What can I do—what can any of us do—in this deep grief that is not ours, but is ours?

I was miles away, nowhere near the families of the six hostages killed by Hamas. And I was miles away in pain, because what is the grief of a stranger compared to the grief of a mother? I get distracted, I can forget; I can schedule my day, plan a trip back home to Israel, go to the store. Can they move an inch from their grief? Can they ever?

I think of Einav Danino, mother of Ori, mother of light (Ori means “my light”), as if she birthed light with the birth of this boy. We have gotten to know him through her words—her precious, sweet boy illuminating the world even as he experienced hundreds of dark days in captivity, held hostage in an underground tunnel by Hamas before being brutally murdered.

I picture myself borrowing from the light of Ori, from the light of his mother, to shine it on the parts of myself that are limited and self-absorbed.

As she buries her son, I think about the 45-minute talk she gave in Long Branch, New Jersey, just weeks ago.

What is a friend? What is a hero? What happens in the absence of “why me”? Who can we become in the absence of complaint? Although she doesn’t ask these questions, in her talk I hear the answers.

She speaks with her eyes raised, as if retrieving her words from Above, her chin held high as if to say, you sure you want to follow me? And we do. We really do.

On October 7th, Ori was at the Nova festival. He managed to escape from the terrorists and he saved anyone he could along the way.

Ori was safe, but then he headed back towards the festival to rescue his friends. You’d assume he returned for lifelong friends, old classmates, neighbors he grew up with—the type of friends who are like brothers, whose parents he knew, the “I just can’t do that to them; I can’t leave their kids to get killed” type of friends. But no. These were people he’d just met, who he’d known only for a few hours. For Ori, that was enough. If he knew them, they were friends and he would risk his life to help them.

He was loved by all, his family said. After all, when you consider anyone you meet a friend, no doubt you are loved by all!

Can we learn from this? Can I expand myself to include you, to include more people? Can we expand our definition of what a friend is?

In his story, you can almost hear the words of Psalm 27, pulsating through him:

G‑d is my light (Ori) and my salvation. Whom then should I fear? G‑d is the stronghold of my life. Of whom shall I be afraid? When evil men come near me, to ravage my body, these aggressors, and enemies …

What compelled him to make that choice, to go back to help once he was in the clear? From listening to his mother speak about his character, it is obvious that this act of giving was not brought forth from an impulse born in that minute. It wasn’t a choice that emerged on the morning of October 7th, rather it was a revelation of the accumulation of years of choosing to give, to be the first one to help.

“He is filled with kindness and love,” said his brother Yitchak. “Ori is a giver,” his mother said. “He is always the first to help, it doesn’t matter to who.” Those heroic hours on October 7th were the direct outcome of the multitude of choices he made in his 25 years of life.

Heroism is built on many moments, on many decisions, over a lifetime.

Einav said that if Ori could make that decision again—to go back and save others—she believes he wouldn’t think twice.

Can we take a spark, just a glimmer, from Ori’s bright light? Perhaps put others first for a change? Can we make it a priority to help others more often, even at the expense of our own needs and desires?

When Ori was 13 years old, he was in a serious car accident on the way to his bar mitzvah. He was hospitalized in critical condition and Einav prayed urgently for her son to survive and recover fully. She also made a commitment to G‑d that if He answered her prayers she would never question again. She would never ask why, never level complaints or criticism against G‑d.

Ori had a miraculous recovery and Einav kept her word. She couldn’t have known then that 12 years later she would be tested beyond anything she could have imagined.

In Einav’s own words: “I know that there is nothing bad that comes from G‑d. This knowledge has accompanied me through every juncture of this journey. A Father never harms His children. G‑d has chosen me to be tested and has chosen my son Ori. I don’t ask questions; I don’t ask G‑d why He chose me.”

This woman, filled with faith and love of G‑d, has built a fortress around herself, around her faith, where words of complaint against G‑d have no entry. How she did this, we cannot understand, but this fortitude of faith has created a place for something else to grow.

What shows up in the absence of complaint? What happens when we choose not to say, “Why me?” Can any of us do this for more than 300 days, for even a single day?

What sets in and grows in the absence of complaint against G‑d is faith and gratitude. “This challenge is very, very difficult … G‑d didn’t just randomly give me this hardship. If I can give strength to just one other person, it is a merit for Ori and all the hostages,” Einav said.

What lessons can we glean from this? Perhaps by limiting complaints we can see what else is there, the good that exists, a purpose for our challenges. In the absence of complaint, meaning and purpose and gratitude have space to breed.

I get back to Israel in time to pay a Shiva call. Many women surround Einav; everyone wants a moment with her. I am just a face in this crowd of people who have come to offer comfort. On my way out, as I walk through the courtyard, I hear Ori’s brother say, “What would Ori want us to do?” I stop to listen. I watch the people around him lean in. They echo the question, “Yes, what would he want from us? What should we do?”

Ori’s brother answers: “He would want us to do good for others.”