A DAY after the searing emotions of meeting IDF senior commanders on the Gaza border, I braced myself for something even more tortuous.
My family and I went to the home of Ofir and Bat-Galim Sha'ar whose son Gilad, 16, was one of the three Israeli teenagers whose kidnapping and brutal murder precipitated Israel's third Gaza war.
We walked in not knowing what to say and found something totally unexpected. In front of me were two of the warmest, kindest parents I have ever met.
They smiled, they were hospitable, they were friendly. We were there to comfort them but it was they who comforted us.
I asked them how the family was doing. They said their five daughters so miss their only brother, especially the youngest who is four, who asks about her brother constantly.
I told them that I was upset that some rabbis were implying that the murder of their son was a hidden blessing.
If the boys had not died Israel would never have known about the extensive Hamas tunnels.
Terror strikes from the tunnels would have murdered hundreds of Israelis. So while tragic, the boys' murder had a silver lining.
"I feel," I told them, "that this kind of justification minimises the tragedy. We Jews are supposed to protest to God over these seeming divine miscarriages of justice, not submit our heads in silent resignation." Incredibly, the parents disagreed with my objection. "As parents," Bat-Galim told me, "we miss our child every moment. But we also want to know he did not just die in vain.
"If his horrible death can preserve life, if it can be redeemed in some way, then we have to give it meaning." It could not just be a black hole.
By now my wife and my daughter's eyes were completely red. My elder daughter Chana had to leave the room. She could not compose herself.
But Gilad's parents were models of composure. They were positive, determined, optimistic.
Bat-Galim continued: "In the wake of our son's murder, and the Hamas rocket barrage against civilians, the world is now seeing Hamas for what it is. They're becoming more understanding of Israel's position.
"True, we still have to find the right words to express our position better. Israel is still not fully understood. But the European nations and the Americans know that today it's Israel, tomorrow it will be them."
This was courage and faith of a calibre I had only once before witnessed. A year before the fateful Israeli withdrawal from Gaza, a Palestinian terrorist murdered a pregnant mother named Tali Hatuel along with all her four young daughters.
I visited the bereaved father, David Hatuel, at his parents-in-law's home eight days after the horrific murder.
Like Ofir and Bat-Galim, he did not question God. On the contrary. He felt that God had been kind to him.
"Are you really not angry at God?," I asked him. "He allowed your whole family to be taken from you."
"Rabbi Shmuley," he said, "I had 12 years with a woman I loved. Most people don't have even that. I'm grateful for all loving times God gave me."
This is a characteristic of Israelis that one sees over and over. It's not that they have become inured to death, although it's so common to meet Israelis who have lost a brother, parent, best friend, in war or a terror attack.
On the contrary, Israel is a culture of life.
Rather, Israelis harbour so firm a conviction in the justice of their cause, and they are so deeply connected to their land, that they have come to accept that giving up their lives is sometimes demanded, even as they fight like lions to defeat their enemies and protect life.
Bat-Galim told me: "When my son died I did not question God. His ways are inscrutable. Rather, I questioned man, not God. The Palestinian terrorists who did this, how could they have?
"What did they gain from murdering three defenceless teenagers? Where was their conscience? Where was their humanity?
"But at the same time," she continued, "I don't want to think about them. I haven't looked them up on the Internet. I don't want to know the biographical information of the murderers.
"We want them caught, of course. But it's my son that I want to think about, not his inhuman killers."
As we spoke, a small group of visitors arrived to comfort them. Rather than hurrying us along, Ofir and his wife brought food and drink outside and had the group wait. They returned to speaking to us, showing respect and patience.
These were people who had buried their son just a month earlier in one of the most high profile murders of the last few decades. How could they be so warm? So resilient? So optimistic?
I could not even agree with them fully. I felt that Judaism had taught the world to wrestle with the divine, to challenge God when people suffer, to question God when the righteous are murdered.
That's what Israel means: He who wrestles with God. I feel that we cannot give meaning to death, lest we make peace with it. Death should be something we abhor.
And I told a rabbi friend who said that the death of the three teenagers is a blessing because it exposed the tunnels: "Israel could have found out about those tunnels, through intelligence, informers, or surveillance. It didn't take boys dying to discover that.
"And you're dancing daringly close to the Christian idea that death is redemptive. A teenager isn't supposed to be in heaven. He's supposed to be at his parents' dinner table."