My son came home from the army last week. There was an unexpected knock on the door, and there he was, my skinny, tall soldier, carrying a duffel bag that weighed twice what he does, a rifle flung over his shoulder. I guess a mother who never had a son in the army won't understand what it feels like to hug your boy in his army uniform, even before he puts the gun down. He looked tired, but had a big smile on his face.

"So good to be home!" he said. "I'm starving."

So, of course, I started running around, emptying out the refrigerator to find all the things he likes to eat, frantic I had no warning, kicking myself for missing ingredients. But we managed to pull together a meal.

And then, he got on the phone. All his friends from his pre-army program were coming over, the boys from Carmey Hayil, that little place on the little hill in the Galilee, which donations kept from closing down; the place that taught my son and his friends so much about being a Jew, being a man, and serving the people and land of Israel. The bond they formed there was so strong, the life changes and values they made there so enormous, the support of the rabbis and teachers so uplifting, that they have all been kept firm and clear in their spirits as they do the work of protecting this country; never forgetting to take out time to pray and learn, as well as do their jobs as soldiers.

And soon, the house was full of young men. All of them a little taller, a little older. One of them handed me flowers. Such beautiful young men, who are going to make wonderful husbands and fathers one day, God willing. I made them some pizza and we lit Chanukah candles together. I watched my son and his friends sitting around the table, trading army stories, laughing about getting into trouble with their senior officers for talking back, trading ideas on how to spend their precious free time until they have to return to their units - their young faces alive with ideas, and plans, and joys.

And then I thought I'd leave them alone to have fun. I went into the other room. I put on the news. A homicide bomber attempting to enter into Israel from Kalkilya (where the Passover Seder bombers came from to get to Netanya the night I and my family were there) blew himself up, killing 21-year-old Israeli soldier Uri Binamo, a checkpoint guard. Binamo stopped the bomber from bringing death to Israel's children during Chanukah.

"Ima," my son told me later, "you just don't understand what kind of place we are living in. Everywhere in Israel where there is a town, just above it, just nearby it, is an army outpost that watches over it."

I thought of Uri's mother as I watched my son's friends walk out, on their way home to their own families. I thought of our beautiful little country, surrounded by enemies. And I thought of the miracle of Chanukah, when the few defeated the many; how they made it possible for Jewish life to go on. And in my heart, I prayed that God would watch over our soldiers and guard them, the way our soldiers guard us.