In October 2007, the combined efforts of Tzahal Shalom of Northern Westchester and the Israel Defense Force made it possible for seven handpicked Israeli soldiers to spend 10 days in my town of Chappaqua, N.Y. The soldiers were to follow an obscenely busy schedule of speaking arrangements and “parlor meetings,” serving a role best described as “goodwill ambassadors” of the IDF. And yes, as it turned out, one thing followed another, and my family volunteered to provide food, lodging and some semblance of American normality for one of these soldiers.

It’s only fitting and proper for a memoir such as this to begin with a touch of honesty, and so I confess that I really only encouraged my parents to host an Israeli soldier so I could also attend a concert the same weekend as his arrival; otherwise, we’d have gone out of town, an entire state away from said concert. Never did I anticipate the cultural rewards that this experience would bring. Isn’t personal gain the glue that binds all seemingly selfless decisions? Let the cynicism spread.

It began with an opening brunch at the residence of a family who had hosted a soldier the previous year. We anxiously picked at bagels and lox, awaiting a troupe of jetlagged soldiers. Soon, all seven of them entered the house, their faces marked by looks of pleasant confusion; we responded with applause.

My initial impression of Motti was his height: He’s taller than me and probably taller than you. Our nervousness was entirely understandable. About a week before this event, my mother had described a dream to me in which our assigned soldier was unpleasant, rude, even unsanitary. The dream was a blatant reflection of our worries during the week: We had agreed to live with a soldier about whom we knew nothing. What if he didn’t speak fluent English or couldn’t stand dogs? Where’s a background check when we need it? It’s a gamble, for sure—we could very well end up with a unilingual, irritable military jerk of poor personal hygiene.

Except we didn’t. Motti differed from the other soldiers in that he was a newlywed naval commander with eight years of military experience. The fact that he was about to leave the Navy only amplified the meaningfulness; essentially, my household was to be his final mission. Cue suspense music.

During the following week, it became readily apparent that Motti was every bit as determined to absorb our culture as we were his. Heck, he even attended my brother’s baseball game, later describing it as the “slowest sport I’ve ever seen.” I merely nodded in agreement. He inquired about my perception of Israel; I asked for his perspective on Steven Spielberg’s Munich. He adapted to the delicate rhythms and idiosyncrasies that shape my family, and I, in turn, studied his own personal amalgam of travel and experience. He approached everything with a sense of humor, contrary to the uptight, military archetype. I developed an appreciation for the strict moral code guiding the IDF, and he left with a confident outlook on Israel’s relations with American Jews. The exchange was always mutual. “You remind us why we defend Israel,” commented one soldier during his stay.

Throughout the week, the soldiers spoke at synagogues and schools and even visited the U.N. and West Point Military Academy. I wasn’t there. The indubitable culmination of my interaction with the soldiers came during a paintball trip, intended as a team-building experience. While many (warning: mass stereotyping ahead) gaped in awe at the idea of simulating violence and war with experienced soldiers, I remained skeptical toward this macho pastime, which I unfairly assumed to be a hobby for those of lower-than-average intelligence and higher-than-average testosterone (I warned you!).

And yet, I felt obligated to don my one-piece camouflage suit with the rest on that Sunday morning, shredding any sense of individualism amid the atmosphere of war paint and battle cries. My iPod and cell phone were in a locker, and my self-dignity was AWOL. The paint pellets exploded in tiny furies of oily green chaos and caked my hair, but I eventually began to get the hang of the trench warfare techniques. I may have even bonded with some of the soldiers in the process—who knows? All due credit goes to J-Teen for organizing the event, attracting over 80 participants.

It was not to last—these 10 days were rapidly winding down, and I found myself at the goodbye ceremony for the soldiers, who seemed to be leaving just as I got to know them. The host families were invited (no, ordered) to share some reflections on time spent with their respective soldier. More than one family referred to their soldier as a “third/fourth daughter/son.” More than one family wiped their eyes in the process. Meanwhile, I struggled to balance my snobby repulsion at this open display of soppiness with…sentimentality? Could it be? I pocketed crisp, Americanized business cards from soldiers, bid my farewells and moved on.

And then Motti left. So it goes. Needless to say, life does go on without my third brother. Nonetheless, he was a pretty nice fellow. Today, our contact is relegated to joyfully awkward, visually blurry conversations via Videochat. It occurred to me that Motti’s visit had provided newfound perspective on both Israel and my own familiar family, and for that, I commend those who allowed him to retire with a successful final mission.

Zach Schonfeld is a junior at Horace Greeley High School in Chappaqua, N.Y. His favorite things include (but are not limited to) cream soda, noisy music and his Netflix account. His favorite part of the driving test is the parallel park.