When I was young, I reluctantly visited my Grandfather, Shlomo Hyman, whom we called Zaida. Born in England in the first years of the 20th century, he was a pious Jew, praying eastward three times a day. His and my Bubbie’s kosher kitchen was always bustling with rich smells, his library overflowed with ancient Judaica, and while I resisted many of his traditions, my brother and I were thrilled there was a pool table in the basement.

Even in his old age, Zaida didn’t slow down—he became even more resolute, and unyielding in his beliefs. Before retirement, Zaida was a distinguished attorney, honored as King’s Counsel. He never turned away a deserving client, even those who couldn’t afford to pay Helping others wasn’t just something he did—it was who he was. Zaida’s virtue lay in his unwavering commitment to giving without expecting anything in return. For him, it was a way of making sense of the world—a constant amid chaos.

Whenever I visited, he would be imprinted in his orange sherpa chair—an eyesore I couldn’t stand as a kid. His feet, weathered by time and journeys I would never know, would rest on the matching footstool, a picture of settled wisdom.

Then came the barrage of questions. “Pinchas, my boy, where have you been? You never come around anymore. Is it such a crime to visit your Zaida once in a while?” His inquiries would tumble out relentlessly, layering over one another before I could respond. “How’s school? Do you know the Parshat this week? Well, it’s Lech Lecha. You should come to shul with me this Shabbos. It can’t hurt, you know!” He wasn’t looking for answers. He just wanted me there, in that moment with him. At the time, I was too young to grasp his intentions, too caught up in resisting his overbearing affection.

Zaida passed away when I was barely a man, and it took years before I understood what he truly meant to me. It wasn’t until I journeyed to the land of milk and honey—to Israel—that everything began to change.

As a university student, I was constantly on the move—always living in the thrill of the present moment. A pleasure seeker, I chased joy like it was a race (in some ways, I still do today). With a permanent smile, I found reasons to be joyous and little to be upset about. In Israel, I made friends easily and never went far without striking up a conversation. My energy was boundless; my days were filled with conversations, music, adventure, and some classes. I felt alive.

Towards the end of my year abroad, everything came to a halt. My world paused in the scorching heat of the Negev desert. I had run there, alone, desperate to escape the feelings creeping in. But the desert offered no refuge; it mirrored the searing pain I was trying to outrun. I stared up at the sky, blinded by the intensity of the sun’s light. At one point, lost in the endless expanse of sand, I feared for my life. It felt as though the sun was trying to communicate something, urging me to confront whatever was festering inside, but I was too lost to understand.

I returned to Jerusalem, thinking I had left the turmoil behind. I believed I had solved the riddle of my emotions, but nothing had changed. I was still adrift. As I sat on a bus, staring out the window, a stranger slid into the seat beside me.

“The sun sure knows how to make us feel, huh?” she said, snapping me out of my wandering thoughts. Does she know what I’m thinking? I wondered. The sun—yesterday, it felt different. Like it was trying to tell me something, but what?

I turned, pretending I hadn’t heard. “Pardon me?” I asked.

She smiled gently. “The sun—it makes you feel, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I mumbled, unsure of what else to say. “The warmth and all.”

“Yes, but it doesn’t always make us feel good. It just makes us feel. Sometimes, it forces us to see things—to realize not everything has to be the way it is.”

Who was this person? Where had she come from? Her words mirrored the turmoil I couldn’t articulate. Before I knew it, we had reached her stop. She turned to me, her gaze piercing.

“You know how to feel. Everyone does. It’s just that most people don’t let themselves,” she said, and with that, she was gone.

I jumped from my seat and followed her off the bus. “I hope you don’t mind, but the sun told me to get off with you,” I said, smiling sheepishly. From that moment, we were inseparable. Her name was Laya. She had this incredible long brown braid and wore the simplest clothes—yet her presence was anything but plain. She taught me things I never thought to question, never knew I could feel. We spent endless nights on a hill that became ours, sharing, learning, and growing together.

Laya was an independent soul, deeply rooted in nature, unburdened by the trivialities of daily life. She found contentment in the smallest things—a patch of grass, a ripe peach. Watching her was like seeing a fish released back into the sea, completely at ease in its natural habitat. But soon, we had to part ways. The connection we had formed was undeniable, but I wasn’t sure what it all meant or how I would handle the separation.

She taught me the beauty of stillness. While I had always rushed from one experience to the next, she gently showed me how to find meaning in the quiet moments—how to lose yourself in dance, or the silence of the morning, when the first light of dawn transformed the landscape into something sacred. In those moments, I learned that stillness wasn’t about the absence of movement, but about being present and fully attending to the rhythms of life.

On our last weekend together, we went to a moshav in the Galilee, her family’s home. It was a sanctuary, far from the noise of the city. There, life slowed down, like stepping into a sacred, timeless space where thoughts had room to breathe.

The moshav was a modern Eden, bursting with fruits of every shape, size, and color. The air was pure, untouched by the usual pollutants of city life. Moving freely, Laya was utterly at peace. As I lay on the grass, I watched her, my heart aching with the grace of it all. She was home. But where was I?

Our farewell wasn’t tearful but filled with gratitude. Laya had become a part of me, a light I knew would never fade. We embraced for what felt like an eternity, holding on to the connection we knew would always endure.

In Jerusalem, I walked to the Kotel, the Western Wall, and pressed my forehead against the ancient stones. I recited the Shema, a prayer that had never felt more meaningful. As I turned to leave, I noticed an elderly rabbi standing nearby, his clear blue eyes holding the depth of the ocean. He radiated calm, a mystical energy. His gaze seemed to pierce through time, as though he could see through all the layers I had built around myself.

“We’ve been waiting for you a long time,” a young student said to the rabbi.

“Yes, yes, I know,” the rabbi replied softly.

Those words echoed in my mind. They reminded me of Zaida, of the people who would wait for him, knowing he would always turn up. Zaida had given everything he had, not for recognition, but because that’s how he came alive—by giving. And in that moment, I understood. I saw the connection between Zaida and myself, between Laya and the rabbi, between all the people who had touched my life and helped me become who I was.

As I boarded the plane, I felt a sense of peace. I left behind my ignorance and resistance to change. And every time the sun shines, warming my face, I am reminded of that day in the Negev desert, of the blindness I once had, and of the awe in finally being able to feel.