Shabbat shalom from Camp Interlaken.

This week’s Torah portion is Eikev. The word eikev can mean “because,” but it is also connected to the Hebrew word for “heel.”

Jewish teachers have used that connection to remind us about the small mitzvot that people sometimes step over. The little things we barely notice. The moments we convince ourselves do not really matter.

At camp, those little things are everywhere.

Someone saves a seat for a camper who is still finding their place.

A counselor notices that someone has gotten unusually quiet.

A friend offers sunscreen, encouragement, or an invitation to join.

A staff member stays a few extra minutes to clean up, prepare for tomorrow, or take care of something most people will never see.

We tend to remember the big moments of camp. Shabbat under the trees. Song sessions. Maccabiah. Campfires. Days on the lake. Performances, celebrations, and the kind of laughter that becomes part of a story told for years.

But camp becomes home because of the quieter moments.

A name remembered.

A hand offered.

A thank you that is actually meant.

A mistake forgiven.

A child encouraged to try again.

A joke that brings someone in instead of leaving someone out.

A person who notices what everyone else has walked past.

Eikev also reminds the Israelites of the manna that sustained them in the wilderness. The manna did not arrive as one enormous, dramatic gift. It came every day. Steadily and reliably. Enough for the journey in front of them.

Camp has its own daily manna.

Meals are prepared. Activities are planned. Cabins are cared for. The lake is watched. Campers are comforted. Supplies are organized. Spaces are cleaned. Details are handled by people whose work is often most successful when nobody notices it at all.

That is one of the challenges of living in a caring community. When people show up for us every day, it can become easy to forget that they are choosing to show up.

We begin to think meals simply appear.

Programs simply happen.

Problems simply get solved.

Camp simply feels magical.

But meaningful communities do not happen by themselves.

They are built by people who care enough to keep showing up. They are sustained by gratitude, responsibility, patience, generosity, and attention. They grow when each of us understands that the small thing in front of us may be part of something much larger.

A camp does not become compassionate because compassion appears in a mission statement. It becomes compassionate because people practice it every day.

A community does not become welcoming because it calls itself welcoming. It becomes welcoming when people make room, learn names, extend invitations, listen carefully, and notice who may still be standing at the edge.

A Jewish future is not built through one grand gesture. It is built through thousands of choices to teach, support, participate, invest, and care.

That is the lesson of Eikev. Do not underestimate the holiness of the ordinary.

Pick up what someone else has stepped over.

Thank the person whose work has become invisible.

Offer the encouragement that may feel small to you but may mean everything to someone else.

Support the places that create belonging, memory, identity, and joy.

At Camp Interlaken, we see every day how small acts grow into something extraordinary. Over time, they create trust. They create confidence. They create friendship. They create community.

Eventually, a child realizes that camp is not simply a place they attend.

It is a place where they are known.

It is a place where they matter.

It is a place that belongs to them, and a place they will one day help care for in return.

As we enter Shabbat, may we pay closer attention to the small blessings around us. May we offer deeper gratitude to the people who make our communities possible. May we remember that the quiet acts of care are often the ones that hold everything together.

The little things are not little.

They are how we build camp.

They are how we build community.

They are how we build the Jewish future.

Shabbat shalom.