Everyone seemed to have arrived on time for the event. We were perched along the edge of the hillside waiting patiently for our sons and brothers, cousins and nephews, grandsons and uncles to appear in marching formation along the #443 road below and make the final leg of their journey up the steep incline serving as the entrance to the grave of the Prophet Samuel. The ceremony had been called for 8:30 but by 9:00 the only views we had were of the passing cars below.

My bag was filled to the brim with food items that I knew my son would enjoy -- his favorite chocolate-cream cake, potato chips, Nestea, tuna salad and cole slaw and, now with some time on my hands, I took the liberty of enjoying Jerusalem's refreshing air.

This was my third visit to Samuel's grave in all the years I have been living in Israel. The first one had been during my junior year at the Hebrew University, at which time we had been part of a large group of overseas students and native Israelis who enthusiastically participated in the pre-Pesach 3-day march up to Jerusalem -- reminiscent of ancient Israel's thrice yearly going up to Jerusalem to bring the first fruits to the Holy Temple. We slept in tents at night, rose early each morning to cover the designated distance, were rewarded by frequent water breaks, and were often entertained by marching bands from Israel's corporations (then it was mostly the banks that sent representative groups.) I remember once being aroused from our slumberous walk by a passing group of septuagenarians who speedily overtook us, and provided us with the additional 'kick in the pants' we needed to scale the entrance to Samuel's tomb.

Back to the present: The group around me began to move closer to the main entrance. And, then I heard them before my eyes saw them -- a mass of 56 young men, profusely sweating, bearing guns, some holding onto the gurneys, their eyes facing ahead and their feet pushing them swiftly forward. I ran around the edges of the group, and saw him just a few rows back, his smile that has won more hearts in my family than anything else beaming at me, and I couldn't stop myself. I just grabbed him and hugged him as hard as I could. I could feel him melting into my shoulder and nothing in this world could contain the force of emotion that I felt at that moment. It was there swimming around my fingers, pulsing in my heart and dripping from my eyes. My gorgeous child who would now be receiving his red beret and moving up in the elite combat unit that he had set his heart on since he was 16 years old.

He gently pushed me away and then continued into the assembly area where everyone was busy pressing camera buttons, grabbing seats and filling the air with applause, slapping shoulders, smiles and a feeling of well-being. How proud we were. How joyful were our hearts. How frightened were our souls. For, in spite of the 6 long months of intensive training, we all knew that their real work, their real journey, their real test lies ahead of them.

All the officers graced us with encouraging words -- how wonderful these young men are and how we are to be commended for raising such exceptional soldiers. We silently patted our backs, while quietly trying to quell our fears.

The speeches brought us on a journey back in time -- to when Samuel the Prophet wrought such great change in the life of the Israelite nation -- instructing them, scolding them, and eventually leading them along a path closer to G'd. It was here that Judah the Maccabee had assembled some of the nation's best fighters to lead them onto a glorious victory. And, where Gedalia ben Achikam was killed by a fellow Jew bringing in it's wake the end of Jewish rule in Judea and the completion of the destruction of the first Temple.

I looked over at my son -- he is easy to spot -- for his smile covers his entire face and, I know, sweeps through his heart. I said a very silent prayer on his behalf. I asked that he be graced with the spirituality of Samuel, the bold spirit of Judah the Maccabee and the wisdom to help our people retain our place in this precious land that embraced his siblings and parents when we descended that plane 23 years ago.

Someone blew the shofar from above the assembly area and we all stopped for a few moments to listen. He gently placed it back in his bag and we moved out a bit quieter. A bit more subdued. A bit more reflective.

May we all be inscribed for blessings in the book of life.