Chazal (Midrash Rabbah) note that Moshe Rabbeinu actually had ten names, but he is called Moshe, which was the name which Pharaoh’s daughter gave to him. Va’tikra shemo Moshe, va’tomer ki min ha’mayim meshisuhu; “She called his name Moshe, as she said, ‘For I drew him from the water’” (Shemos 2:10). It is a great name which recalls the most memorable event in the life of Bisyah, Pharaoh’s daughter. Linguistically, however, the name appears enigmatic. If Moshe was drawn from the water, he should have been called Mashui, not Moshe. The name Moshe implies the future tense, one who will draw others from the water.
Simply, we may suggest that his name defined his mission, and his mission was his identity. Moshe was not destined merely to be rescued, but rather, to become the rescuer – one who would draw an entire nation from the depths of spiritual and physical morass and bondage. Yet, perhaps we may add another layer. Moshe himself wanted this name. He wished to carry with him, every day of his life, a reminder that he had been saved for a purpose.
Too often, our gratitude is fleeting – a quick thank you uttered in passing, with little reflection. We acknowledge this kindness, but fail to ask the deeper question: Why was I saved? Why was Hashem so beneficent to me? What does He expect from me?
A true component of hakoras hatov is recognizing that rhyme and reason are the foundations of our good fortune. Gratitude is not merely an emotion; it is a responsibility. Part of saying thank you is asking ourselves what we are meant to do with the gift we have been given – and then doing something about it.
During the years following World War II, a quiet Jew lived in Bnei Brak who never missed davening k’vasikin, at sunrise. He was a simple Jew – not a Rosh Yeshivah or a public figure. He lived a quiet life. Few knew his story. (This is true of so many people. Everybody has a story. Some may even want to share it — but sadly, everyone else is too busy with themselves to listen to others.)
One morning, a young man whose curiosity piqued him walked over after davening and asked, “Why are you always the first one to come to minyan?” The man was silent for a moment, as he digested the question. He replied, “Because I was not supposed to be here at all.” As a teenager, he had stood on a selection line. A German officer was waving his hand left or right. At the last moment, the officer was distracted, and the boy slipped into the line of those sent back to the barracks. Everyone else was taken away. No one returned.
“For years,” the man continued, “I asked Hashem why He spared me. I never received an answer from Heaven, but I understood the question itself was the answer.”
“So, every morning,” he concluded, “I come early. Not because I am more pious, but because I owe time to the One Who gave me time.”
He rose, wrapped himself in his tallis, and began to daven – quietly fulfilling the purpose of a life returned.
A father once sat beside his son’s hospital bed, listening to the steady rhythm of the monitor. The doctors had been clear: the child should not have survived the night. When the crisis passed, friends came to wish him mazel tov. “You must be so relieved,” they said. “You must be so grateful.”
The father nodded – his gratitude overwhelming – but, equally, unsettling. Weeks later, someone noticed a change in the father’s relationship with his son. He began learning with his son every night without fail. They had no interruptions, no excuses, not even texting on the phone.
One night, the son asked his father, “Tatty, why do we learn so much now?” The father closed his sefer gently and looked at his son as only a loving father can and replied, “Because you were returned to me, and, when something is returned, it is an indication that it was originally on loan. A loan must be repaid.”
The father had no idea how long the loan would last, but he realized that Hashem had lent his son to him. It was for a purpose, one that must begin with father and son learning together, without fail. So the father paid back his loan – not with words (thank you comes easily, but how meaningful is it?), but with time, patience and presence. This was his way of remembering that a life spared is not only a gift – but a mission.
This may be the deeper meaning of Moshe’s name. He was not called Mashui, the one who was drawn from the water, but Moshe, the one who draws others forth. His very name testified that being saved is never an endpoint. It is a beginning. Those who truly remember that they had been spared do not merely live longer; they live differently. They arrive earlier, give more time, and carry a quiet sense of responsibility. Hakoras hatov is not completed with a whispered, “Thank You,” but with a life that asks, “Why was I given this gift and whom am I meant to draw up with me?”
The second World War took a devastating toll on European Jewry. In addition to the millionsof people of Am Yisrael whom the Nazis brutally murdered, they also destroyed yeshivos and Chassidic courts. Everyone thought that the sound of Torah had been stilled. They were wrong. A handful of Torah giants survived the devastation and emerged from the Holocaust speaking a deeper language. They did not ask why they had been spared. They were acutely aware of the answer. Survival is not a gift to be enjoyed, it is a charge to be fulfilled. They understood that hakoras hatov is not merely expressed in speech, but also in gratitude translated into mission. Their lives became living examples of hakoras hatov.
Horav Aharon Kotler, zl, escaped Europe before the war. His cherished family and precious yeshivah — his entire world — were lost. The America to which he arrived was a vast Torah wilderness. Many suggested this was not Europe – America requires moderation, lower expectations, and much compromise. They did not know Rav Aharon. He once remarked that he felt no permission to rest, no allowance for grief to slow his pace: “If Hashem spared me, it is because He is demanding that I rebuild what was destroyed.” Torah must once again flourish. Torah in its purest, unembellished, uncompromised form must prevail even (or especially) in a country that was a vast spiritual wasteland. Beth Medrash Gavoha is not merely a yeshivah. It is a living response, an act of hakoras hatov for Divine mercy. One who is spared acts with urgency, because he is repaying his life.
The Ponovezher Rav, Horav Yosef Sholom Kahaneman, zl, had lost everything – his family, his kehillah, his city. He arrived in Eretz Yisrael a broken shard of one who was once a powerhouse of Torah. He could have easily walked away from it all – in silence. Instead, he chose to repay his debt. He chose to pay with children. Standing amidst the ruins of Tel Aviv’s spiritual barrenness, he declared, “Here will stand a yeshivah.” When asked who will provide the students, he replied, “The children. The Nazis murdered children, and I will answer their unmitigated evil with children.” Ponovezh symbolized gratitude through continuity.
The Klausenberger Rebbe, Horav Yekusiel Yehudah Halberstam,zl, lost his rebbetzin and eleven children. The tragic loss in sheer number is mind-boggling. No human language can describe the loss or its impact on one’s emotions. Yet, when he had every reason to curl up and throw in the proverbial towel, he stunned the world. He did not wait to arrive in America to begin his sacred rebuilding; he began in the DP camps with the broken souls – widows, widowers and orphans. He built a new family, opened up a new Chassidic court, established institutions, built a hospital, founded a Torah community. He showed his hakoras hatov without bitterness. He never for one moment felt sorry for himself. He was too busy rebuilding and helping others.
These gedolim, who represented the tip of the iceberg, were all aligned in one verity: survival is a responsibility. We were spared for a reason. We will do something about it. They never made demands, asking for what (after their suffering) they rightfully deserved. Their idea of hakoras hatov (as should be ours) was not a word of thanks, but lives devoted to rebuilding our nation throughout the globe.
