Bitter Sweetness

And the Lord your God will bring you into the Land which your fathers possessed, and you shall possess it; and He will do you good and multiply you above your fathers.
–Deuteronomy 30:5

What Eretz Yisrael means to the Jew can be felt only through the spirit of the Lord which is in our people as a whole.
–Rabbi Abraham Isaac Kook - The Land of Israel

Our future does not depend on what the Gentiles will say but on what the Jews will do.
–David Ben-Gurion

We are in the month of Iyar. The first Rosh Chodesh Iyar after the exodus from Egypt found Bnei Yisrael at the waters of Marah. After wandering for a week after crossing the Reed Sea, Bnei Yisrael finally came upon water in the vast desert, only to find it undrinkable. Moshe turned to God to find out what to do, and God told Moshe that if he threw a branch of a nearby growing tree – which in itself was bitter – into the water, the water would become sweet.

There are many questions that can be asked. Why didn't God just go poof and make sweet water? Why didn't God just provide sweet water to start with? And maybe the most puzzling, how is it that something bitter (the branch) added to something else bitter (the water) makes the water sweet? And why did Moshe have to throw the branch into the water? Why didn’t God just blow it in Himself?

There are many explanations for these questions, but the one I present now is this: Sometimes, in order to achieve sweetness, we first need a dose of bitterness. And sometimes we have to get there ourselves. In other words, great things don't often come easy. 

This year, Yom HaAzmaut, Israel's Independence Day, will be difficult to celebrate.
There is simply too much hardship, too many tears, too much destruction, too many deaths.

After all, what do we have to celebrate? A failed leadership, a divided population?
How can this be רֵאשִׁית צְמִיחַת גְּאֻלָּתֵנוּ the first flowering of our redemption, as the prayer for the State of Israel states, when hate and death surround us and are rapidly closing in.

So much bitterness.

And like the weary people at the waters of Marah, we are wondering have we been led here only to die in the desert? 

It is the Rambam who tells us what the flowering of our redemption might look like; the one difference between the beginning of the Messianic age (the age of redemption) and normal times is the sovereignty of Israel. We might not be witness to great miracles, and there will not necessarily be peace, says the Rambam, but the fact that Israel is sovereign in its land will be the sign that the beginning of the redemption has come.

In fact, the great Rabbi Akiva believed that Shimon Bar Kochva was the Messiah. Bar Kochva, leader of the last Great Revolt against the Romans, was big and strong and a great and brave general and warrior, but he never performed miracles, nor was he a great scholar. Yet Rabbi Akiva believed until his death that Bar Kochva was the Messiah because Bar Kochva liberated Judea from the Roman conquerors, if only for a short period of time. And Rabbi Akiva knew that a sign of the beginning of the redemption is the sovereignty of the Nation of Israel in the Land of Israel.
But Bar-Kochva was not the Messiah, and his sovereignty didn’t last.

Shimon Bar Kochva from the Knesset Menorah

Therefore, we need to ask ourselves, what makes this time around different?

This time, we are surrounded by miracles. From the 1947 UN partition vote, when both East and West voted for the partition, through the victory of the War of Independence when our army was out-manned, out-gunned, and out-trained by five invading genocidal armies, to the Six-Day War, whose miracles are too numerous to list, to the Yom Kippur War, when the Syrian tanks retreated without a logical reason back into Syria.
And on and on. 

To be a realist, said David Ben-Gurion, you have to believe in miracles. 

The people of Israel, rising from ashes, emerging from the persecutions, the forced conversions, the slaughter that they encountered in every corner of the globe, came together, and created a miracle.

An ongoing miracle; a miracle in progress; a daily open, glorious miracle.

We became farmers, after centuries when Jews were forbidden to own land. We became architects and designers and builders and planned and designed and built cities where only sand dunes and marshes had been for generations. We became doctors and lawyers after years of quotas and closed doors. We became bus drivers and fighter pilots and tank drivers. We became generals and soldiers again after 2000 years. We became Nobel Prize winners and politicians and millionaires and inventors and experts in security. We became researchers and Web designers and engineers and cartoon artists. We became university professors and computer programmers and authors and composers. We became Olympic athletes and singers and basketball players playing for teams in cities where once Jews were forbidden to live.
We became parents, and grandparents, and great grandparents.

We are the miracle.

Despite what it looks like from the outside, we became one people with one heart.

Make no mistake.

We will endure this heartrending, unbearable bitterness.
We will yet witness more miraculous sweetness.

Because the People of Israel live.

And that is our miracle.

 

Our Father in Heaven, Rock and Redeemer of Israel, bless the State of Israel, the first manifestation of the approach of our redemption. Shield it with Your lovingkindness, envelop it in Your peace, and bestow Your light and truth upon its leaders, ministers, and advisors, and grace them with Your good counsel. Strengthen the hands of those who defend our holy land, grant them deliverance, and adorn them in a mantle of victory. Ordain peace in the land and grant its inhabitants eternal happiness.
Lead them, swiftly and upright, to Your city Zion and to Jerusalem, the abode of Your Name, as is written in the Torah of Your servant Moses: “Even if your outcasts are at the ends of the world, from there the Lord your God will gather you, from there He will fetch you. And the Lord your God will bring you to the land that your fathers possessed, and you shall possess it; and He will make you more prosperous and more numerous than your fathers.” Draw our hearts together to revere and venerate Your name and to observe all the precepts of Your Torah, and send us quickly the Messiah son of David, agent of Your vindication, to redeem those who await Your deliverance.
Manifest yourself in the splendor of Your boldness before the eyes of all inhabitants of Your world and may everyone endowed with a soul affirm that the Lord, God of Israel, is king and his dominion is absolute. Amen forevermore.

A Product of Israel

When someone loves you, it's like having a blanket all round your heart.
–Helen Fielding

We sleep safely at night because rough men stand ready to visit violence on those who would harm us.
–Winston Churchill

A good few years ago, a relative travelled to Israel from the Old Country to spend a summer volunteering on a Kibbutz. During that summer, they decided to stay in the HolyLand and attend classes at Hebrew University in Jerusalem. Having packed for only a summer, my relative needed to buy a few supplies for the upcoming Jerusalem winter. One of the things they bought was a blanket. It gets cold in Jerusalem. 

My relative eventually returned to the Old Country and brought some of the things they had bought for that winter with them, including the blanket. At that time, I was still young and very impressionable, and my youthful Zionism was fired at the sight of the 'Product of Israel' tag on the blanket. While this relative never actually gifted the blanket to me, they didn't seem to notice that I had totally appropriated said Israeli artifact. 

At that time, I actually had a Hudson Bay Blanket on my bed, and didn't need the wispy DIB (a nickname commonly used by non-Israelis for anything Israeli, usually people, the initials meaning 'Dear Israeli Brother' cough cough) blanket at all, but I kept it for years in my room as I plotted my own escape from the Old Country winters. The 'Product of Israel' tag called to me. 

For comparison only

And indeed, a few years later, knowing that I would also be attending an Israeli university, I packed the blanket in a box with other essentials (toothpaste, baby powder, and Zest soap) and shipped it to my new lodgings in a dormitory in the Holy City of Ramat Gan. 

The blanket didn't keep me that warm and I had to buy another one, but I held on to it and always considered it my 'Israeli' blanket. 

Years passed, and the blanket travelled with me to several dorm rooms, an apartment in Jerusalem, and many different abodes in the wilds of the northern Negev. Over the years, because it really is a rather thin blanket and because upon my eventual and official Aliyah, I was given a thick pink duvet by the Jewish Agency and because I inherited my then roommate's Jewish Agency's Aliyah duvet (hers was much nicer than mine) when she needed to leave the country quickly (a story for another time) and then received a third Jewish Agency Aliyah duvet upon marriage (it came with the groom), my Product of Israel blanket became relegated to being a second or even third blanket on really cold nights. It also became slightly raggedy around the edges. 

Thanks to the Jewish Agency

More time passed, and today I am the proud owner of at least seventeen different blankets of all sizes, fabrics, and colours. They don't all reside with me in my house. Many have been appropriated by various children, which seems appropriate. 

My three sons were all called up to reserve duty on October 7th. On his first visit home, one son asked if he could take a blanket back with him. The army was short of sleeping bags, and depended almost entirely on donations, which had not yet reached all the units. I offered him a thick warm duvet or a double flannel blanket. He refused them saying that whatever he took with him might not come back. Looking through a stack of blankets, he held up my slightly raggedy and obviously-seen-better-days Product of Israel blanket. 

"This one ok?" he asked.

I hesitated for less than a second, "Of course you can have it, but it's not very warm", I warned him, 
"I'll be fine", he assured me. 

He and the blanket served on the northern border throughout the winter. The blanket added another address to its already impressive list. 

A few days ago, finishing up his second round of reserve duty, my son returned the blanket to me. "I'm sorry it's a bit dirty. I didn't get a sleeping bag for a while. But the weather is much warmer now and it's not raining, and I won't need it when I go back." He fully expects to be called up again before summer sets in completely. 

After a long, cold, horrible, grief-filled winter, my Israeli blanket, like all Israelis, is a bit more raggedy, a bit more worn. 

But we are Products of Israel, and we are made to last and here to stay. 

A Product of Israel

Please, take a moment to say a prayer for our holy soldiers:

מִי שֶׁבֵּרַךְ אֲבוֹתֵינוּ אַבְרָהָם יִצְחָק וְיַעֲקֹב הוּא יְבָרֵךְ אֶת חַיָּלֵי צְבָא הֲגַנָּה לְיִשְׂרָאֵל, הָעוֹמְדִים עַל מִשְׁמַר אַרְצֵנוּ וְעָרֵי אֱלֹהֵינוּ מִגְּבוּל הַלְּבָנוֹן וְעַד מִדְבַּר מִצְרַיִם וּמִן הַיָּם הַגָּדוֹל עַד לְבוֹא הָעֲרָבָה בַּיַּבָּשָׁה בָּאֲוִיר וּבַיָּם. יִתֵּן ה’ אֶת אוֹיְבֵינוּ הַקָּמִים עָלֵינוּ נִגָּפִים לִפְנֵיהֶם. הַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא יִשְׁמֹר וְיַצִּיל אֶת חַיָלֵינוּ מִכָּל צָרָה וְצוּקָה וּמִכָּל נֶגַע וּמַחֲלָה וְיִשְׁלַח בְּרָכָה וְהַצְלָחָה בְּכָל מַעֲשֵׂה יְדֵיהֶם. יַדְבֵּר שׂוֹנְאֵינוּ תַּחְתֵּיהֶם וִיעַטְרֵם בְּכֶתֶר יְשׁוּעָה וּבַעֲטֶרֶת נִצָּחון. וִיקֻיַּם בָּהֶם הַכָּתוּב: כִּי ה’ אֱלֹהֵיכֶם הַהֹלֵךְ עִמָּכֶם לְהִלָּחֵם לָכֶם עִם אֹיְבֵיכֶם לְהוֹשִׁיעַ אֶתְכֶם: וְנֹאמַר אָמֵן:

He Who blessed our forefathers Abraham, Isaac and Jacob — may He bless the fighters of the Israel Defense Forces, who stand guard over our land and the cities of our God, from the border of the Lebanon to the desert of Egypt, and from the Great Sea unto the approach of the Aravah, on the land, in the air, and on the sea.
May the Almighty cause the enemies who rise up against us to be struck down before them. May the Holy One, Blessed is He, preserve and rescue our fighters from every trouble and distress and from every plague and illness, and may He send blessing and success in their every endeavor.
May He lead our enemies under our soldiers’ sway and may He grant them salvation and crown them with victory. And may there be fulfilled for them the verse: For it is the Lord your God, Who goes with you to battle your enemies for you to save you.

And a prayer for the quick and safe return of all our hostages:

יְהִי רָצוֹן מִלִּפְנֵי אָבִינוּ שֶׁבַּשָּׁמַיִם
אֲשֶׁר הוֹצִיא אֶת עַמּוֹ יִשְׂרָאֵל מִתַּחַת סִבְלוֹת מִצְרַיִם
הוּא יְבָרֵךְ וְיִנְצֹר אֶת אַחֵינוּ וְאַחְיוֹתֵינוּ
הַחֲטוּפִים הָאֲסוּרִים בְּכַבְלֵי בַּרְזֶל,
יְחַזֵּק נַפְשָׁם וֶאֱמוּנָתָם,
יִשְׁמְרֵם מִכָּל נֶגַע וּמַחֲלָה,
יַחְמֹל עַל בָּנָיו וּבְנוֹתָיו הַמְּצַפִּים לִישׁוּעָתוֹ,
יְבַטֵּל מֵעֲלֵיהֶם כָּל גְּזֵרוֹת אַכְזָרִיּוֹת.
בְּחַסְדּוֹ הַגָּדוֹל יָחִישׁ פְּדוּתָם וְיֵצְאוּ מְהֵרָה מֵאֲפֵלָה לְאוֹרָה
וּמִבּוֹר הַשְּׁבִי לְחֵרוּת עוֹלָם וְיָשׁוּבוּ לְשָׁלוֹם אֶל מִשְׁפְּחוֹתֵיהֶם וְאֶל בָּתֵּיהֶם
אָנָּא, נֶטַע אַחֲוָה שָׁלוֹם וְרֵעוּת בְּלֵב כֻּלָּם,
הָסֵר קִנְאָה וְשִׂנְאַת חִנָּם וּפְרֹס עָלֵינוּ סֻכַּת שְׁלוֹמֶךָ
וְנִזְכֶּה בְּקָרוֹב לוֹמַר לְפָנֶיךָ שִׁירָה חֲדָשָׁה.

May it be the will of our Father in heaven

,Who brought His people Israel out from the suffering of Egypt

That He bless and save our abducted brothers and sisters

.Bound with iron chains

,May He strengthen their souls and faith

,Protect them from all harm and disease

,Have mercy on His sons and daughters awaiting His salvation

.Nullify all cruel decrees from upon them

In His great kindness, may He hasten their redemption

,And may they quickly emerge from darkness to light

,And from the pit of captivity to the freedom of the world

.And return in peace to their families and to their homes

,Please, plant brotherhood, peace and friendship in the hearts of all

Remove envy and baseless hatred

,And spread over us the Sukkah of Your peace

.’And may we merit to soon sing before You a ‘New Song

 

 

 

 

On Buses and Coffee

We always knew how to honor fallen soldiers. They were killed for our sake, they went out on our mission. But how are we to mourn a random man killed in a terrorist attack while sitting in a cafe? How do you mourn a housewife who got on a bus and never returned?
―A. B. Yehoshua

Travelling shouldn't be just a tour, it should be a tale.
― Amit Kalantri

If it weren’t for the coffee, I’d have no identifiable personality whatsoever.
―David Letterman

A few short years ago, when I was a teenager, I asked my mother for bus money. To be perfectly frank, as a kid, I did not travel by bus with any regularity. We had a carpool to go to school and back, and I was chauffeured to most of the extracurricular activities I pursued. I was usually able to walk to friends' houses.  But occasionally, I did need to travel by bus, and I was given money accordingly. 

Each time I asked, my mother always had the same question: "how much is a bus ride these days?", as she forked over a handful of change.  
I thought it hilarious that my mother had no idea how much a bus ride cost. My mother hadn't taken a bus for as long as I had known her, which, at that point, was pretty much my whole life. My mother, to my knowledge, had never taken a bus since she and my father had bought their first car, years before I was born. (This is not completely accurate - my parents travelled across country on Greyhound buses seeing the sights, but a city bus was a different story.) In any case, not only did I find my mother's ignorance as to the price of a bus ride hilarious (in addition to not knowing where to get on and off, and which bus went where, but hey), I also thought she was a touch spoiled. She never had to ride a bus. 

I'm all grown up now, and the truth is, I seldom ride buses either. I also own a car. But I have been known to ride a bus, and I do know several routes and where the stops are. But, I must admit, I never enjoy riding a bus. At one period, during the Covid crisis, I rode a bus almost daily, double masking, and feeling appalled at the selfishness of the other passengers who seldom masked up to my liking. Therefore, it's been a while since I have ventured forth and joined the masses. 

But when the husband told me he was taking the car this morning, I knew I had a choice: stay home, or take a bus and meet up with friends for coffee. I had been looking forward to going out this morning, so I took a deep breath, decided that I was not a touch spoiled, and I could go by bus. I knew it was an easy bus ride; a two-minute walk on each side to and from the bus stop, and a six-minute ride. Easy peasy. I armed myself with my bus card and a bottle of water, and I was set for my great adventure. 

But this is Israel. 

Just before I left, I check the news and discovered that just before I was to leave, there had been a terrorist attack at the bus station. I'm not sure what the terrorist was thinking – sure, if soldiers were his target, Sunday morning at Beer Sheva Central Bus Station is the place to be. Hundreds of soldiers, returning to their bases after a weekend at home, can be found there all morning long. On the other hand, there are hundreds of soldiers at the Beer Sheva Central Bus Station on a Sunday morning—all armed. Indeed, within moments, the terrorist was 'neutralized'. 

Nonetheless, getting on a bus suddenly lost its appeal. The bus station was nowhere near where I needed to go, but the incident did take the wind out of my sails, so to speak. 
I thought of the 'person' who had committed this attack. What was the point? What did he think he would accomplish? 

The point, of course, was: 1. to create terror; 2. to disrupt lives; and 3. (and most important) to kill Jews. This particular terrorist was not, thank God, successful in the third point, and I was not going to allow him to be successful in his first two.

There have been hundreds of such incidents since October 7th throughout the country (and thousands upon thousands before), and there seems to be no end in sight. 

But nobody, I decided, as I hefted my bus card, was going to stop me from having coffee with my friends. 
From the River to the Sea, I am going to drink my coffee.

I got on the bus, and ten minutes later, I had reached my destination. Easy peasy. I drank coffee and my friends and I solved the world's problems AND oohed and ahhed over pictures of soldier sons and grandkid's Purim costumes. Along with the caffeine, I soaked up some much-needed Vitamin D. 

I may not be completely spoiled, but I actually don't know how much a local bus ride in Beer Sheva costs, as no cash ever changes hands on a ride these days. Instead, it's all done with cards and apps and machines that go ping. 

It doesn't matter how much they cost though, when the need arises, I will keep riding the buses, and drinking coffee, and seeing friends and living my life, because we have nowhere else to go. 

He Who blessed our forefathers Abraham, Isaac and Jacob — may He bless the fighters of the Israel Defense Forces, who stand guard over our land and the cities of our God, from the border of the Lebanon to the desert of Egypt, and from the Great Sea unto the approach of the Aravah, on the land, in the air, and on the sea.

May the Almighty cause the enemies who rise up against us to be struck down before them. May the Holy One, Blessed is He, preserve and rescue our fighters from every trouble and distress and from every plague and illness, and may He send blessing and success in their every endeavor.

May He lead our enemies under our soldiers’ sway and may He grant them salvation and crown them with victory. And may there be fulfilled for them the verse: For it is the Lord your God, Who goes with you to battle your enemies for you to save you.

מִי שֶׁבֵּרַךְ אֲבוֹתֵינוּ אַבְרָהָם יִצְחָק וְיַעֲקֹב הוּא יְבָרֵךְ אֶת חַיָּלֵי צְבָא הֲגַנָּה לְיִשְׂרָאֵל, הָעוֹמְדִים עַל מִשְׁמַר אַרְצֵנוּ וְעָרֵי אֱלֹהֵינוּ מִגְּבוּל הַלְּבָנוֹן וְעַד מִדְבַּר מִצְרַיִם וּמִן הַיָּם הַגָּדוֹל עַד לְבוֹא הָעֲרָבָה בַּיַּבָּשָׁה בָּאֲוִיר וּבַיָּם. יִתֵּן ה’ אֶת אוֹיְבֵינוּ הַקָּמִים עָלֵינוּ נִגָּפִים לִפְנֵיהֶם. הַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא יִשְׁמֹר וְיַצִּיל אֶת חַיָלֵינוּ מִכָּל צָרָה וְצוּקָה וּמִכָּל נֶגַע וּמַחֲלָה וְיִשְׁלַח בְּרָכָה וְהַצְלָחָה בְּכָל מַעֲשֵׂה יְדֵיהֶם. יַדְבֵּר שׂוֹנְאֵינוּ תַּחְתֵּיהֶם וִיעַטְרֵם בְּכֶתֶר יְשׁוּעָה וּבַעֲטֶרֶת נִצָּחון. וִיקֻיַּם בָּהֶם הַכָּתוּב: כִּי ה’ אֱלֹהֵיכֶם הַהֹלֵךְ עִמָּכֶם לְהִלָּחֵם לָכֶם עִם אֹיְבֵיכֶם לְהוֹשִׁיעַ אֶתְכֶם: וְנֹאמַר אָמֵן:

The Miracle of the Maple Tree

Always remember, joy is not incidental to spiritual quest. It is vital.
–Nachman of Breslov

The Jews had light and gladness, and joy and honour.
לַיְּהוּדִים, הָיְתָה אוֹרָה וְשִׂמְחָה, וְשָׂשֹׂן, וִיקָר
–The Book of Esther 8:16

All the festivals are destined to be nullified [in the Messianic age], but the days of Purim will never cease to be observed.
–Midrash Mishlei 9:1

Today is the first day of the second month of Adar, and Purim is just around the corner.
Every year at this time, I find myself fraught and frazzled, and this year is no exception, the only difference being that, this year, I am a bit more fraught and a great deal more frazzled.

This year, my annual calculations of how many hamantashen to make so there is enough to give to all the kids and have also for Shabbat and Purim and the Shabbat after Purim AND for mishloach manot has the added complication of trying to figure out how many and when I will give some to my sons who are returning to active duty (one before Purim and one right after) so as to feed at least their unit, or maybe battalion (but that seems like a lot). The complexity arises when I factor in the necessity of not making so many that we’ll still be eating them on Erev Pesach and then have to burn the remainder. (I still have three packages of noodles and some couscous that need to be used up.)

Then there is the planning of Seudat Purim. With the boys in the army, I have no idea who will be here to eat. Will the one going in the next day feel like coming over and will the one already in be able to get out? Will the other kids want to come if the boys aren’t here? How much humus should I buy? I don’t want any of that left over either.

In any case, how much do we celebrate? Do we dress up, party hardy, dance and laugh? It’s hard to get to that frame of mind when our enemies are still at our doorstep (almost literally) and our sons and daughters are still defending us with their lives (very literally), while others are languishing in the Hamas terror dungeons. Our hearts, quite literally, are in Gaza. 

Personally, I have no problem being fraught and frazzled. It’s a thing. A problem, however, does emerge when one wants to adhere to the commandment (mitzvah) to be joyous. According to Rav Nachman of Breslov, it is not just a mitzvah to be joyous, but a GREAT mitzvah. (מצווה גדולה להיות בשמחה תמיד) What complicates things even more (what’s with these complications?), in the month of Adar, we are commanded to be even more joyful than the rest of the year. When Adar enters, our sages tell us, our joy increases. (מי שנכנס אדר מרבים בשמחה)

It’s a tall order to be joyous upon command. How is it even possible to be joyous in the midst of war, death, uncertainty? Do we put aside these worries and concerns and ignore them? Do we, really, only concentrate on how many hamentashen and humus we need?

In order to understand this dichotomy, one needs to understand exactly what the commandment is asking of us.

In Hebrew, the word for joy is Simcha. But Simcha, in this context, is one of those words that is not really translatable (even though I’ve translated it). It is not the joy you feel when you your favorite cereal goes on sale, or when you find a parking spot right in front of the post office. It’s not even the joy you feel when the cake you’ve made impresses your daughter-in-law.

Simcha, in the context of mitzvah, is the feeling you get when you perform mitzvot. It is the awareness that you have the ability to serve the Master of the Universe. It is the understanding that one has a unique relationship with HaShem, that each one of us has, within our power, the ability to do good and to change the course of the world.
It is the feeling we have when we acknowledge before Whom we stand.

What strength this can give us! What peace of mind! What happiness, knowing that we are deserving enough to serve God.

Both months of Adar and Nissan, with their respective holidays of Purim and Pesach, are bursting with the miracles of God.
Yet there is no separate mitzvah to be especially happy during Nissan.

There is a palpable difference between the two months, and the two holidays.

The miracles of Nissan transcend nature, changing it. From the first plague of blood through to the splitting of the sea, the entire world is witness to these miracles. From the youngest to the oldest, across the nations; all realize and accept the greatness of God. Even the name of the month of Nissan attests to the miracles (ness נס = miracle).

And yet, very quickly, the belief and trust in God is questioned. Soon after liberation from slavery, the Children of Israel begin to complain – they have no water, no bread, no meat. How can it be that directly after the greatest miracles of all time, almost immediately the people demand more and more proof of God’s powers?
During the entire story of the Exodus, the people are passive observers. They stand aside and let the wonders occur. The miracles are open (גלוי) – obvious.  Yet, it is very difficult to maintain the feeling of awe and gratitude over any length of time.

Adar is the name of a tree, a maple. Like the miracles of Purim, the greatness of the maple tree – its sap, the very core of its being – is ‘hidden’ (נסתר). The miracle of the sap doesn’t change nature – it is nature. Likewise, the miracles of Purim are hidden in the natural course of events. Only in retrospect, and with understanding and study, can one see the guiding hand of God throughout the story. Our salvation came, not from a change in nature, à la Pesach, but through nature.

The Jews of Shushan and beyond were obliged to play their part for the miracles of Adar to occur. They were not passive observers. They did not simply stand aside and watch the power of God. The people worked with God to bring about their own redemption.
In Pesach, the miracles were so overwhelming that we were awed, but in Purim, because we were part of the process, we were able to take pride and joy in it.

While the miracles of Pesach were stupendous, the feelings of belief they engendered were fleeting.
However, Megillat of Esther tells us: “These days of Purim will not pass from the Jews, nor the memory cease from the children.” (Esther 9:28)

There are actually two elements of the miracles that we must never forget: The first is that we will always remember that it was God’s intervention that caused our redemption during the days of the Esther and Mordecai.

The second is that divine intervention and supervision continue on to our very day. The miracles of Purim, unlike the splitting of the sea, was not a one-time occurrence. God watches over us every day and every hour. While we play our role in our affairs, in Israel and beyond, ultimately it is God who is watching over us.

The miracles of Purim live on with us.

 
This explains why the mitzvah of increased joy is incumbent on us only in Adar, and not in Nissan even though the miracles were so much more magnificent in Nissan. When Adar comes in, replete with its miracles, we should try and strengthen our simcha, do our mitzvot with extra meaning, with a higher level of concentration. We need to focus on our glorious destiny, understand our part in it, and pray with all our hearts, and with great simcha, that we be rewarded our complete redemption.

Amen.

 

Carrying On

If you don’t vote, you lose the right to complain.
―George Carlin

Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart.
―Haruki Murakami, from Kafka on the Shore

In Israel, Sunday is a working day. Many people do not work on Friday, and those who do, along with schools, have a shortened workday. Friday is a day usually used for errands; shopping, laundry, fixing the toaster, washing the floor, and cooking for Shabbat. Therefore, especially for those families who are 'shomer shabbat' (i.e., keep the Sabbath and don't travel or use electricity) there are very few opportunities for get-togethers with family and friends who do not live close by. 

In fact, there are exactly three Sunday-like days:

• Purim - a Jewish holiday but travelling is permitted;
• Independance Day - a National holiday, where having a barbecue is mandatory; 
• Election Day.

Here in Israel, we are blessed (?) to have at least one Election Day a year. In a really good year, we might have as many as three Election Days. Let's hear it for democracy!

In any case, Election Day is a day off work and school, and after voting, one is free to do whatever one wants. Shops are open and do a booming business (no Israeli pun intended), and national parks, beaches, and other attractions are full of picnickers.

Election day, in our family, is a good opportunity to gather family members from the far corners of the country and have a barbecue in our yard. Therefore, after two postponements due to the war, when it seemed that the municipal elections, originally scheduled for last October, were finally going to happen, I made sure, well in advance, to have the kids pencil in the day to come to Beer Sheva and eat semi-raw meat. 

The kids all assured me that they would 'probably' come if no better offer came up. 

The last time an effort was made to all get together was during Sukkot ― five months ago. Since then, a lot, to put it mildly, has happened (see past posts). In addition, due to anticipated return call-ups to army service, we might not have another opportunity to all be together until next Sukkot ― seven months away, if then. We have all learned to grab opportunities when they arise. 

And so, we filled the house with raw meat, pitot, humus, and pickles. 

We cleaned off the porch that had barely been used all winter. (Some of the harder to reach Sukkot decorations were still up, but hey.) Blessed rain had fallen Election Day morning, and we had to dry off the chairs. 

People began to arrive. Pickles were chopped, lettuce was washed, and raw meat juiced dripped onto the floor. 

I pulled out disposable plates and cups and cutlery from a cupboard that hadn't been opened since Sukkot.

But it was only as I unfurled the plastic outdoor tablecloth onto the plastic outdoor table, a tablecloth that had not been used for five months, it was if all the memories trapped in its folds came floating up. 

The laughter of the children on that Sukkot day;
The hot holiday sunshine and blue skies the last time we were all together.
The next memory that flew up was from five days after the first:
The sun peaking over the houses, and the gut-wrenching sound of booms in the distance;
The blast of the sirens and deafening booms much closer to home.

I could hear those booms so clearly in the snap of the tablecloth as we straightened it. 
We have not had rockets in Beer Sheva in almost two months. 
I shook my head to clear the sounds in my head, wiped away the tear that had somehow, uninvited as always, rolled down my cheek. I took several deep breaths. 

I carried on. 

Meat was burned, drinks were spilled, and gales of laughter erupted from three generations of Israelis sitting on the porch on Election Day afternoon. We ate cake and deep-fried marshmallows (not recommended).  

Interspersed with the laughter, though, I could not shake the memory of the uncertainty and fear as the sirens and booms continued on that black day five months ago and the never-ending horror and grief and worry that washed over us as we slowly began to understand the magnitude of events.

Yet, here I was, on another beautiful Israeli day, with the sounds of the children's laughter filling the air, and the smells of charcoal wafting above. 

We will carry on.
Laughing, and loving, and voting. And remembering.

The future is not a promise but a hope. 
We are full of hope. 

A Deep Breath

The Lord is my strength and my shield, in Him has my heart trusted, and I am helped.
—Psalms 28;7

No weapon that is formed against you shall prosper; and every tongue that shall rise against you in judgment you shall condemn. This is the heritage of the servants of the Lord, and their due reward from Me, says the Lord.
—Isaiah 54;17

We were granted the right to exist by the God of our fathers at the glimmer of the dawn of human civilization nearly 4,000 years ago. For that right, which has been sanctified in Jewish blood from generation to generation, we have paid a price unexampled in the annals of the nations.
—Menachem Begin

קרוב תזרח השמש, נדע ימים יפים מאלה, הלב נלחם בדאגות. כולם יחזרו הביתה, נחכה להם למטה

הלוואי נדע בשורות טובות

The sun will soon be shining, we'll know better days that these,
Worries battle in our hearts.
Everyone will return home, we'll wait for them out here,
Halevai, we'll hear only good news.
—Eyal Golan

The autumn Israeli High Holiday season is an intense period of shopping, cooking, cleaning, visiting, traveling, and even praying. Much of the country comes to a virtual standstill until after the last day of the Sukkot festival - Simchat Torah. Therefore, whether it's beginning house renovations, going on a vacation, starting a diet, or rearranging the bookshelves, 'after the holidays (aka acharei haChagim אחרי החגים)' is the code to live by.

This year, 'after the holidays' has not yet arrived in Israel. 

(Horror, and tragedy, and hatred arrived instead.

We did not invite them. All our energy has gone into banishing them, and with every step, we have only encountered more.)

But time marches on, as it does, and when Chanuka comes around, I begin to understand that, this year, there would be no period of acharei haChagim, and that, nevertheless, I had better begin to address my two-page acharei haChagim to-do list.

I file away my recipes and to-do lists that I had used during the holidays for next year (hoping there will be a next year).

I cut my hair. 

I hang up some clothes.

I write an email or two, send out a few Whatsapps. 

Slowly, I begin to cross a few items off the list. 

Days slip away.

Outside, I pass a notice board on which hangs a tattered poster advertising a famous singer who was giving a concert for Slichot—the customary penitential prayers said between Rosh HaShana and Yom Kippur. There have been no concerts since then. 

We go to visit a relative who had moved to a different city just before Rosh HaShana. Because of the holidays, he hadn't spent much time in his new apartment before he was called to army service on October 7th. 

His apartment is lovely, with new furniture and a new oven. The pots and pans are shiny, and there are dried flowers in a vase. An avocado pit is sprouting in a jar. 

His bedroom, which sports pink Hello Kitty sheets he had picked up for next to nothing in the local shuk, is relatively neat. After all, it has hardly been used. What makes me pause, however, is the lulav and etrog, in their protective plastic case, that have been leaning against the wall for close to four months. The leaves of the branches have gone moldy.

He sees me looking. "I never got around to dealing with it. I don't know what to do with it anymore", he says.

I go out for coffee with friends. There are off-duty soldiers drinking coffee, eating cake, sipping fruit shakes. There is a soldier pushing a small child in a stroller, a gun slung over one shoulder, a diaper bag over the other. 

We go to a wedding. The magnet guy has cameras slung over his shoulders like guns. At this wedding, I count about the same number of guns as cameras. There would have been more guns, but the groom and his unit had been released from active duty in Gaza two weeks before. 

I go to a funeral. A woman in the community, who had children and grandchildren and great grandchildren, has sadly passed away. There are guns, slung like cameras, around a few shoulders. 

And just like that, Chanuka, with its light and its hope, is long over, and now it's Tu B'Shvat, with its promise of growth and renewal. 

The days are still dragging on and it's the dead of winter. 

We are burying our dead.

The week has been cold and rainy. 

Rain is a blessing in the Holy Land, but everyone thinks only of the soldiers and the hostages standing, serving, sleeping, in the cold. 

The trees, naked of their leaves, are beginning to sprout again. 

The almond trees are blossoming, as is the lemon tree in my backyard. We will hopefully have lemons before Rosh HaShana.

My acharei haChagim to-do list has morphed into my pre-Pesach to-do list. 

I take a deep breath.

And another. 

 

Hineni

הִנְנִי הֶעָנִי מִמַּעַשׂ נִרְעַשׁ וְנִפְחַד מִפַּחַד יוֹשֵׁב תְּהִלּוֹת יִשְׂרָאֵל בָּאתִי לַעֲמֹד וּלְהִתְחַנֵּן לְפָנֶיךָ
עַל עַמְּךָ יִשְׂרָאֵל אֲשֶׁר שְׁלָחוּנִי
Hineni! Here am I, poor in deeds, trembling in fear in front of the Holy One of Israel.

I came here before You to plead on behalf of Your people, who sent me,
although I am hardly worthy of the task.
The Hineni prayer - From the High Holy Mussaf Service

וַיְהִי, אַחַר הַדְּבָרִים הָאֵלֶּה, וְהָאֱלֹקים, נִסָּה אֶת-אַבְרָהָם; וַיֹּאמֶר אֵלָיו, אַבְרָהָם וַיֹּאמֶר הִנֵּנִי.
And it came to pass after these things, that God did prove Abraham, and said unto him: 'Abraham'; and he said: 'Hineni! Here am I.'
Genesis 22:1

וַיִּקְרָא אֵלָיו אֱלֹקים מִתּוֹךְ הַסְּנֶה, וַיֹּאמֶר מֹשֶׁה מֹשֶׁה--וַיֹּאמֶר הִנֵּנִי.
God called unto him out of the midst of the bush, and said: 'Moses, Moses.' And he said: 'Hineni! Here am I.'

Exodus 3:4

וָאֶשְׁמַע אֶת-קוֹל אֲדֹנָי, אֹמֵר, אֶת-מִי אֶשְׁלַח, וּמִי יֵלֶךְ-לָנוּ; וָאֹמַר, הִנְנִי שְׁלָחֵנִי.
And I heard the voice of the Lord, saying, ‘Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?’ Then I said, ‘Hineni! Here am I. Send me. 

Isaiah 6:8

Israel has officially been at war for 102 days.

That first awful day in October, known in Israel as the Black Sabbath, seems, simultaneously, as if it occurred both yesterday and ten years ago. 

It took me many days, even weeks, to fully comprehend what had transpired in those first few days; the magnitude of the tragedy, the magnitude of the war, the magnitude of the hate against the Jewish State, even the magnitude of the battle before us.

I try hard to stay away from the news. I don't watch television or listen to the radio (in the car, I try to listen to the music channels, but even these often stop their regular programming for 'breaking news', which is never good).  

My soul – already bruised and fragile – cannot endure the constant pounding of the endless stream of grief. 

I find that grief, and pride, and rage, and love are constantly and uncontrollably escaping from my eyes and running down my cheeks. 

I try, therefore, to concentrate at the other things this war has given us: the silly videos the soldiers make, the funny stories I hear from them or their families, the oranges and cherry tomatoes and peppers that were picked by volunteers and donated.

The endless stream of love my people have shown towards each other. 

And especially, I think of the magnitude of the heroism that has engulfed us. 

I think of the young man, father of four – living in one of the small towns that had been attacked on that black day, and where more than 50 civilians had been slaughtered – putting on his uniform, packing up his family and moving them to safety, before reporting for duty at a base in the south. For several days, while the army organized, he slept in his friend's car, eating canned corn and humus until the army sent him to patrol and protect our babies and grandparents, our teens and mothers, our farmers and teachers and engineers and students, our rabbis and our doctors in our villages and cities from further infiltration. He is trained as a machine-gunner. 

I think of another young man, who left his job, his children, his very pregnant wife, and hitchhiked, late in the night, to his base in the north. Living in a quiet small town (the quiet of which had been pierced by non-stop sirens that morning), and after spending much of the day in a 'safe room' with his family, he received his call to report to duty only after that Black Shabbat was over and he turned on his phone. Upon arriving at the base, he took up his duties as a driver of an armored personnel carrier, moving other young men and women and their supplies to the front to protect more babies and grandparents, teens and mothers from attack. 

I think of yet another young man, an army medic, who, living in a mixed Arab-Jewish city that had previously experienced violence, was advised to put his phone on early that black morning and did so, despite the fact that, in normal times, he does not use electronics on Shabbat. (The constant rocket sirens indicated that this was not normal times.) Soon after, he received a call to report to duty—to travel, on Shabbat (something he does not normally do), to a base in the north of the country. Still wearing his white Shabbat shirt and armed only with his phone and a bus card, he set out, hitchhiking, to meet fellow soldiers from his unit and travel together to their base. 

About 350,000 other men and women received the same call. 

I have not heard that any said "but I have a baby", "but I have a pregnant wife", "but I have a business to run", "but I have a special needs kid", "but I start a new job tomorrow". 

They rose—leaving behind their jobs, their businesses, their families, their homes and communities.
'Hineni' each one said, Here am I, send me.