For with You is the source of life;
in Your light we will see light
(Psalms 36:10)
It is dark outside. It is dark inside. It is nighttime, and sirens are blaring. I hurriedly close the door of the safe room, once again. We pray for the safely of our family, of our soldiers, of our Nation. For the moment when life in the Land of Promise will return to Life, and we can once again calmly enjoy the gentle feel of wind, the warmth of sunshine. Just breathe.
Silence fills the room. The sound of explosions has ceased. I wait a bit longer, then step outside.
A view of the vastness of sky appears before my eyes, in a hazy time between night and day. I watch as blackness softens, as the night drifts into morn, as the dark drifts into light. Gray clouds floating on a sea of whitening sky. Soft light fills the sky with a brightening hue of hope, the soul feels a vague tinge of optimism. As I dream and watch, the sky’s gray is slowly becoming a pale blue, and clouds now have a pinkish hue.
It is morning, once again.
“The kindnesses of the Lord never cease. Indeed, His mercies never fail. They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness. ‘The Lord is my portion,’ says my soul; ‘therefore I will hope in Him.‘ " (Lamentations 3:22-24)
Hues of color replace dawn’s gray, a soft light takes the place of darkness’s gloom.
An echo of remembrance, as hope struggles to dispel the ominous daily cloudiness of the past few weeks, to disperse the tragedy of heavy fog which has become our reality the past few years.
And yet, is not sight created as well by an inner vision? Is not what we see influenced by the vision of the heart? Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder, as despair is in the heart of the despondent. As an uneasy calm settles over the turmoil we struggle to overcome, as life proceeds despite…
Night drifts away slowly, it is not suddenly replaced by morning’s glory. As grief, pain, linger quietly in the heart, and do not quickly dissipate at daybreak. Our hearts cannot unfeel what has been felt. Our eyes cannot unsee what has been seen.
If only the soft but insistent brightness of morning’s sunshine, the sound of birds singing now, could pierce the veil of shock. Allow to penetrate an awareness and gratitude for the daily miracles we are experiencing here, right now.
For we are now in the holiday of Passover, the holiday in which we celebrate our freedom, our liberation. Each year we read the Haggadah and are reminded anew. Of the many miracles, of the many wonders which occurred in the desert which ultimately would forge us into a Nation.
Our liberation from slavery enabled the Nation of Israel to understand the absolute miraculousness, the cherished value of freedom. The freedom to choose.
For true freedom is apparently that of the spirit. Of choosing to walk in the path of Holiness which is our destiny.
And now. What are we choosing in the darkness of our night, as explosions rain down upon us, as the very existence of our country is being threatened.
"Everything can be taken from a man but one thing, the last of the human freedoms, to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way" (Victor E. Frankl, Man’s Search for Meaning)
It is the holiday of Passover. And so. Freedom of the soul, when does that arrive? And freedom of the heart, the joy of mere existence, gratitude to God for the opportunity to experience another day. When does that arrive?
Can we maintain our faith, optimism, belief in the intrinsic goodness of Man, in the movement of humanity toward a time when only peace and kindness will be expressed…. Can we, as the nation of Israel, serve as a beacon of light toward that direction? Despite?
It was my birthday. I woke up quite early, imagining with what flowers I would like to decorate our home on this festive day. Red roses, perhaps pink… maybe white would do it.….I settled upon white. Yes, a combination of white roses and white lilies would be just perfect.
The roar of explosions and warplanes broke my reverie, and I drifted back into blackness.
Disrupted a few hours later by the buzzing of my phone.
A delivery, he was saying. Of flowers.
Confused I unwrapped the lovely bouquet of white roses and white lilies.
Would I had drifted off dreaming of Peace.
The sky is a clear blue now. Clouds have drifted out of sight. A canvas of blueness. A canvas of opportunity for renewal, for rebuilding of our life of dreams. What will it be, now?
As from afar, I hear once again the sound of a bird calling. Toward life, toward a dream of goodness, peace, tranquility.
We search within, to reconnect with the Breath of Life. We feel the gentle whispers of a different possibility, as the gentle breeze of morning’s breath, as the whisper of a promise. As the whisper of a possibility, at once elusive, at once within reach.
I observe the baby, my grandchild. Marveling at the miracle of Life. At the sound of her parent’s voice, at the sight of her beloved parent’s face. At the feel of her very own toes. Discovering the wonder of the life she has arrived into.
As we. Hearing in the silence the Voice of our Creator, searching for His Face in the ruins of hopes and dreams. We too, touch our feet, check if they are still there. Can we walk, once again?
Where do we go from here? Can we dare once again, to dream, to hope. To keep alive in our souls the yearning for a time of peace, of understanding, of kindness. As morning follows night with certainty. As we circle through the seasons of our life, of our fears, our griefs, our hopes and dreams. With the certainty that our life is in Your Hands, in safety.
The sound of the birds is louder now, their cry insistent, resolute. A reminder. Of the life, the strength, the beauty which still exists…if only.
There is a point where fate and our own actions intertwine. Where destiny and free will dance together the dance of life. Perhaps it is at the point of sunrise, or sunset, when, at the hazy intersection between what was and what can yet be. At the intersection of desolation and hope, where our hearts turn inward, and we, thankful for the knowledge of morning’s promise, impatiently await its return. Struggle to find our role in enabling the bearing of the night, in hastening the return of morn.
I step into the kitchen. In the center of the room, a bouquet of white flowers fills a vase, their purity lending an air of enchantment to the scene. All is quiet, all is still. The voices of children, who usually play outside, is absent.
But the bird is still singing.
A sense of tranquility, of calm, drifts by on the scent of white lilies.
On the rail of the porch a white dove is sitting. Calmly, peacefully, she sits. Her gaze points toward Jerusalem.
We pray for the salvation of our nation, for a time of calm and security.
We pray for the return of our brave soldiers, in safety.
“O Israel: Fear not, for I have redeemed you, I have called you by your name, for you are Mine." (Isaiah 43:1)