Once upon a time, the people that built things with their own two hands were admired. The pioneers. Their sweat and the dirt beneath their fingernails was a badge of honor, a testament to their courage.
The builders, people who created something from nothing, were upheld as an example.
They who made the rocky hills green, who planted vineyards and made fruit trees grow where, once, there was only desolation – they were the ones to emulate.
They who made the rocky hills green, who planted vineyards and made fruit trees grow where, once, there was only desolation – they were the ones to emulate.
To set out alone, relying on no one but oneself was the mark of a man, free in his own land.
They toiled under the sun, individuals with a few family members. People with no family found friends who became family. Together they carved out an existence reborn in the land of their forefathers.
And the world watched in wonder.
They dug wells and planted seeds. They built homes and schools and synagogues. They created places of beauty. They laid the foundation so that more people could come and join them, start families and have children whose laughter rang in the wind as they ran on the hilltops.
Children that were free and strong, stubborn like their parents.
Children who knew they could do anything, achieve anything if they were willing to work hard, like their parents.
Leave a Reply