his mandate, sending out his emissaries to literally the four corners of the world – places as remote as Korea, Alaska and Tijuana – in order to save the Jewish children and reconnect them to their heritage. It is a daunting battle, but one which is being fought by valiant and courageous soldiers, who are taking it on, one Jewish soul at a time.

But as the letter to my grandfather reverberates through my mind, I think, too, how these words apply on an abstract level, to each and every one of us. And how the letter perhaps summarizes the mandate of Chassidic teachings.

The Chassidic movement began at a time when the Jewish people were experiencing a state of spiritual unconsciousness. The laws, or the body of the Torah, may have been observed, but lacked the passion, warmth, enthusiasm and vibrancy of the soul of the Torah.

These profound fiery teachings aimed to melt the ice enveloping our souls by unveiling the spiritual landscapes of our souls, our lives, and our world.

Life in exile means a distance, detachment and obstruction from our Source. No matter how comfortable we may feel in our homes and communities, we are in foreign territory, far away from the core essence that our souls crave—a genuine connection with our Creator.

These lofty, holy teachings were revealed – under great self-sacrifice – in order to "save the children." The children – you and I – children of G‑d, who may not be aware of just how alien and distant we have become. Our impassiveness just proves how spiritually lethargic we are, and how much we need to be brought home.

And for every day that we remain disconnected, in our alien environment of exile, our Father in Heaven is in terrible agony, awaiting a complete reunion—with each and every one of His children.