Mutual Milestones
By Yochanan Gordon
As adults, the milestones we mark grow fewer and farther between. Beyond weddings, anniversaries, and perhaps a professional achievement, life’s great markers slow with age. Perhaps that is why anniversaries are celebrated so deliberately—even though the mere passage of years together is not necessarily a true indicator of the depth or health of a relationship.
With children, however, the opposite is true. From the moment they are born, their growth is rapid, visible, and eagerly measured. Parents celebrate every stage—first smile, first step, first word—because in those fleeting years progress is constant and tangible. In a sense, these milestones are our children’s middos—the dimensions by which their lives, and our own parenthood, are measured.
Life itself is a process of evolving dependence. A baby begins in the womb, sustained entirely through the umbilical cord. Birth severs that physical tie, but the connection continues through nursing, and later, through countless acts of nurture and guidance. Slowly the child learns to crawl, stand, and walk—small milestones that symbolize the greater journey toward independence.
For parents, our milestones are reflected in the growth of our children. Their bar mitzvahs, graduations, and diplomas become our own achievements—signposts of a journey that began with a literal cord binding us together. Yet one transition feels especially defining: when a child leaves home to spend the year in Israel.
Unlike camp or even out-of-town mesivta, this step carries a weight of permanence. The distance is greater, the separation longer, the independence deeper. It is the point at which reality sinks in—not only for the child, but for the parents—that a new chapter has begun.
This past motzaei Shabbos, standing in JFK Airport alongside dozens of other parents, my wife and I hugged our oldest son, Nison, before he boarded his flight. It was a moment layered with pride, gratitude, and more than a little awe. Sending him off was not just his milestone—it was ours as well.
The feeling reminded me of teaching him to ride a bike. Every parent knows that moment: holding the back of the seat, running alongside as the pedaling grows steadier, then giving a soft release with a silent prayer that this time, he doesn’t fall.
In my own youth, the expectation to go to Israel after high school was strong. Yet I stayed behind, continuing in Darchei and later in Waterbury. When asked why, I would half-joke, quoting Bert Lance, Director of the Budget under President Carter: “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” In truth, I was simply too attached to home. In my immature head, as the Gemara puts it, “Shev v’al ta’aseh adif”— sometimes sitting still felt easier than leaping forward.
That is why, for me, standing in JFK as Nison embarked on this journey ran deeper. Chazal say, “Bro kar’eih d’avuha—a son is the knees of his father,” meaning a child is an extension of his parents. Watching him go, it felt as if part of my eighteen-year-old self was finally making the trip I never did. For my wife, who once insisted she would never send a son so far from home, the separation was no less profound, though she carries herself with strength and composure.
But this milestone is not only personal. It is the culmination of eighteen years of memories converging in one moment—when parents must release and trust. Phone calls and FaceTimes help, but they cannot replace the presence of a child under one’s roof.
It was in this light that I recalled the Gemara: “Kol hadar b’Eretz Yisrael domeh k’mi she’yeish lo Elokah; v’chol hadar b’chutz la’aretz domeh k’mi she’ein lo Elokah.” Why compare living in Israel to having a G-d, and living elsewhere to lacking one? The word domeh comes from medameh—to imagine. To dwell in Eretz Yisrael is to live with a fertile imagination, like the prophets of whom it says, “U’vyad ha’nevi’im adameh”—“Through the prophets I gave vision.”
It is no coincidence that the tractate devoted to the dimensions of the Beis HaMikdash is called Middos—from the same root as medameh. To describe the Temple requires imagination: the ability to envision what is not physically present.
A chassid once asked the Tzemach Tzedek if he should leave Russia and make aliyah. The Rebbe answered, “Mach duh Eretz Yisrael”—create an Eretz Yisrael right here. The words mach duh themselves echo middah, dimension. Sending a child to Israel is a way of expanding dimensions—allowing him to soar freely, unshackled by constant watchfulness. At the same time, it forces parents to stretch their own imagination—to picture their son close even while he is 6,000 miles away.
And so this milestone belongs to both parent and child. He is learning to become independent, and we are learning the art of release—discovering that the greatest connection is not in holding on, but in imagining ourselves together across distance, bound by faith in the same G-d upon Whom we both depend.
Yochanan Gordon can be reached at [email protected]. Read more of Yochanan’s articles at 5TJT.com.
